"War is a word that I pronounced very easily not too long ago: now it's filled with the weight of true meaning." And there, on page 90 of this book, was the very reason that I knew I would not be able to write a review. All I can say is that if you are prepared to put aside opinion and politics and bring to the forefront the author's poetry, this book is stunning. 
 - "The former municipal cemetery, brought back to life by the war." (Lions)
- "I walk by feeling helpless, aware of the next second in which maybe I'll be and maybe I won't." (Traffic)

Saddening, shocking and stunning. 

In the summer of 2006, after a tired and deflated return to Ireland after another foreign sojourn, my confidence and thirst was restored by the poet Stephen Murray (House of Bees, On Corkscrew Hill) who suggested self-publishing a joint collection and taking off across the continent of Europe for poetry readings and plamasing. It was both a beautiful and important decision. 

Fast forward eight years, and I’m now living in southern California. With time to kill in another one of those photocopied malls, I wandered into Barnes and Noble Bookstore, stepped onto the escalator and looked up to find the arse cheeks of a teenage girl looking back at me from under a waist-high skirt. I stepped off the escalator at the Self-Improvement section, but bypassed it and went straight for the Poetry. It’s a ritual I have as an unpublished poet, scanning the shelves to see who’s published what, which publishers are out there and active. Now, I am not jealous that peers have moved ahead of me and brought out multiple collections with various international publishers, in fact I applaud them and will do my best to help promote them in any way I can. It’s all good. However, I have recently had doubts, so help me God. Publishing houses who have brought out books I’ve either bought or thumbed through have been riddled with typos or have just simply published pretty weak poetry on account of who that poet is. That brings me to Exhibit A, if you will. The only books in the Poetry section of Barnes and Noble by Graywolf Press was by James Franco. Now, I don’t need to go quoting lines of text to batter you with my opinion on how shockingly bad the poetry is (The Telegraph beat me to it here), But I had to think of who approached who. Did Franco, having obviously read a good chunk of Graywolf’s catalogue decide that they were indeed the publisher for him as many of their writers reminded him of his own writing, or did Graywolf take a look at Franco and identify a young man who had found fame in a much more lucrative field who could possibly do for poetry what Beckham did for the MLS? If it’s a case of the latter, we are all fucking doomed. The kids from the Twighlight franchise could also help boost sales. Give them pens.

In honesty, I’m not sure who I was more disappointed with, the publisher or the poet. Who needs who more? When we write a poem, and mail it off to a journal with another four to make up a submission, what is the endgame? A book deal, perhaps. Readings organized on our behalf. Reviews in respected newspapers. Bragging rights. Book fairs. Residencies. Maybe every once in a while we get to pose, no, frown and look serious for a feature in Poets & Writers. Is A a better poet than B and C because A’s with Faber and B’s with Ahinga and C’s made her own chapbook at Staples? I’ve been thinking about this for a few years now, and in the meantime, I’ve been lucky enough to have been invited to speak as a guest poet at a number of venues in no fewer than fourteen countries, rubbing shoulders with the published and the accomplished. I have made friends along the way and seen some of the most gorgeous places that I wouldn’t have otherwise had the drive to go and see if it weren’t for poetry. So, to cut a short story long, when Chiwan Choi (Writ Large Press) asked me if I’d be interested in taking part in a reading in Union Station, Los Angeles last week as part of DTLAB's 90 for 90, to read with other self-published authors, I jumped at the chance. This is where is all began and begins again. So long as I live, feel free to punch me in the face if I ever get too big for my boots and think myself too important for any reading. In Traxx Bar on a Wednesday night, I shared the podium with the ever-lovely and possibly the greatest advocate of poetry readings I have ever met, Jessica Ceballos; I sat and listened and was charmed by clever, original and well-delivered verses of Nikita Liza Egar, wanted to hear a lot more from the modest Kirk Dietrich’s 'Junk Shop Heart'; gladly traded merchandise and took home a copy of Petrea Burchard’s ‘Camelot and Vine’ as well as Jonathin Flike’s pop culture poetry in 'It only gets worse' that was both witty and sharp. Though probably not as well-attended as the organizers would have hoped, these nights are as important as any reading or book launch. For many it's the beginning of a journey into the printed and spoken word world. That decision in the summer of 2006 came back to justify itself to me last week. It was both a beautiful and important decision.  

It was an impulse buy while killing time one afternoon in Skylight Books in Los Angeles; a cover that was sexy and sleek and naively conned me into buying it. It was written by a man who, at that point in time, was to me the Keyser Soze of the LA poetry scene. I knew he was out there somewhere and had heard good things, but he had so far evaded my handshake. I knew, as I ordered a coffee in the diner up the street and opened the first poem, he was probably in a bar downtown, writing, as a writer bloody well should. I also knew, after the third time I had read the fires across and after the third refill of piss-weak coffee that this collection was going to jeopardize my health were I to attempt it in one sitting. It is now, some months later, that I can happily sit back and affirm that I was not conned at all.

