This is the first full-length collection by the 49 year-old English poet Ian Lewis Copestick. About half of the poems in the book have been previously published in shit-faced on-line small press publications, such as: Punk Noir Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry (before they started charging a fee), The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash & several others.
A thick wad of Copestick’s early poetry can also be found on ‘Hello Poetry’: https://hellopoetry.com/u696303/?after=2018-05-18-22-41-54
Detritus Of The Drunken Night is a book of confessional poems- exploring credibly a wide range of emotions- including grief, anger & hope: but without the bullshit of regret & false contrition. Copestick covers the usual gambit of the small alternative press- the tedium of mind-numbing labouring jobs (‘The Trains, ‘Coming In’), the euphoria of drug taking (‘Dream Time’) & its accompanying dependencies (‘A Curse’, ‘Out On The Piss’), alcoholism (‘Drinking Again’), relationship failures (‘It’s Over’, ‘A Lover’s Tiff’), serious health issues (‘A Stroke Of Genius’), rehab (‘Hospital Blues’), loneliness (‘Time Crawls’), and the power of language and the ability to transform oneself through words.
With a few exceptions, Copestick writes from experience. He quit school at 16 and later developed drug problems which led him to a series of shit jobs and eventually to a major stroke at age 33 and its debilitating effects on his long-term health and employment prospects.
His extended interview ‘13 Questions, a C.M.P. Interview Series (Pt. 1)’ with James D. Casey IV, Editor-in-Chief of Cajun Mutt Press is particularly revealing: https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2019/04/11/13-questions-a-c-m-p-author-interview-series-pt-1-ian-lewis-copestick/
The opening poem in the collection ‘I Know That’s Not You’ is a powerful introduction to Copestick’s raw & unembellished poetry. It is directly addressed to a former lover who has died of a heroin overdose. The poem brutally expresses the shock, the incredulity and the utter devastation which comes with loss:
I Know That's Not You
I know that's not you
A marble headstone on a
Scrubby patch of grass
Trite rhyme chiselled into
Cold, black stone
Always seeming grey and cold
Even the summer sun can't permeate
The ghosts of grief that hang around
But, I know that's not you
A bag of bones in your sister's dress
Six feet down under cold, damp mud
Where’s the warmth, the sex, vitality
The laughter, the love
The insane jealousy ?
That's what's left of you
That's what lives on, always remains
Not remains
A piece of meat on a coroner’s slab
Or the blue faced ghoul
That I tried to breathe life
Back into
But I know that's not you
Your spirit, the brightest I've ever known
Burning with a sweet intensity
All of those beautiful times in bed
Yes, great sex
But not necessarily
Laughter, easy, nothing between us
No need for clothes or self-consciousness
Now.
The most relaxed I've ever been
Life had a sheen, a confident glow
So, yes I cried
Almost died at your funeral
The thought of you rotting
Under dirty, black earth
I've almost died a few times since
Struggling to go on
When life’s light has gone out
So, yes
I'll come to your grave
And leave flowers
A Holly wreath at Xmas too
Walking back to the car
I”ll stifle a sniffle
Try to stop a sob
The tremors in my chest
But also
I know that none of it matters
Because
There in that graveyard
I know that's not you
Copestick started writing poetry around 2001 but didn’t start to publish his work until 2017 when he posted dozens of poems on ‘Hello Poetry’ which is a web-site open to any writers who want to publish their work for peer review. In the interview which follows this review, Copestick says he took a long time to publish his poetry because he lacked confidence and had to actually learn how to use a computer and figure out where to submit his work.
A major turning point occured when he submitted to John Patrick Robbins, the editor of the websites Rye Whiskey Review: https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com
and Under The Bleachers:
"Then I came across a poet called John Patrick Robbins, aka Gonzo. He'd already been published, he told me that I was a true poet, and more than good enough to be published, even more, one of his friends was starting a poetry website, and loved my work!!!
