The Onion Union, 2007
Available at www.theonionunion.com

read by Jesse Patrick Ferguson

In Basement Tapes, three bright young poets have created a wry and surprisingly uniform collection—that is, uniform tonally and stylistically, not in terms of the relative success of each poem.  The collection works within the constraints of a “call-and-answer” framework, with each poem borrowing from another to varying degrees.  With this type of work it is difficult to avoid comparative evaluations of the writers, but each of these three more or less holds his own.

To begin with, the cryptically brief afterword to the collection gives precious little explanation as to the impetus, rationale or occasion for this collaboration, and the individual poems are only attributed to their creators in the biographies that terminate the chapbook.  The present reviewer, at least, was compelled to pencil the poets’ initials on each poem in order to tease out distinctions of voice.

Aside from these frustrating paratextual elements—or lack thereof—this collection is full of crackling wordplay and wit (such as Lea’s chuckle-worthy phrase “ousted like a mulleted centerfold”), though some poems give the impression of being mere apparatus for the delivery of one or two witticisms or one-liners.  Like most poetry in the abstract/surreal/associative vein (see John Ashbery and rob mclennan), the pieces that succeed most give one a loose sense of theme or setting; the poet rambles but comes back to a set of ideas or images.  Faulkner’s “Collective bargaining agreement” offers a good example of such poetic texturing.

There are some bad lines to be found here, as in McCann’s “The car”: “a passenger / is a person carried”; and there are some flat-footed rhythms, as in Lea’s “Science Friction”: “No clout, nature, no Nature, that was for sure.”  All three poets also display a predilection for breaking and hyphenating words, a trick that sometimes proves clever, but other times smacks of perfunctoriness.  The technique can quickly become overused and beget a stilted rhythm.

In spite of these peccadilloes, Basement Tapes is proof of three talents to watch for.  It evidences a great delight in the sounds of language: from the pseudo-scientific to the idiom of offices and bar rooms.  This is poetry that’s too smart for its own good; it sneaks onto the scene with a bag full of firecrackers and a knack for mischief.