A BELLYFUL of ANARCHY by Rob Plath

Rob Plath is a writing steamroller fuelled by vodka, whisky, and vitriol. He chugs cigarette smoke and verse into an already crowded atmosphere of hard-edged, but mostly hackneyed writing. I wish this were hyperbole, but it’s not. His new collection, Bellyful of Anarchy, is a monster. Its over 250 pages literally weighing a ton of angst, reflection, and some dark-ass imagery of a most honestly poetic kind. One of the best things about Rob’s writing, and there are many, is that it’s real. I’ve never felt like I was being sucked into a shadowy morass of metaphor or allusion. His poems are concrete and this is a good thing. Reading one of them is like taking a shot at the local dive, you can hear the blather, the clatter, the fug, the cheap lipstick, it’s all-good.

But that is also part of the problem. It’s a lot to read and the theme is unwaveringly consistent. Down and out, a broken past, too many scars to count. There is something of redemption in there, somewhere, I know it, but good luck finding it.

Aside from the constant slide into a bathtub of blood and razor blades, this collection is one of the best ones out there today. It’s not cheap in any sense of the word. At $25 it’s a lot, but, it’s worth it. Why? Because, it is a hard kick in the nuts to a paradigm of poetry that has little-to-no guts and I applaud its necessary audacity. This book proves that there is beauty in repulsion and pulchritude in the plainly rude.

This is the kind of book I want to literally hit people with and scream, “Here, suck on this for a while and when your head stops spinning, tell me you’re not moved to look at poetry in a different light.” It’s a great book, because it is a catalyst, it will hopefully move people to use poetry as a mirror, a reality check, a reflection of what we are past the façade and flesh. Now, read it and tell me if you find hope in it. Then again, who the hell needs hope?


Opinion: Good Read

-reviewed by GJ

BUY THE BOOK HERE!

302 pages

perfect bound

full color laminated cover

FROSTBITTEN by Mark Walton

I bought this book. Actually, I needed to buy it. It was shipped to me over 5000 miles from the depths of Canada (even though Mark only lives 150 miles from me.) I wanted to have it in my palms, on my flesh, because from the moment I read a few of the poems I knew this was something special. I don’t often feel this way about books and if I am going to spend money on the damn things, I want it sitting next to my bed so I can look at it, read it, feel it, often. So why is Mark’s book special? Notice I didn’t say great, lovely, amazing, whatever, I said special. Because, these poems, and there aren’t many of them (only a large handful really) are about love. Not love in the LOVE sense with flowers and kisses and downy skin and soft eyes and fuck, but rather love in the unshaven, rough handed, tender soul under the tattooed heart kind of sense. Long before I ever met Mark in person, I could tell this from the words. There’s a love of life in the book, an honesty of emotion and there is never any wondering who or from where the poems are speaking. It’s him. In a world of poetic bitching and cathartic rants, this collection is written with finesse and confidence. Even better, the poems are NOT written in the sometimes dysentery-like flood that some poets seem to favor. In fact, I would even go so far as to say some of the poems are downright heart wrenching, and although I despise the general use of clichéd terms, I can’t find another one to capture that essence. Heart wrenching.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this book is not a sob story. It’s not a “play on your emotions with platitudes and banalities weep in the bathroom” kind of book. Instead, Mark’s work is something that I can read without criticism, cynicism, or competitive rancor. I couldn’t write these poems if I tried. I haven’t lived them, he has. And that is what is so special about them. No one else could do this. His voice, experience, and tone are uniquely his. Long after he is gone, this work will speak, because he’s not grinding the same stones and sleeping in the same bed as everyone else. He lives on a houseboat for Christ’s sake. I envy him, but in the way you love someone just for being them. I love this book for being exactly what it is: worthy. 


Opinion: Excellent Read

-review by GJ

BUY THE BOOK HERE!

48 pages
saddle stitched
$7.50 USD

DEAD END ROAD by Richard Wink

Some books have atmosphere. As if a collection of poems could be wrapped in fog, sun, pain, etc. This was my first impression of Richard Wink's new work, there is an atmosphere here. I couldn't put my finger on what it was and to be honest, it took me a while until I could get a grip on it. I think I had a hard time placing it, because this work is delicate. It has a quiet sensibility who's richness and finer points blend into the grey of the English backdrop from which he carefully pulls his punches. Many of the poems are observational, people eating sausage-rolls, mothers smoking over their children, old people scared of life around them, these poems have real texture. And then, planted like rocks in a gently undulating field, there is a real glimpse into Richard himself. A poem about a love, about a sadness, about a dodgy summer job. These vignettes reflect the personality of the author and are handholds throughout the book. They give the reader a geographical hard point amidst the East Anglian verse that rolls, and rolls, and rolls.
Richard's book is best read slow, listening to it's quiet observations and looking into the words. Nothing will hit you over the head in this book, but if you reach your hand in just that little bit further, into the poems, you might just get bitten, in the good, do that again kind of way.

Opinion: Good Read

-reviewed by GJ

BUY THE BOOK HERE!
126 pages
Perfect Bound
Be Write Books

ANTISOCIAL by David Blaine

Now this is my kinda’ book. With “Antisocial” David Blaine has tapped into something that I can get, really, really get. As soon as I read these words in the first few pages, “let’s piss on the rules, blow the door off this shit house, and open a window, on our own potential…” I knew I’d have to read the whole damn thing straight through. This book is about me in a lot of ways, a guy getting older, trying to figure out the tangled wires of life experience, getting closer to an unknown end, and mildly, quietly shitting himself that God might just not be there, or even worse, he might. I cruised gladly through the quick-witted and visceral poems until I came to “Glitterati” and I was stopped right there, in the moment, in the reflective emotion, and even better, he mentions a Cadillac El Dorado (my dream car) and it was all perfect. But then, holy crap, it got better. I read “They Looked Like Trash” and tumblers clicked, mental locks dropped their panties, and this was a poem that defines what modern poetry should be. It’s simple, smooth, but chipped on the surface and on closer inspection it goes miles and miles down into the soul of the matter. It’s a poem about humanity, about the faces we are stuck with and our supposed creator, it’s about crap you find at yard sales. I had one of the “those” moments reading it that made my day better. I can’t ask for anything more than that. I’m grateful Dave asked me to read his book, it’s let me know for a little while at least, until the buzz wears odd, that I am not alone in this mess of being. Thank you David Blaine.

Opinion: Good Read

-reviewed by GJ

BUY THE BOOK HERE!
Print edition: $6.00
Perfect Bound | 56 pages
5.5″ (14cm) x 8.5″ (21.6cm)

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Welcome to Grievous Jones Review.

This is a showcase for new writing and publishing that needs to be read about, much as it needed to be written. We welcome all reviews, links, news, and honest commentaries on recently published works of poetry and prose.

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