Hearts & Spades

Hello, poets. You probably—most definitely—don’t know who I am. But I’ve volunteered towrite a review of the DIY pick ‘n’ mix pack, an anthology chapbook from Back Room Poetry.

I came across the new indie press via Twitter, then submitted a poetry chapbook entitled Welcome to Bangkok. It got rejected and filed into “Not really what we’re looking for, but maybe try again.” Instead, I jumped at the chance to review some of the press’ output.

As a freelance writer in the outfields of various niches, including gambling, I appreciate (right off the bat) the allusion to hearts and spades. Let’s face it. Is there much left to do on our planet except for GAMBLE? That’s why the U.S. decided to legalize it in 2018—and since then, there’s been an expansionist boom with sports books and online casinos climbing into every nook and
cranny of the country, overflowing like wildflowers.

Poetry is like rolling the dice. That’s why my favorite poet is Charles Bukowski—he was the ultimate gambler.

In the intro to hearts & spades, Darren talks of how the idea for the chapbook came to fruition. A total gamble. The idea of turning each page into a removable “playing card” signifies his understanding that poetry and publishing it is a massive gamble, an undertaking that requires some balls.

Let’s see if the poems stand up to that effect.

As the Ace of Spades, Paddy Clarke delivers the opening retinue—a poem called “The Breaker” about things getting too hot. “A fuse blew / the lights went out…”

We’re already at the crux of today’s society—what happens when we’re without power? Do we lose our appliances? How long should we wait in the dark?

The Two of Spades, Mika, answers with a sideways poem called “Splendid Isolation.” Should we retreat to the library with an energy drink? “Twenty-four-hour access during exam time the pods are the / Opposite of Japanese capsule hotels No sleep till dawn…”

Again, the poets shine a spotlight into the corners of the societal mind—forget the commas. We’ll place our capitals wherever the hell we want. Everything is already sideways.

Next, Aimee Nicole delivers a good poem, short but tangy. “Advisement,” says, “I’m so tired of talking…” and then goes on: “Freshly flossed teeth so quick / to regurgitate rather than receive.”

That’s the equivalent of a decent left-or-right hook, right in the face of social media benefactors who do nothing but talk about themselves. We’ve heard it before. Aimee gives us something new—something adroit to hear. When do these kinds of people ever shut up?

Kurt Newton’s “Cattle List” plays like a progressive rock tune. (Then there’s an interlude before a wailing guitar solo.) Ozzy Welch offers an exclamatory title:“My inner child wrote this poem!” Again, the sideways motif—where did that inner child go?

S. Reeson gets abstract by growing an “armoured, bulletproof” tennis ball “big enough to / chuck at any passing / fool…” in “Louse.”

Otherwise noteworthy in the spades section, Dee Allen shows us the opposite of rhapsody in “Apathy.” And Nick Romeo claims, “I Stole the Mona Lisa”—“and / placed it in my bathroom / upside down / above the toilet…” as one of the slickest and most inventive entry points to any of the poems in this collection.

As the Joker, Will Schmit tantalizes with a duo trope of red and black in “Left Ring Finger” and “Right Wing Finger.” Is the “fat ceramic Buddha” that “sits serene” during a flood upside down or right-side up?

Ford Dagenham begins as the Ace of Hearts with “i wish it was quiet / and i could not hear…”in “From the benches & fences.” Somebody hears “the souls of gone trees / from the benches & fences / we forced them to be…” with “gurning shroom shards” in a “bruxism smile.” If anybody reading this has never tried shrooms, look up “bruxism” because Dagenham nails it with the word “gurning.”

Next up, Clem Flowers gives us “makeyourownjeans” in seven short lines with a pithy-punch finale. Oli Court flaunts masculinity in “Absolute unit” with a line like, “I laughed all handsome.” And Brian Austin delivers a frosty reminder of the sadness of a breakup in “Separate Records” by accepting your faults, such as: “It’s never too late, you said / Bags packed, and heading for / Albuquerque / Weak from the juniper tree / Growing out of my ice cold chest…” That includes a decade’s worth of unpaid taxes.

We’ve reached my favorite poem in this anthology, “Plastic Cross” by Daniel Schulz, a “massproduced Christianity / warning for children…”

Ben Newell and Jacob R. Moses both elucidate on bad jobs and bosses and lamely lackadaisical fake news that runs afoul in “rat shit” and “The News Factory.”

Bruce McRae offers a heady poem, “Never Look A Goat In The Eye,” claiming: “I learned to fight before I could breathe…”

As the Jack of Hearts, Aqeel Parvez made me LOL in “After Watching Columbus” by delivering a line like: “we paint over the / beauty of being alone / with loneliness…” before revealing that he true killer is one who “squanders the silence with brashness.”

Mark Coverdale finishes as the King of Hearts in “wildcat whiskey an a game o’ darts” and leaves us slurring drunk, alluding to a good chorus in a Frank Sinatra song.

These poets deliver frankness and honesty and coach the long-windedness out of our non-stop chattering souls.

If you or anybody you know suffers from friends or family members who don’t know when to BE QUIET, these poems can teach anybody how to, ever so politely, JUST SHUT UP.

Listen and enjoy.

Now shuffle up and deal, and let’s play another round.

Bryan Myers

You can find Bryan on Twitter – @bryanwillmyers

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