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Burn
by Paul Vermeersch
ECW Press, 2000
Reviewed by Robert Pierre Tomas
This is a terrible admission for a poet and reviewer
to make - books of poetry are notoriously difficult to read cover to
cover. You can easily start them, scan them, pick your favourites and
dwell on them, but unlike a potboiler novel, poetry usually resists the
linear, beginning-to-end treatment. In fact, the last time I read a book
of poetry from first to last page was years ago, still in high school.
Cutting classes for the first time in my straight A's, well behaved
academic career of a nerd, I hid from the PTA patrols in the public
library. The Complete Poems of John Keats was the first book of
poetry I read cover to cover. Burn by Paul Vermeersch is the
second.
Not that I compare Vermeersch to Keats - it's not my
job to make comparisons of that magnitude. But between the covers of Burn
resides a very confident, highly compelling and at times mesmerizing
first collection of poetry from the young writer. Poets, or at least
good poets, have a special kind of memory. It's not the linear,
"and then...." memory of boring storytellers. Plot is merely
incidental, a key that unlocks a deeper, emotional memory of the moment.
That is how Vermeersch remembers things. There are events, to be sure,
tragic, funny or common, but what really matters is how the poet felt
when they took place.
Part one of Burn, "the days dogs
die", is my personal favourite. It is a stunning tour-de-force,
recounting the scattered shards of early childhood. There is nothing
childish about the emotions of Paul Vermeersch - the searing intensity
of his vignettes sending unwanted shivers down the spine. The world
around him is abounding with tragedy - as felt through the magnifying
lens of the boy's sensitivity. Yet there is no sentimentality here. Arms
get cut off by farm implements, legs amputated due to diabetes,
schoolmates commit suicides and dogs die. All felt intensely, never to
be forgotten, yet with no cheap tears of sentimentality. Instead, the
memories remain vivid, as if it happened yesterday. That's Vermeersch's
poetry at its best - like a piece of amber, with the insect perfectly
preserved inside. Memory crystallized.
Part two, "days without hearing a sound" is
less satisfying if only because the poet searches for new ways of
expressing himself, and the familiar crispness of images is gone.
Dealing with family history in poetry is always difficult, for it
invites the narrative, a secret if sworn enemy of intensity. The
memories sound hollow, as if written from second-hand accounts; the
language still flames occasionally, but does not sear. Part three,
"those days you could still speak my name", is different
again. No doubt inspired by the late Al Purdy (a favourite of mine and
for a while "across-the-lake" cottage neighbour), whose
influence Vermeersch gratefully acknowledges, this section is full of
very Purdy-esque, swaggering bravado, peppered with words like "fuckin"
and "shit". Not for the shock value, mind you, instead because
of the sheer angular power of these words.
Still, I prefer Vermeersch using his own unique voice,
present in all those poems, including the closing one, "Burn".
Paul Vermeersch is a very confident and, need I say it, accomplished
poet. His poetry has an uncanny internal rhythm, strong and organic.
Almost sheepishly, I would occasionally check the external structure,
only to confirm my suspicion of it not betraying any secrets of the
internal pulse. The poems are one heck of a read, if at times their
intensity prevents the reader from turning the pages too quickly.
Burn, an exciting and highly polished
collection of poetry by Paul Vermeersch, will find its spot on my
bookshelf. Right next to John Keats.
Robert Pierre Tomas's poetry
has appeared in The Danforth Review. |
