Ressurection Song by George Wallace/ Reviewed by John Sweet

But get this.

A few weeks back, out of nowhere, this guy I know, this writer, this joker, is sitting in my back yard drinking a beer, eyes closed, and he smiles, decides to end our discussion with some solid insight, with a real profound thought for the ages, and he says, apropos of nothing

Metaphor is the death of poetry, Sweet.

Just says it.

And keeps smiling.

???

And I’m not sure where we are in the world these days, if we’ve moved past post-post-modern, if irony has come full circle for a third or fourth time or if five-second soundbites are the future of all communication, but one thing I know is that poetry endures despite pronouncements like the one this clown made. It endures to spite them.

Poetry is its own kingdom, its own continent, its own reality, and I’m sure I said something to this effect. I’m sure I tossed out a witty rejoinder, or at least a hand gesture and a string of obscenities, because I know where my strengths lie.

And then a few weeks later, with the wet and cold weather returned, with 15 hours of OT a week helping me catch up with the bills, I get an email from Michele who asks if I’d be interested in reading a collection by George Wallace that she’s publishing, and I’ve read Mr. Wallace’s work before, so definitely. I’m an admirer, right? The man has a way with words. He understands understatement and directness. He knows how to let the words run wild when that’s what is called for. Bottom line, he kicks ass in all directions.

And so this book, this Resurrection Song……. it’s the real deal.

It’s what I needed for my back yard visitor.

Like I said, I’ve read Mr. Wallace’s work before, and I’ve never been disappointed, but I’ve never read one of his collections. I’ve only taken him in small doses, so to speak, and then this book is delivered to my inbox. How many poems? Around 150 or so. An orgy. An explosion. A goddamn feast.

And I read it once like a starving man eats. I was hungry, okay? I devoured. And then I went back a second time, slower and deliberate, like good sex. I took the time to absorb everything – the wordplay, the historical references, the flight of fancy, the symbolism, and even the metaphors.

And especially the metaphors.

And this is how I read collections of poetry. Fast, then slow, then I just start randomly dropping in here and there like a bee in a field of flowers. I wallow. I indulge. I overindulge. Shit, I look stuff up on the internet when necessary.

And, as I write this, we’re in the second quarter of the year, not quite halfway to the end, but we can see the marker. We can taste the sweat. And this book, these resurrection songs? Best collection of poems I’ve read so far in 2023.

Consider this:

“To be a poet is to broadcast in the dead zone of the animal
heart to commune with shadow to rise like a lark out of
the darkness while other men crawl or bend their knee to
unforgiving gods”

Or this:

“When I am old
I shall dance like any idiot
when the bully
takes a tumble”

These are simple truths cut into your skin with a razor blade. These are profound ideas and luminous images constructed out of thin air.

And these moments are just the tip of the iceberg. The words in this collection flow into each other perfectly, a continuous collision and a fever-dream hum. The imagery puts you RIGHT THERE. The economy of language makes you wish for more. The abundance leaves you overwhelmed, off-kilter. Do you see?

This is poetry.

Or, more precisely, this is a poetry that stays with you. One that you will return to again and again. Like the best poetry, it’s a universe unto itself.

Wallace has been at the game long enough to not worry about challenging himself. He moves in and out of comfort zones with casual bravado. He mixes up his approaches – some Whitman here, some Woodie Guthrie there, maybe a nod to Creeley, maybe Ginsberg. He smears casual observations against easy humor, grinds them both into the face of harsh reality, and winds up with something entirely new, something always original.

Seriously, it’s that good.

In his own words,

we have no guide,
we have no badges,
the optics are fuzzy,
our motives unclear,
what remains remains

and what more enticement do you need? You know me – I’ve been called an asshole, a humorless prick, a monster and a lousy cook, but I’ve never been called a liar. So why would I lie now?

Listen.

Poetry is everywhere these days; it’s as ubiquitous as coffee shops and ignorant political opinion. What’s much, much rarer is poetry that has something new to say, has something new to show us, or a new way to shine light on the things we already thought we knew. What’s rarer is poetry that will stand the test of time.

And I could go on. I could keep telling you how good a writer George Wallace is, how good a collection Resurrection Song is, could keep putting little morsels of his art on the page for you to devour, but it’s probably easier if you just read it for yourself.

Face it.

These are tough times we’re living in. A lot of lies are being told by so-called leaders. A lot of freedoms are being taken away. Power is being abused on an almost daily basis. If art is what you need to help get back in touch with truth and beauty, then there’s no better place to start than Resurrection Song.

You may pick up a copy here.

https://www.magicaljeep.com/product/resurrection/138

 

John Sweet (b. 1968) is a believer in writing as catharsis, and in poetry as a reason for getting up in the morning. He has been publishing in the small press for 30 years. Among his collections are A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (Kung Fu Treachery Press), BASTARD FAITH (Scars Publications), a series of acclaimed limited-edition chapbooks from Kendra Steiner Editions, and THE CENTURY OF DREAMING MONSTERS (winner of the 2014 Lummox Poetry Prize). He lives in upstate New York. All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing. His latest collection, THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END, is now available on Amazon. http://bleedinghorse.blogspot.com/