I’ve wondered about why it has taken me so long to post some content on HST. I think it boils down to the fact that in 2013 I have been on an inhumane schedule that has prevented me from finding the time to write. Possibly it has been the fear that I’m no writer, and that all I have achieved has been insignificant. It is a living nightmare, thinking as a creative, that deep down you might not have ‘it’ anymore.
After finishing my second collection of poetry, and announcing that I was done with writing poems I’ve been feeling a lot of regret and a lot of jealousy towards the guys that are still putting pen on paper, and expressing the mundane aspects of their life in a floral form. This is why reading Lawrence Gladeview’s ‘Just Ignore the Beer Stains’ has been a trial for me.
This will be one of those reviews that will likely piss off the writer, because really this will be all about me. I also fear that it will be one of those pieces where people will begin to scratch their heads and ask themselves if this guy is “losing it”.
Gladeview and I crossed paths over the internet, in the way most writers do nowadays, I had a litzine, I liked Bukowski, you tend then to meet like-minded writers from something as simple as that. It is how I’ve come to write for HST. Gladeview tells simple stories vividly through the poem.
Poetry Needs To Be Natural
the day after
with no a/c to
Throughout the collection we get to look through his eyes, we meet his significant other Rebecca, we see the bars and smell the Coors. Unlike Bukowski, who though influential, is the kind of cat I wouldn’t associate with, Gladeview feels like a buddy. The strength of his work is that he makes things familiar. That’s not to say I could not identify or relate to Bukowski, only Buk is hostile, and keeps you outside spitting distance.
Like an innocent man faced with the gallows, I fear that it might be time for me to pick up the pen again. Maybe knock this reviewing lark on the head first. Though I’m reticent because what can I say? It is where poetry has fallen short for me. As a poet I was always the frustrated novelist. I wanted to expand upon my ideas but for whatever reason I couldn’t, and subsequently they stunted into poems. Poetry is something that maybe I didn’t want to write, yet like most things, I was always looking beyond the poem that I was writing. I couldn’t enjoy those moments, and I can’t look back at them fondly. Therefore why is there an urge to write poetry? Perhaps it is because I can do nothing else.