            Chiwan Choi’s Abductions (Writ Large Press) is the work of a man who has come a long way to claim downtown LA as his own.  While the book offers readers snapshots of his journey through poems such as dulce de leche and stirring flashbacks in the moment it begins, for me, these pages are the cogs that keep LA turning – either that, or LA is the cog that keep these pages turning. It’s gritty and not at all afraid to put the reader on the corner of 7th and Broadway, or in the bedroom with the quarrelling couple, or in the emergency room with a poem such as her journey which leaves you winded.
“it began with her/ as the war broke out in korea,/ the abductions.”
I’ve always been suspicious of poetry collections that are close to the bone, over personal; as if the writer is using the one move he or she knows to win the contest by repeating it. Choi, however, keeps it poetry. As Ezra Pound put it: “Good writers are those who keep the language efficient. That is to say, keep it accurate, keep it clear.” And so we come to the poem feet bare. For me, this is the best poem in the book, tying many other poems together and bringing it all back to brilliant poetry:

Last night
at 2am,
i opened my eyes
when i searched for her once more
on the wrong side
of myself –
darkness can’t be blamed
for the wanting of wrong directions. 

There are poems in this collection the shake you, others that sing. Other too that make you want to get up early, walk the streets with the writer looking up at the sky with {my} eyes barely open, sending messages into outer space. This particular abduction is a worthwhile one; one you will need to read again and again. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

Whereas many fans of Stephen Murray’s earlier work might have been expecting On Corkscrew Hill (Salmon Poetry) to pick up in the same darkly confessional tone where his debut collection House of Bees left off, Murray drops to the table a whole new hand of cards. Firmly rooted in its west of Ireland canvas, this his second collection wastes no time in painting portrait after portrait of place. The Burren, Bundoran, Galway, Templemore, Stradbally and Mountshannon are just some of the settings that propel the reader through both the political and social landscape of modern Ireland. The collection begins softly – as if the first two poems are preludes as to what will happen; the first a sliver of natural imagery and personification, the second a dig as if to say “I’m only just getting started.” By the time the third poem At Pollathomais, County Mayo comes along, we know what we’re in for:

“from bog to brine to pastured glebe backed by Bertie’s boys in blue/ to play Punch and Judy with fortunes of hardworking folk,/ fishermen and their weathered wives...”
As we turn through the corridors of this book, we find a poet in despair at the crumbling world he inhabits, yet surrender as he picks us back up while applauding those he respects – the hallelujahs of mankind,/ statuesque upon the elbows of Atlas. (from Surf Talk in Budoran.

But Murray has picked his fight, and is soon back forcing to the ropes the health care system, the national broadcaster, and ultimately the developers, who, in the title poem of the collection, are asked to accept their own misdeeds. This (On Corkscrew Hill) is a poem worthy of its own review.

What Murray can do, unlike many, is make a sentence pounding with assonance and alliteration, yet not sacrificing content and maturity, seem effortless. Bird Man Spawns brings us back to what I said at the beginning. This collection is a whole new hand of cards 
–
“The devil’s own pack , half jokers and jacks,/ A straight card flush, part magic trick stroke truth,/ Strung up by the neck in the sheds of my youth.”
While it might be fair to assume that Murray has found his writing style, his voice; it’s his larger-than-most horizon of subject matters that will keep us keenly anticipating what comes next.

I arrived in Bucharest the morning of April 26th, not having the slightest clue how the next 7 weeks would pan out. It was a nice feeling - a young feeling; one of those reckless excitements that comes before anything else. 

What I can say now, having arrived back in Ireland, is that every tour, be it poetry or music, comes with its occasional hiccups; its unavoidable stress and conflict of opinion; its unexpected moments of sheer bliss and speechlessness - and journeying through Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Bosnia, Slovenia, Austria and the Czech Republic provided all of these things and more.  I met poets, translators, listeners, poetry lovers, poetry haters, music fans, Ireland fans, honest taxi drivers (for a change), generous hosts, intriguing expats, old friends, new friends, actors, singers, and plain old good people. I had never been to Sibiu before, nor Ljubljana, Sarajevo or Olomouc. And I was charmed by each. I listened as scholars read my poetry that they had translated at the literary events I was so fortunate to have been a guest at, feeling ten foot tall. I have poetry by George Szirtes, Virgil Mazilescu, Catalina Stanislav, Claudiu Komartin, Vlad Pojoga, and many others to dive into now that I have time. This is not really a blog entry, but more of a thank you to everyone. Would I recommend other poets get out there and visit these places? Absolutely. Are trips like these something that make a poet feel like a rock star? Without a doubt. Would I do it all again tomorrow? In a heartbeat. 

