Poetry Book Review Attempt Number 127
Her poems are words fiddled fine,
harmonically tuned strings, line by silver line,
like a steam roller broken down on a motorway.
No, that is not right.
That is not the way to review or write,
not even close to what I want to say.
I was moved by the way she used words
like whithersoever and then.
No, have to change that.
That does not indicate how she directs her pen.
Poetry is more difficult to review than prose.
It is easier to smell out a pair of socks
or tell a camel not to change its pose.
I think this book deserves five stars
for exceptional merit.
No, that will not rouse any reader
to rise up and buy it.
Think I will have to throw
this review in the bin.
I cannot even end,
never mind begin.
Her poems remind me of the works
of Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
No, that’s not clear.
He was an engineer, not a poet.
Crumbs. This is not going well.
More reviews like this
and no book will ever sell.
The length of her poems
lie somewhere between the Homeric epic
and the Oriental haiku,
but someone had to fill that void.
No, that will not do.
This has become an essay
on how to make oneself self annoyed.
Certainly, she knows how to spell.
No, that will not go well.
Being a wordsmith means she ought
to know how to bong that bell.
To conclude, this book is worth a brood,
a pristine potent pack of mind food.