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The Hunger Season
William Taylor Jr.
Sunnyoutside Press
ISBN 9781934513170
2009...$15.00
“The tourists get drunk
buy T-shirts
and fondle the bones of poets…”
Taylor administers wafers, homemade bread, not only to himself, but to any open mouth. He takes the mundane experiences of the moment like a priest‘s hand:
“something beautiful they forgot
to take away
something simple
and real enough
that doesn’t ask too much of you
or taste so much
like death.”
He imparts what we already know, yet, we have forgotten, even in hunger and maybe because of hunger we forget, until we are served the poem, plain and without any apology, even, sometimes, with humor:
“I have decided
as soon as they finish
building that
suicide
fence on the
golden gate bridge
I will be the first
to try it out.”
With an honest reliance on what the poem puts on the line, “but the loneliness in the air just drifts like fog,” the reader may only take one phrase from this book, and glean all notions, all sad relaxations on a park bench, all the familiar smells and odors of decay, relief:
“The train moves on and the feeling
is pleasant and
all I know is I don’t want to
be anywhere”
William Taylor Jr. writes the story of people’s lives, each poem is a complete rendering in a few phrases, verses. I feel as if I’m treated as an intelligent person who can surmise the fullness of every word, meaning, we are able to use our own imagination, relating to experiences that maybe buried on the surface of familiarity. We find meaning where there may not seem to be meanings. this collection of poems is weighty, substantial, and it sustains. Read, “angry at the Sun,” on page 33
Irene Koronas
Poetry editor
Ibbetson Street Press
Poetry editor
Wilderness House Literary Review
The Hunger Season
William Taylor Jr.
Sunnyoutside Press
ISBN 9781934513170
2009...$15.00
“The tourists get drunk
buy T-shirts
and fondle the bones of poets…”
Taylor administers wafers, homemade bread, not only to himself, but to any open mouth. He takes the mundane experiences of the moment like a priest‘s hand:
“something beautiful they forgot
to take away
something simple
and real enough
that doesn’t ask too much of you
or taste so much
like death.”
He imparts what we already know, yet, we have forgotten, even in hunger and maybe because of hunger we forget, until we are served the poem, plain and without any apology, even, sometimes, with humor:
“I have decided
as soon as they finish
building that
suicide
fence on the
golden gate bridge
I will be the first
to try it out.”
With an honest reliance on what the poem puts on the line, “but the loneliness in the air just drifts like fog,” the reader may only take one phrase from this book, and glean all notions, all sad relaxations on a park bench, all the familiar smells and odors of decay, relief:
“The train moves on and the feeling
is pleasant and
all I know is I don’t want to
be anywhere”
William Taylor Jr. writes the story of people’s lives, each poem is a complete rendering in a few phrases, verses. I feel as if I’m treated as an intelligent person who can surmise the fullness of every word, meaning, we are able to use our own imagination, relating to experiences that maybe buried on the surface of familiarity. We find meaning where there may not seem to be meanings. this collection of poems is weighty, substantial, and it sustains. Read, “angry at the Sun,” on page 33
Irene Koronas
Poetry editor
Ibbetson Street Press
Poetry editor
Wilderness House Literary Review
After the Honeymoon
Nathan Graziano
Sunyoutside Press
ISBN 9781934513194
2009...$15.00
And what is the illness that plagues the poem, “Cracker and Me (for Dan)”? Is it the malady of universal immaturity? Questions are useless when faced with being sick inside and these poems may not answer any questions, except, “can someone pour me a drink?” In asking someone to pour the ending into a glass, the dry inspiration lifts these words as we clink our shot glasses to what merges and swirls like liquid gold burning our throats:
“We wonder if this is creation.
or the illness winking
and rubbing our backs
before driving the knife
between our shoulder blades.”
As the verse smashes into our systems we realize we are inebriated, cold stone sober:
“but the illness still creeps
into the last chapters of our novels,
into the guts of our poems,
into our twisted symbolism,
into the irony we never intend.”
Nathan Graziano does not trip the light fandango. There is no place here for current music, or any music we may think we know how to dance with. Instead:
“The three of us board
the paper ark I built
while the world drowns
in things we can’t afford
I sing sailor songs
and hold you both
while we dance to the rhythm
of a distant drip.
a slow dance.
our wedding song.”
Irene Koronas
Poetry editor
Ibbetson Street Press
Poetry editor
Wilderness House Literary Review
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