"Gonzo gave me the confidence to start sending my work to any poetry website I could find, when my book was published, I dedicated it to 3 people, my missus, my publisher and Gonzo."
The titular poem ‘Weekend Mornings’ is emblematic of Copestick’s content and style of poetry. He describes a morning “after a night at the bottle”, severely hungover, rummaging through pockets for “a bit of loose change”- and hopeful there is enough cash to buy some food and “a couple of beers.”
Weekend Mornings
To wake at 11 a.m.
Head and heart pounding
An evil, dry, murderous mouth
I look, see the empty space in the bed
She is downstairs
Taking painkillers and coffee
I stumble to the fridge
It's beer for breakfast
And a roll up cigarette
She looks at me through lank hair
Pain filled eyes
“ Sorry about last night “ she says
“ What ?”
Oh nothing”
It's O.K., I don't remember and
Both of us say some shitty
Hurtful, unkind things
Especially after a night at the bottle
This life could kill a man
Has done
Many, many, too many times
But it's life, not death
We think of now
Rummaging through pockets
Scouring the table tops for money
A bit of loose change
Detritus of the drunken night
If
There's enough for bread, eggs
A couple of beers
Then on we go
Waiting
Borrowing
Praying on pay day
The poems are typically written in first person, free verse but Copestick also includes a dozen or so rhyming poems to add diversity to his work. The more effective of these are, ‘A Writer’s Prayer’, ‘A Price Of A Hit’ and ‘Once More.’
Asked if he a favourite poem from the collection, Copestick nominates ‘The Pawn Shop’:
The Pawn Shop
Gold that glitters under toughened glass
Once gifts of love and all that entails
The love dissolved now, gone like the past
Now just rings, awaiting a sale
“ MUM “ lettered in gold, to whom was that given
What kind of trauma must have brought this thing forth
Drugs to get high, or food needed to live on
I can't help but wonder what that money was for
Staring at all of the small velvet boxes unnerves me
A sadness inside me, it twists and it churns
I hear a “ Next please “, so I take off my jewellery
Step to the counter, and then it's my turn
He says of the poem, “I’ve got a few favourites, one is ‘the Pawn Shop.’ One of the reasons is that it was Karen’s (my common law wife) favourite. Another is that if I tried to write prose it would probably take about 12 pages, but as poetry I managed to do it in 12 lines.
“Also I love how it raises almost as many questions as it answers. You never find out why I am there, pawning my goods. I love how concise it is, there are no lines there just to get to the next one. Not a single syllable is wasted, there’s no flab at all.”
In rereading the collection, I find particularly compelling Copestick’s poems about writing. They range from his reflections on the writing process & its orgasmic appeal (‘Bring It On!’, ‘An Invitation’) to playfully imagining living as a successful rich novelist at a beach house at St. Tropez until the reality sets in (‘It’s Not A Bad Life’), to the fading dream & realization in ‘Waking Up’ that his poetry will not ultimately transform his life:
You're nearly 50 years old
And you've got nothing.
Just worthless words on
A thousand pieces of paper
That somehow you thought
Would be your salvation.
Ian Lewis Copestick’s poetry is raw & sometimes crudely crafted- more like prose shoot-ups on the page. But he is an honest & a credible English working class voice. Copestick is best when he puts down “the tough, true line” in describing his fucked-up life. For now, he remains postive and sticks to his booze & keeps the local dealers of hard drugs at arms length.
Buy the book here: https://www.amazon.com/Detritus-Drunken-Night-Lewis-Copestick/dp/1092511148
INTERVIEW WITH IAN LEWIS COPESTICK 18-19 December 2021
Why did you originally take up writing poetry and attempt to get your thoughts and feelings onto the page?
Originally, I wanted to be rock’n’roll star. From the age of 14 to 30, I wrote about 5 albums worth of material. Then I realised that I wasn't a real musician, and never would be, so I turned to concentrating on the words. I discovered the massive freedom of not being tied down to metre, rhyme and so on. I LOVED the freedom of just slamming the words on the page, like Jackson Pollock with paint.
