“Triangles.” Los Angeles, 2015. Fujifilm XT1
Helluva thing, poetry.
The thing about it is that a poet, a good one, is in full control of the piece you’re reading. I don’t get that feeling from long writers. Lots of filler and meandering and, to be honest, techniques so familiar, sometimes even a new story feels like a rerun.
And I don’t need confessions, I just need transportation. Do that thing you do, good poet, where you get me concerned, wondering where this is going, knowing that you know very well where it’s going, but also fully aware that I, your reader, don’t. Drawing it out for exactly the right beat. In real time between the casanovas and the daughters of billy goat parade handlers. Oh, the balloons. The terrycloth balloons. You promised we’d come back for them. But then the show was over. On the way to the car, was that a clown in the shadows, or something worse? Either way, driving home the poet helps you settle down. Maybe with a little joke, a knock on the shoulder or just to say, look in the back seat…
It’s the balloon you thought you’d never get.
If you enjoy the circus, try Jack Grapes’ new book, All The Sad Angels .