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sloatsj's review against another edition
5.0
Mairead Byrne’s collection of prose poems Talk Poetry is going on three years old but it’s still as fresh as the smell of a new car. I love the green cover: Think energy. Think breath mints for the brain.
Like a lot of her fans, I discovered Mairead Byrne’s poetry through her blog, which houses a number of the poems in the collection. One of the first striking things is the voice – funny, open, and ready to take on the world. Everything is fair game, even terrorism, as in this excerpt from “The Tired Terrorist:”
“The terrorist was tired. Goddammit he said, I could do with some bacon & eggs. He was sick to the back teeth of killing. It was ugly. He’d had enough. He laid down his shotgun, his nail-gun, his knife. He emptied his pockets. He unzipped his jacket. He thought of the spare room in his mother’s house.”
What I particularly like about these poems is the diction. They read like someone talking, and can careen off into unselfconscious monologues, or bend away on a hilarious tangent. This, for example, is the beginning of “Quick Movie,” one of my favorites -
“I had to watch the movie very fast because I was going out. The valedictorian. The guy. His sister. Her father. Inexplicable love. The break-up. Jail time. On a plane to England . Good movie!”
Or this from “The Russian Week:”
“Inside this week is another week & inside that week is another week & inside that week is another week & inside that is another week & inside that is another week & inside that week is another week so that instead of 7 days each week is actually composed of 7 weeks each one a little smaller than its container week but still workable & with rosy cheeks.”
Byrne’s poetry is offbeat and highly original. Reading it is like eavesdropping on an interesting conversation. It makes you want to get a good look at the person talking, to get their take on things. In this book, you’ll find Byrne’s take on divorce, parking, family photographs, shingles and whether you can die from eating pancakes. I’m still not sure is “Talk Poetry” is a kind of poetry, with “talk” as a modifier, or an invitation, as in “let’s talk poetry.”
I love this book.
Like a lot of her fans, I discovered Mairead Byrne’s poetry through her blog, which houses a number of the poems in the collection. One of the first striking things is the voice – funny, open, and ready to take on the world. Everything is fair game, even terrorism, as in this excerpt from “The Tired Terrorist:”
“The terrorist was tired. Goddammit he said, I could do with some bacon & eggs. He was sick to the back teeth of killing. It was ugly. He’d had enough. He laid down his shotgun, his nail-gun, his knife. He emptied his pockets. He unzipped his jacket. He thought of the spare room in his mother’s house.”
What I particularly like about these poems is the diction. They read like someone talking, and can careen off into unselfconscious monologues, or bend away on a hilarious tangent. This, for example, is the beginning of “Quick Movie,” one of my favorites -
“I had to watch the movie very fast because I was going out. The valedictorian. The guy. His sister. Her father. Inexplicable love. The break-up. Jail time. On a plane to England . Good movie!”
Or this from “The Russian Week:”
“Inside this week is another week & inside that week is another week & inside that week is another week & inside that is another week & inside that is another week & inside that week is another week so that instead of 7 days each week is actually composed of 7 weeks each one a little smaller than its container week but still workable & with rosy cheeks.”
Byrne’s poetry is offbeat and highly original. Reading it is like eavesdropping on an interesting conversation. It makes you want to get a good look at the person talking, to get their take on things. In this book, you’ll find Byrne’s take on divorce, parking, family photographs, shingles and whether you can die from eating pancakes. I’m still not sure is “Talk Poetry” is a kind of poetry, with “talk” as a modifier, or an invitation, as in “let’s talk poetry.”
I love this book.
jimmylorunning's review against another edition
4.0
We Went To the Moon
We went to the Moon. We wore puffy suits & boots. We had a lunar module.
We collected Moon rock. We bounced around. Later we had a roving vehicle.
Some people said it was a set-up. That it was done in a TV studio. That there should have been stars & the flag moved.
It was a long time ago now, forty years. We went back a few times but then we stopped. There was no atmosphere. The sky was black. Everything was there but it wasn't much.
When I saw the pale sketch of the moon in the sky this morning I remembered we went to the moon. Probably.
Revision
The dogs in my neighbor's backyard have no way to process misery. We do. The dogs, stretched out in the dusty yard, might feel the sun steal along their broad pelts, slipping like quicksilver between the radiant hairs, & if sufficient pleasure is packed, might even, who knows, heave to their feet, swaying in hazy dance. But whatever about delight, I don't know that they can use pain for anything other than what my neighbors intend, i.e., attack. They do not think: I will make something of this endless experience of lovelessness, confinement, & exposure to the elements. I will write a crown of sonnets. Or We will sing a duet. But still, when these streets are rocked by sirens, as they daily are. When children shudder in their coops. When ambulances, those great can-openers of sound, slice up our street, I hear the dogs next door—or one of them—come to the chain-link fence & howl in mimicry, matching the siren's wail with fleshy tongue & throat & vocal chords, laying an answering salve, or question, over chaos.
We went to the Moon. We wore puffy suits & boots. We had a lunar module.
We collected Moon rock. We bounced around. Later we had a roving vehicle.
Some people said it was a set-up. That it was done in a TV studio. That there should have been stars & the flag moved.
It was a long time ago now, forty years. We went back a few times but then we stopped. There was no atmosphere. The sky was black. Everything was there but it wasn't much.
When I saw the pale sketch of the moon in the sky this morning I remembered we went to the moon. Probably.
Revision
The dogs in my neighbor's backyard have no way to process misery. We do. The dogs, stretched out in the dusty yard, might feel the sun steal along their broad pelts, slipping like quicksilver between the radiant hairs, & if sufficient pleasure is packed, might even, who knows, heave to their feet, swaying in hazy dance. But whatever about delight, I don't know that they can use pain for anything other than what my neighbors intend, i.e., attack. They do not think: I will make something of this endless experience of lovelessness, confinement, & exposure to the elements. I will write a crown of sonnets. Or We will sing a duet. But still, when these streets are rocked by sirens, as they daily are. When children shudder in their coops. When ambulances, those great can-openers of sound, slice up our street, I hear the dogs next door—or one of them—come to the chain-link fence & howl in mimicry, matching the siren's wail with fleshy tongue & throat & vocal chords, laying an answering salve, or question, over chaos.
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