Too often unfairly marginalized to the periphery of the publishing world, poets are the ones–more than any other writers–who give life to words and consequently, meaning to life.
This, and the fact that April is National Poetry Month, is why I’m posting about a new book of poetry by my friend, John Blase (pronounced blaZe, no matter how many times auto-correct tries to put emphasis on the “e” and make it sound French).
First off, go buy this book.
Because within the cover you’ll find one of the most poignant and real, heartbreaking and long-suffering collections of poems around.
Even if you don’t think you like poetry, I guarantee you’ll find a clump of words that will bring your heart to its knees. Like these, for instance:
“I want to live in a world of cashmere
and cleavage coupled with lonely churches beside
old cemeteries overgrown with moss.”
Who writes stuff like that anymore?
John Blase does.
He’s a man who uses words to wrestle with God and all the sense and nonsense of Him.
In his book, you’ll find words that make you blush.
You’ll find words that make you cry.
You’ll find plain-speak and Shakespeare, reverence in irreverence, Heaven in a man’s worship of the curve of a woman’s hip, hope in the heartbreak of a child growing up, reason for the unreasonable pain in life.
He’s a good man, John Blase.
His words are even better.