WEE HOUR MARTYRDOM by Jason Tandon

WEE HOUR MARTYRDOM
Jason Tandon
Sunnyoutside publisher
ISBN; 978-1-934513-057
$13.00

in the beginning the young catch rays, throw them to
us and we throw those rays back. Jason Tandon causes
me to laugh, or my causal laughter, which ever way i’m
suppose to say this; the first few poems lift my young
spirit. his breezy way with his surreal images lend,
disarm me, an old crotchety woman often disgruntled by
youthful ’i am’s,’ I revel ate in his poem

"Untouchables”
…
an old woman’s rump
and the overfed birds
bored with all
her white bread.

my black molar.

“wee hour martyrdom” drives the reader into the
mystery of being, of being influenced by history,
personal as well as the history of a particular genre
of poetry. in this book I relate to the surreal images
and a more contemporary emphasis.

I built my Aztec temple without stairs
and Mrs Glover flunked me
I thought the gods just appeared
bursting from jags of light
head of a hawk, body of a man writhing with snakes

if your interested in an academic explanation, cadence
or whatever some reviewers write as they pull apart a
poem, verse by verse, I ain’t the one to tell you this
guy can write real well. even though I know you can
find whatever it is, to your liking, in his poetry.
I’ve long ago come to understand there is no
perfection. in Tandon’s poem, ‘interrogation,’ in the
first strophe, his own words explain my view of some
of his poetry.

the outdoor motion light triggers
and I stand illuminated
in a brilliant flood of white

his strength of understanding who and whereof that
white…sometimes I feel devoid of emotions and then I
read a poem like, ‘interrogation’ and a flood from my
own relationships rams my perspective, cracks the
mirror I view myself in every morning. the truth is he
is writing from all the influences that have
influenced him and has come to himself and in doing so
the reader enters his poetry like a ghost enters,
returns after ...

on page 71, close to the end, by the end, books
usually must end, ‘seeing the dead’ plunders us like
an old clock melting over all those toasted pieces of
white bread the young scoff down, then our self youth
shoots us with a plastic ray gun.

I heard their stiff backs cracking
as they arched themselves
for earthward dives

you will dive into this book and come out assured by
its’ refreshing, clean, nakedness.

Irene Koronas
reviewer
ibbetson street press
poetry editor
wilderness house literary review
www.whlreview.com