he first two sections of this book of poetry seem to have been written for children. "Skinned Knees" and "The Art of Climbing Trees" are outstanding poems for the youngsters.
However, "To My Editor, J. W. ," with its wry wit, is clearly meant for adults who utilize poetry workshops, and must have been inspired by actual experience, as Martin in her own bio shares the information that she teaches children's classes and leads poetry critique workshops. From the poem
"You make incisions on tissue, cut words, sever phrases, slash stanzas and dissect the remains."
This writer shows stand-out possibilities, as demonstrated in her poem "Her Hollow Eyes." It is a disturbing and hauntingly sad work. Another, "Spheriform," ( . . . "and stand kissing—close to metal machine" . . . ) touches on the topic of mammograms to an almost hidden effect. She knows the value of word choice.
Many readers will be struck by Ms. Martin's acute observation of love during a couple's senior years.
"Or on a good day she climbs on his bent back for a horsey ride and they giggle until they cry."
Here, as elsewhere, the quality of some of the lines is noticeable, even if the poems as a body don't hold up well to a critical reader. Her work is accessible for the general public. A favorite line, from "Thunder at Coffee Break:" is "Raindrops the size of nipples / kiss the walkway." Superb!
Unfortunately, experienced and selective readers will find the basic mechanics of poetry somewhat lacking here, mostly in the area of structure. This reviewer would like to see her work on line breaks, as some were just outright lazy, as in the poem "Ashtray Psychometry."
On the positive side, there's a unique humor incorporated throughout many of the works, particularly in her "psuedo-style haikus and senryus." An example:
"Coming home the two-timer removes his watch."
There are even haikus for the cat fans among us!
The last few sections of the book get political, focusing the reader on events in Grenada, Hiroshima, Afghanistan, Palestine, Beirut, 9/11, and even the Simpson case.
And for jewelry aficionados, we discover:
"I saw your eyes glimmer like a Masonic finite star while the hourglass nebula encircled what was left of your gem—like fading matter — "
But gems don't fade, nor will some of these poems.
© Melanie McConnell