Skim
written by Mariko Tamaki and illustrated by Jillian Tamaki
Groundwood Books, 2008

Blert 
by Jordan Scott 
Coach House Books, 2008

Reviewed by Nathaniel G. Moore

"When Ms. Archer talks to me, she always looks right into my eyes. Ms A’s eyes are celery green." That’s Skim talking to us, about one of her teachers. Skim (full name Kimberly Keiko Cameron) is a "not-slim, would-be Wiccan goth who goes to a private girls’ school." The story follows Kim and her growing concern with classmate (and freshly dumped) Katie Matthews, whose boyfriend winds up killing himself. 

Dealing with administrative strain implemented by the school, a "cycle of grief" begins to put the school into life affirmation overdrive, sending Kim into a sadness nosedive. I won’t give the rest away, but I will warn you, once you start sinking into these panels and texts, you won’t stop. It’s hard to create a page-turner when the pages are so crammed with addictive visuals. 

The writing here is just as appealing. Skim is an authentic teen angst art house romp, character-driven, full of attitude: essentially maladjusted in all the right ways. The characters are anxious, cocky, deadpan and created in a moody economic depth that mesmerizes. Revealing in its quirky and chuckle-allowing dialogue, the inner-narrative connects to the immediacy of the girl’s social and romantic conflicts, enhancing the overall character development with seamless class. 

Without ever crossing the borders of vacuous youth culture in a boring The Hills / Gossip Girls pierced navel-gazing, Skim is an original tale with a conscience, rich with flavour and social realism on the gulf between parental /academic authority, and the responsibility and need for self-care that youth continues to face and administer. 

This cousin duo in Mariko Tamaki (words) and Jillian Tamaki (drawings) have created an instant classic in an ever-growing Canadian-championed genre. Is it square to say this would make a great high school graduation gift?

*

(From ‘Marble Bubble Bobble’)

Alphabetical reinforcements, hiccups and textual tantrums. Jordan Scott’s Blert is poetry entertainment. Blert has a spastic sheen to it from the get-go, (not just the cover, which does in fact have a sheen to it) restrained-clever and thorough Blert’s investigation is so focused and deciding, you can’t help but wonder how unique and terrifying speaking-regardless of capabilities-must be for some. 

However, if you’re into straight-forward traditional Canadian poetry, (Raffi, Anne Murray, Air Supply, Gordon Lightfoot) or want your narrative spoon-fed to you through a reed-straw whilst slowly having your muffin buttered by one of your grandmother’s friends, you might want to leave Blert at home, and bring your knitting or a fishing rod.

The truth is, Blert is not at all an empathy-seeking tortured-tongue confessional. It whirlpools so many nuances and tries to carry off so much (with success) that you forget the storyline from time to time and simply enjoy gurgling in the current.

The back-story is the collection was born from the poet’s life-long struggle with stuttering; the result of which is a highly ambitious, difficult purging of the senses, more often than not deliciously rendered in both style and performance. Performance is key, for poet Jordan Scott, or J-Blert as he will be known at various live shows, will be putting himself through a gauntlet of neurosis as we witness, whether reading it on our own or watching him perform from the collection, a true-to-character poetry protagonist in the throes of dedication and exorcism.

As the copy reads, ‘Jordan Scott takes a bite out of the English language with his poetics of stutter,’ and then some. Blert works as comically as it does emotionally, offering readers an impossible how to stutter manual, or a very difficult phrasing sourcebook for speech giving nightmares for that toast you’re scheduled to give this summer but have no idea what you’ll say.

The sparse couplings are often hilarious, deadpan or outright luscious. When Scott unravels a bit, shows a bit of tongue as it were, the results are just dandy. ‘The torso grind against tundra’s soft cotton.’

Stuttering as destiny in speech, as inevitable in speech, was a concept I kept thinking as I read the work. Attempts to sound out the marvelous word team-ups and syllabic hydras is in itself performance anxiety inducing. The oral fixation slant (the book is being launched with lollygaggers) is a commentary on social stigmas, the nature of speech and our reliance on unspoken passages of speech. Imagine a stuttering text message?

Call box jowl Tetris spit. Each bombast cheek pouch thromb amp protozoan.

Our society is already practicing text minimalism on a daily basis; you might wonder how difficult it would be to convince a gaggle of text-minded teens into interpreting contemporary Canadian poetry. Even with these limitations in the modern world Scott’s work cleverly turns any phrase into its own sweeping ballet of hesitation. In ‘Chomp Set’ the piece I most longed to hear aloud, the hesitation and associative pairings are suddenly fractured with dementia, unharnessing visual messes and epiphany:

Lagoon waddles in chew. Harmonics vomit the rest.

Failing to appreciate the subtle depth of focus here may require you to consult your mouth or heart for a pulse or feeling.

In Fable, Scott’s voice steps out of the bog of word hail and breathes with controlled accessibility and showmanship, "If you wish to become an eloquent speaker, you should bury the hyoid bone of a lamb in the wall of your house." Later, in the same piece, Scott asks, "But, you might ask, how will I speak in these rooms?"
Comical or not, providing a break from playful innovation and sharing moments of vulnerability gives texture to the work as a whole.

Our poetry protagonist is not only authentic, but a likeable character, in my opinion, rare in 1970’s-born male Canadian poetry.

Blert is set to become a signal post collection; discovering the middle ground between the pathologically-avant-garde and the post-vulnerable-unguarded in Canadian poetry. Jordan Scott is seeking a truth and clarity. In the process he is sharing moments of glistening pathos (in both condensed and elaborate forms) pronounced perfectly or not, asking for our ‘plankton number’(s) and getting it. Wildly recommended.

Nathaniel G. Moore is a Canadian unrealist(ic) poet, born in 1974.