Bosnia, you delighted me.

Writing from a cafe in Split, on the Croatian coast (for those who failed geography), I have time to think back on an eventful few days in Mostar and Sarajevo. Every blog and book and site I had read prior to entering the country of course charged into battle with accounts of war and religious divide – and it’s hard to avoid such topics when you look around and see bullet holes in the sides of every third building. Yet, drinking a coffee on the street in Sarajevo, I saw more of the healing that has been going on than I did of the troubled past. People all wanted to help when I looked lost, offering directions and use of their cell phones. Cultures collided, shared mixed grills and teas, kissed each other’s cheeks as salutations. As a rule, I never get into taxis when I can’t speak the language. I broke this rule a dozen times in Bosnia, flabbergasted that the drivers had no intention of screwing me. Both my hosts in Mostar and Sarajevo would have cart-wheeled naked down the street if I had suggested the spectacle. In Mostar, my host cooked my wife and I a fantastic chicken paprika dinner out of pure generosity, and then drove the two of us to Sarajevo the following day along what must be one of the more scenic drives in Europe. And while both cities are tourist centres, flush with tour buses as Dubrovnik is with cruise ships, there is always a side street or a bridge leading to that off-the-beaten-track experience we all crave while abroad. On the flipside, finding information on buses and trains is a nightmare – some trains have been discontinued; others given back to the countries that gifted them. I will say that after an eight hour bus ride out of the mountains from Bosnia back into Croatia, I am happy I took the chance. We were supposed to visit two other towns but bad luck intervened. I had no poetry reading or other literary engagement there, but poetry comes in all forms. And perhaps looking back on this little trip, the pen will eventually start its journey too. 

I'm one week into a five week poetry tour of Europe and as I sit here at my desk, looking out of a window at a rain shower in Cluj Napoca, it's time to catch a breath and think about an amazing seven days that started at the Gealach Gorm Singer Songwriter Festival in Kill, Co. Waterford. I have Anthony Mulcahy to thank for that opportunity, as well as his mother Angela Mulcahy whose drive and enthusiasm to bring the arts to rural Waterford saw the theatre installed in Kill. It was a brilliant night, with Anthony joining me on stage in between poems to share some hilarious and heartfelt songs from his album 'Songs from the Snug'. We also had Liam Merriman entertain us with a fine set of songs and then, or course, pints galore in a bar up the road in great company. I regret not having the time to stick around for the weekend to see Ger Wolfe, Mundy, Kelly McCrae, Brendan O'Shea and Clive Barnes - what a line up! = but I was arriving in Bucharest.

I had a great night of poetry and music in a bar in downtown Bucharest on the Saturday night, hosted by Claudiu Komartin - a brilliant young Romanian poet whose poetry is available in translation through some presses. Definitely one to keep an eye on.... "It's summer again, an overwhelming season/that dictates even my least movement." (from Irina)  

I moved on to Brasov after such generous hospitality in the house of Denisa Duran and her husband to find outstretched arms once again waiting and a packed county library of students and writers all keen to open a dialogue about poetry. I have Dina Hrenciuc to thannk for putting this together and again, for being a wonderful host and treating my wife and I to a slap up Romanian meal afterwards. Brasov is a cool little city with plenty to see to do during the day, and plenty to eat and drink at night! From Brasov, it was on to Sibiu, surely one of Romania's most beautiful and under rated cities? Despite the European Capital of Culture title bestowed upon it in 2007, I get the feeling that this little gem is still off of people's radars and waiting to be discovered. My host here was Romanian poet Radu Vancu, who put togther a reading in the vault of the Humanitas Bookstore. Although shy, the crowd slowly came out of their shells (or shell shock with my brash nature!) and by the end of the night, ending in Lilli's bar with a glorious session, I felt had a nice taste of the rich literary life of the city. I hope I never forget Radu's story of how poetry once saved his life! 

I am now in Cluj Napoca, recovering from what will probably be a reading I will remember for a long time. Not since Stephen Murray and I stepped into the uknown in Cafe Schlepta in Prague in 2006 as guests of Bethany Shaffer have I felt such energy from a crowd. Stefan Baghiu met me on the street to lead me to Cafe Insomnia and quickly introduced me to co-hosts Janos Szantai and Stefan Manasia. What happens next was, for me, what poetry is all about. That's all I'll say as Insomnia is a place you will have to take my word for and visit yourself, if you're a poet looking to speak and engage in poetical critique, or just a thirsty tourist looking for a beer and brilliant company.  Tomorrow, it's an 8 hour train to Budapest and 2 more readings... But Romania, I'll take a bit of you with me where I go. X