Real Life Shit

Lantern Lit. Volume 1 is a cool little book. Here’s the format: poets James H. Duncan, Mat Gould, and John Dorsey each contribute chapbooks comprising the three sections of Lantern Lit.’s first outing. The result is remarkably consistent in terms of theme, style, and even form, though each poet offers a unique voice and perspective.

Duncan’s “The Darkest Bomb” serves as the first section of this anthology, and immediately sets a tone that will carry through the remainder of Lantern’s pages. Stylistic choice made in Duncan’s first poem carry through the other poets’ sections to some extent: a preference for the lower-case, sparse punctuation, breathless line-craft, and serve as hallmarks of the moment and the mode in which these poems are delivered.

“Seasick on 46th / …and then crossing Fifth Avenue as / big dollop raindrops hit the pavement like / face slaps falling from a seasick green / sky…”

These are urgent poems, which live resolutely in the modern landscape. There’s a quality of resilience about them, of vivacity in spite of urban decay— “those great whales full of bones / decaying with the sunlight in their guts”.

Mat Gould’s contributions to this volume inhabit the same epoch as Duncan’s and employ similar formal conventions. They sing a world in disrepair, but they sing in nonetheless. Gould’s are grateful poems, full of creation out of rubble: “and to think, all of this from wet dust”.

In “The Universe Itself Laments,” the introductory poem to Gould’s section, “the sky is full / full of whatever else there is / a gallery of pastel prints-”. Elsewhere, the poet reconnoiters the edges of his frame of reference, writing towards “lanterns / above / the sea / out / of reach”.

If Duncan and Gould’s sections survey a contemporary landscape through the lens of each poet’s essentia, Dorsey’s “Happy Hour Madrigals” “sing the gospel of real life shit” (to quote the publisher) through recollections of characters living real life shit. In poems named “Drunk John,” “Sarah,” and “Creepy Steve,” the poet reaches perhaps toward Gould’s lanterns above the sea. In a bout of booze-fueled poignancy, though, “…he just kept drinking / waiting for a happy hour / that never came.”

If you’re into sunsets, couplets, and grand allusions to heroes of Greek mythology, look elsewhere. On the other hand, if you’re looking for “real life shit,” you’ll find all you need in Lantern Lit. volume 1. Reach out above the sea, sip warm beer, and read good poems. “Hang the hide,” indeed.

Your Very Own Ghost Knocking at the Door: On Mat Gould's A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter

A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter is a book of poem that suits the mantra. Where is the end to all of this? Whatever this may be, there is no end, it is just the daily deluge of reality . . . simple, suggestive, poignant, natural, and at times plain fucking funny and yet full of gospel sensibility. I don’t want to throw names at it, Gould may borrow, mimic, denounce, or battle but all that matters is that he writes and owns these poems.

This collection of poetry will put you in the place, push the dust and grit up your nostrils to the point where you’ll have to blow it out at seasons end. You’ll feel your own meditations in these lines, you’ll recognize your own ideals, your own cures, your own perversions, and the inevitability of what may be your very own ghost knocking at the door or be it window.

Gould puts us in his vision, keeps us in his flagrantly pounding heart, shows us the view from his porch and pronounces to us in many forms that if we must do anything than we must do what it takes to survive this barrage of existence and what that takes, is everything. Sometimes he tells us in those exact words and in other words with other ways he tells by strapping on the loincloth and taking us out into if not beyond the wilderness to hunt jackal, to seek jackalope, and begs us to not forget the myth nor dismiss reality . . . the very reality in which all of these poems enrich.

Gould should be read in sacred places. Gould should read when you are half buried by burden. Gould should be read when you are in no need of options. Gould should be read when you are imbibing. Gould should be read when lackluster and clutter will not do. Gould should be read, and you might as well start with A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter.