Corrugator written by Paul Harrison, reviewed by Ben John Smith
Okay, so as the EIC of HST, I am going to put on my reviewer hat… Ill do my best, but to be honest i hate reviews. I always seem bias. I recently read my friend Ryan Quinn Flanagan’s latest chapbook and i cried like a baby. Its the personal connection that makes these words mean something; and in reading “Corrugator” I found that the power in Paul’s words can even make a stranger feel that connection of friendship, that personal connection. SO, obviously – i gave this book a good fucking review.
The book doesn’t, like many around, rely on the drunk poems, the dick jokes; and yet while it does have a hand full inside i think they are the softer poems of the book. They sit well in the mix. You need them poems. The thick fat of the pork belly on top of that nice soft and gentle, moist, meat. The heart of the other poems that burn after reading give the book as a whole collection that completed screw, a good finishing twist.
Good to the mouth. Warm and wet. Yes, im making food refrences, i told you im not much of a review. But im not much of a liar either… Let the proof of the pudding be in the eating; check this out.
melancholy and humor
tenderness and violence
in all i see
there is absurdity and need
a certain acceptance
there is something
in everything i touch
there is a trace
of midas of dust
one last asymmetrical smile.
Paul combines a clever cultural mix of hard core Australiana with that home grown and gutsy heart broken echos of true Irish grit; but again, that’s just me trying to be a “reviewer”. A credit with words. Paul doesn’t need that sentiment, and while some words do worm eloquent, its the easy ones that hit home the hardest. A blistering confusion.
Not many men can leave 3 or 4 lines on a page that take the reader 3 or 4 minutes to read. The mulling, the drinking it in, the thinking. That is what makes a reader full. Paul smashes out the feast.
Look to be fair I’m not much of a reviewer, I’m not much of a writer either; But i am a friend of Paul’s; even if he doesn’t know it. That’s what good poets do. They invite you to dinner with their book, pour you a long glass of wine and if they are good, if their writing is solid and honest and glaringly beautiful, eventually, they make you a friend.
i’ve had enough
conceit and need
and now do you understand
dear friends, ego and audience
even this is pointless
a ritual before the death
Here’s a link to available copies via booksellers –
It is also placed in several bookstores – interested parties can write directly at firstname.lastname@example.org if they want more information.