Okay, straight to the point then: I. Don't. Like. It.
Every page has some change to the structure on both a sentence level and a page level. Words are missing, sentences drop off randomly or after a noun without an object. Reading these pages makes me feel kind of sick. It feels like looking at what should be a beauteous landscape or mural, and finding pieces gouged out randomly and in large number. It is missing a sense of completeness and coherency, something to hold it together.
There are a few poems among the dribble that have a wholeness about them. one such poem is Alpine Glow In Magritte Landscapes. It has a center page alignment with a plethora of small stanzas, about one to two lines long each. Though the occasional long space feels off, I remind myself that it is better than missing parts and the space merely acts as an emphasized pause before continuing with the thought in a coherent manner. The vocabulary in the poem generates a sense of vast beauty and minuscule perspective.
When it comes time to write a poem with this book as a reference I might be compelled to do re-writes, to fill in the holes. Perhaps it can tell a story rather than flash memories in rapid fire, clean up the mess in this metaphorical city. However that is only my opinion. I can applaud and respect the work this artist has created, it is a piece of them and more likely makes a whole different kind of sense in their eyes. Their work is published, mine is not; I should work on that before I generate full criticism.
People always make the mistake of thinking art is created for them. But really, art is a private language for sophisticates to congratulate themselves on their superiority to the rest of the world. As my artist’s statement explains, my work is utterly incomprehensible and is therefore full of deep significance. - Calvin (From Calvin&Hobbes by Bill Watterson)
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