You started writing in 2001 but did not really start to submit your work until about 2017. Is this accurate? Why the delay? What eventually prompted you to publish your stuff?
I tried to come through in a transitional period, another poet told me to go to my local library, and check out the Writer's Handbook. I did and sent my poems to several of the poetry magazines. The ones that got back in touch told me that they were moving onto the internet and told me to submit my work via e-mail. At the time, I didn't know how to turn a computer on, they might as well as asked me to send my work to the moon. The Job Centre sent me on a computer literacy coarse in, I think, 2015. So eventually I worked out how to send my stuff out. I began to send my stuff to a website called 'Hello Poetry'. The other poets praised my work, giving me confidence.
Then I came across a poet called John Patrick Robbins, aka Gonzo. He'd already been published, he told me that I was a true poet, and more than good enough to be published, even more, one of his friends was starting a poetry website, and loved my work!!!
Gonzo gave me the confidence to start sending my work to any poetry website I could find, when my book was published, I dedicated it to 3 people, my missus, my publisher and Gonzo.
Where did some of the poetry in the collection first appear apart from ‘Hello Poetry’?
About half the work in my book had already been published, I read a poet somewhere recommending that. The ones that had been published were in Punk Noir Magazine, Outlaw Poetry (who put out loads of my early work, then they started asking for a $10 "donation" with every submission, I haven't been in touch since, which is a shame, because at one time I had HUGE respect for them). The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Medusa's Kitchen, who were also a huge help in my early days, Synchronised Chaos, Horror, Sleaze, Trash...it's a long list.
In reference to the title of your collection, what do you see as the “detritus” of your life so far, particularly as it is reflected in your poetry and your attempt to confront it?
There was no deep meaning why I called my book that. Originally, it was just a line in a poem called 'Weekend Mornings'; and it related to how you get home from the pub drunk. You throw the loose change from your pockets onto the nearest flat surface, but the next day, that change becomes really important, when you're broke. Afterwards I began to think that maybe my poems were the detritus.
I just live my life, getting drunk, having fun, and the poems are the detritus, what I leave behind.
Do you have a favourite poem in the collection which particularly resonates with you? If so, can you describe its origins, construction and why it appeals to you?
I've got a few favourites, one is 'The Pawn Shop'. One of the reasons is that it was Karen,my (common law) wife's favourite. Another is that if I tried to write it as prose it would probably take about 12 pages, but as poetry I managed to do it in 12 lines. Also I love how it raises almost as many questions as it answers. You never find out why I am there, pawning my goods. I love how concise it is. There are no lines there just to get to the next one. Not a single syllable is wasted. There's no flab on it at all.
I also love 'Come Take A Walk' mainly because it's total fiction. Most of my writing is about true events that have actually occurred, so I really enjoyed writing a poem that was completely made up.
Are you still cranking it out? Do you write every day? Do you have any new projects or interests?
No, I really wish that I was writing frequently, but unfortunately, I'm not. I was but nearly seven months ago, my common law wife of 18 years died suddenly. Then less than two months later, my Dad died of cancer. As I'm sure you can imagine, this really fucked me up. I couldn't write a single word for about 4 months.
I've written one poem and one short story in the last few weeks, which gives me some hope for the future. I was never one of those writers who could write to order, anyway. I read that Philip Larkin used to write for two hours every night. I couldn't ever do that. I can only write when inspiration strikes.
What tips would you be able to pass on to a fledgling poet?
My advice to any poet would be read, read, read and write, write, write . The more you read, the more you get a feel for words.
I don't think it matters too much what you read, I read the classics of literature, I also read a lot of thrillers, they all teach you how to put words together. The more you write, the better you'll become- pretty obvious, really. Although I would never go to a gym, the more you use your muscles, the easier it becomes to use them, I guess.
Thanks Ian, for taking the time to answer some questions about your work.
Thanks again.
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