It is a treacherous path one takes, after deciding to review poetry. Oh, there’s always the easy way out, simply say, “I loved it,” or “It was beautiful,” or “I felt it in my soul.”
A seriously review of a particular poem or collection of poems requires a knowledge of what constitutes real poetry, enough heart to interpret the poetry (sometimes called `eyes to see’), and an understanding of the objective purpose for the review,
Poetry is a type of art, which may very well predate literacy, and over the thousands of years, more so in the past few hundred, we developed a list of elements, which can be used to examine the products of this art form. Those most commonly agreed upon elements are (1) prosody (rhythm, meter, and metrical patterns), (2) rhyme, (3) alliteration, (4) assonance, (5) form (lines and stanzas; visual presentation), and (6) diction. Each of these elements having many sub-parts and nuances, when combined into actual poetry produce something greater than their sum, analysts call it “synergy,” authors call it “a completed manuscript/work” often times poets, even those who are a poet and don’t know it, often don’t call it anything. Writing it was something they had to do, sharing it was optional, classifying it–most likely superfluous.
The `eyes to see’ or the heart to feel what is revealed in a poem is even further from being an exact science. When a poet pours out their feelings or sometimes a message, our physical eyes just see words, but somewhere deep inside us, obliviously standing next to our soul, is our heart, which connects our mind to our soul. Somehow a translation erupts from the spiritual realm and then our minds struggle to express it. When two hearts beat together, the synergy is beautiful, but alas sometimes non-shared events, which overlap in contrast, against the natural grain, produce a different vision, a vision which haunts instead of fulfills the expression intended by the poet.
And that’s where it is, right? The intention of the poet, determines the objective, but the reader interprets the poem, based on a synergy, which may in most cases be completely alien to the nature of the poet. In which case, the community of reviewers gather to rebuke the rogue reviewer who departs from the norm, or in the saddest of alternatives, the poet, who was only doing what their heart led them to do.
To understand poetry best, one must be a poet. As I can’t even find a word to rhyme with orange, I’m not one. I’m just an old bomber-pilot turned novelist, who uses an adapted form of military planning to plot his novels, filled with branches and sequels which together tell a complex story based on plot, characters, and tension. Emotion and feelings are portrayed in a novel, but in a poem, they provide the essential superstructure the words hang from.
So why even attempt to review? Well, a book of poetry has some overlapping characteristics of a novel. With novels and their cousin, nonfiction, the primary purposes of reviews is to generate sales. The more noted the reviewer, the people read the review, maybe so as to impress their friends with a regurgitation of the review’s highlights over cocktails, or whatever people do now-a-days, but for some reason people rush to buy books mentioned in those experts. I’m not sure if they happens for poetry collections. Maybe poetry is too personal, or maybe people are concerned some poetry will pull the scab off a long ago wound, once again opening a hurt they’d thought they were over. Notice I didn’t say “afraid,” as that’s probably the real concern, right, afraid of being afraid.
The book’s namesake is also the book’s anchor, Sing The Truth Of Feral Bananas. More than a score of poems, each with a world of its own, are corralled there for the reader. Each may touch you differently than they did me, as the burdens I carry may seem harsh to some, as they are different from yours, but I’ve discovered we are all fighting tough battles. If I would to share my interpretations here, let’s say of the soul-rattling prose called “Mother” many of you might disagree, I dare say even Ms Faslund might “correct” me with “Oh, no, that’s not what I was saying at all.” But to the reader, it doesn’t mater what the poet was saying, what matters is what their heart translated to their mind.
So there, now you have it, it becomes about me. Me, the reader, feeling the poem. Just like with you, when you read them, as read them you should.
Thank you Elysabeth Faslund for sharing these deep secrets of your heart with us, the readers. I loved it, it was beautiful, and I felt it in my soul.
