#257
Hungover, scraping
lead paint in hundred-degree
humidity, mad
I'VE never been a fan of poetry unless it's being screamed at me from a stage by aggressive drunks. Normally, I find poetry too feeble, too twee, too pretentious.
That said, I have a soft spot for Japanese haiku - mainly 'cos the rigid format (three lines: five syllables, seven syllables/five syllables) means it takes discipline to not only write one, but write a good one.
And that's the beauty of Beerbox Haiku, Raven Mack's new collection of nearly 1000 poems - written during "a dark transitional period" in his life. In 17 syllables, he effectively and hauntingly captures working class life in modern America: the joys of family...the daily grind of manual labour...the sweet release of alcohol (followed by the inevitable "alcohol guilt")...the social intricacies of relating daily to others for whom the American Dream has failed them...the simple pleasures of drinking under a starry sky or watching an attractive woman walk by...
These poems are earthy, raw, sweaty - not every haiku struck a chord with me, but some of them aren't meant to. They're deeply personal thoughts from a complicated Southern man who has the talent to articulate a way of life that others like myself can only imagine. But when you least expect it, a nugget of universal truth will hit the reader between the eyes.
Raven's book is moving. It is beautiful. It is essential reading for anyone who appreciates the power of great writing, especially when it's displayed in 17 little syllables.
#598
Using a pay phone
to say, "I'll be home after
midnight, don't worry."