I was in a bad mood last night reading vaguely depressing prosaics by supposed poet Madisen Kuhn. I fell asleep disappointed, and woke up hung over from a feeling of unease. Waking up, I tried to dive into a novel called Paprika by author Yasutaka Tsutsui but found myself too distracted: I needed something to get my mind off how irritable Kuhn’s book Almost Home made me feel, which is when it hit me to read something I actually liked. I found this copy of the Portable Henry Rollins at my local library, and I have to say, his anger resonates with me.
Rollins writes what is known as ‘destruction poetry’, long forms of verse that are unapologetic in their ramblings of anger and hate, begging for power structures to be dismantled and attractive women who use their looks to get sales and positive reviews to be raped in criticism. It’s a dark territory that only a heavy metal artist can tap into, and while I try not to go there too often in my own reserved writing, do find refreshing and even necessary to a certain extent.
Rollins is not the greatest poet or writer by any imagination. He writes long free form, often with one word lines and poor word choice. Accuracy is not his strong suit, at least not in his earlier works, but he does have anger and a better sense of how to make his limited writing skills leave a punch in your gut. His work was just the emotional palette cleanser I needed for a woman like Kuhn whose writing is too timid to explore the darkness of humanity’s often tortured existence.
Take this excerpt for example. Rollins falls into the habits of writing one word lines, but unlike other writers, actually makes the words count and leave a devastating impact on the reader. These are words that actually resonate: “cracked / crumbling / rumbling soul / shattered”… This is a beginner’s poem and style, but there is actual chicken on the bone, an anger of being discharged by a lover that showcases his hurt without even delving into too many specifics. The poem even has a sonnet-like early conceit in being nothing more than flicked ashes from a cigarette, an overdone and yet profound metaphor that hits home how burnt our narrator actually feels.
That is the poetry we crave. Yes, authors like Madisen Kuhn or Rupi Kaur can convey their emotions, which is great, but it is writers like the metal singer Rollins who make us feel those emotions. Like a sculptor working with a large stone, there’s material to chisel, hurt to feel, anger to express. He cares deeply about his words, and even his portrait on the front cover conveys his insecurities as a writer. He is not without criticism, and could use his own very necessary discipline in form, but if one is going to write long rambles or diarrhea of prose, then authors like Rollins or say the always omniscient Charles Bukowski, even in their own limited style, can truly bring out the emotional anger that is necessary to truly sculpt an image out of.
Yes, an image! Poetry is visual, like a painter trying to capture a still life, and metaphors and conceits are crucial to giving us a picture of what these authors are trying to envision.
Like I said, Rollins is not the greatest poet alive. But like, for instance, say fellow poet Fariha Róisín, he knows how to bitch and rant, and really put some putzpah in his sauce or dough. He’ll roll you a meat pie or sourdough, but he’ll also spit in the fermenting ground wheat and flour when you’re not looking.
Not that anyone wants to eat his spit, but Christ, at least there’s spit for you to digest!
Regretfully, this collection is only a sample of Rollins writing and the only book of his that I could find at my library. I’m low on funds this month after purchasing some art supplies to purchase anymore of his works, but will make an effort hopefully in August to buy an actual completed work by him. For now this sample will have to do, but thank God I can feel better knowing I have an actual poet to look forward to reading.
The Verse Universe 