There is something of Seamus Heaney and Norman MacCaig in
the first lines of the Matt Merrett's first poem:
Pens pause one last time
above the gaping permafrost
of the page
swifts are scribbling furiously
upon the thinning haze
And the first impression is that of unoriginality:
the summer is swaying us
with the slow, emphatic argument
of the trees.
One chance, you get at this
he is telling us from the front
Likening a tree to Mel Gibson might be Hollywood but here it looks more a
pastiche of Bollywood - or am I being too cruel.
In the blurb at the back of this book it says: 'These are poems that take a
distinctive route through landscapes rich with legend and wildlife, finding
elegies written in the night sky on the way home from the pub, or quite epics
raging in the pages of memories and neglected histories...'
Turns, looks to the sunset aaaaaannnnd
I wonder if Nine Arches would be interested in my book with only page numbers
in it? Ya think! Or the one with one dot in the middle of three hundred
pages. Now that's poetry!
© James McLaughlin 2011