That Special Something is about ideals and compromises, aspirations, good-faith efforts, and the specter of futility. There's ample grief, but, with apologies to Robert Frost, there's also ample grievance, for it is in grievance that the gods allow more latitude for humor. What sort of humor? If you took a Vanitas/Memento Mori painter, converted such into a poet, made it so that the perspective shifted to include more flora and more animals, more waterways and beer, more cracked corn and more longing for the father, more references to weaponry and xenia, more fretting since, collectively,…mehr
That Special Something is about ideals and compromises, aspirations, good-faith efforts, and the specter of futility. There's ample grief, but, with apologies to Robert Frost, there's also ample grievance, for it is in grievance that the gods allow more latitude for humor. What sort of humor? If you took a Vanitas/Memento Mori painter, converted such into a poet, made it so that the perspective shifted to include more flora and more animals, more waterways and beer, more cracked corn and more longing for the father, more references to weaponry and xenia, more fretting since, collectively, we're so much closer to the end, you'd have the sort of gallows humor that prevails here. Yet there's poignancy. There's beauty. There is joy. It's like the death's head on the cover, a reminder of the obvious, of the impending simplification. In the meantime, we are free to take a smoke, to be surrounded by as many flowers as we can, to grin as though we really don't have anything to lose.
John Popielaski is the author of the novel, The Hollow Middle (Unsolicited Press), as well as several poetry collections, including Isn't It Romantic? (Texas Review Press). His poetry has appeared in a number of journals, including most recently Bicoastal Review, Canary, Common Ground Review, and Public School Poetry. His second novel, Attuning, is forthcoming from Broken Tribe Press in late 2025, and he has recently been promoted to the status of a person by whom a house wren at long last has consented to be hand fed.
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