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dogonachainpress
, March 13, 2014
(view all comments by dogonachainpress)
Gould is a true "Ruralist", sharp teeth, sharp wit, sharp spear, and sharp poems written from view and vision as would a coyote on watch. -A local native, hide hanger, trail skinner, drinking buddy, and confidant-
A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter is a book of poem that suits the mantra. Where is the end to all of this? Whatever this may be, there is no end, it is just the daily deluge of reality . . . simple, suggestive, poignant, natural, and at times plain f-bomb funny and yet full of gospel sensibility. I don't want to throw names at it, Gould may borrow, mimic, denounce, or battle but all that matters is that he writes and owns these poems.
This collection of poetry will put you in the place, push the dust and grit up your nostrils to the point where you’ll have to blow it out at seasons end. You’ll feel your own meditations in these lines, you’ll recognize your own ideals, your own cures, your own perversions, and the inevitability of what may be your very own ghost knocking at the door or be it window.
Gould puts us in his vision, keeps us in his flagrantly pounding heart, shows us the view from his porch and pronounces to us in many forms that if we must do anything than we must do what it takes to survive this barrage of existence and what that takes, is everything. Sometimes he tells us in those exact words and in other words with other ways he tells by strapping on the loincloth and taking us out into if not beyond the wilderness to hunt jackal, to seek jackalope, and begs us to not forget the myth nor dismiss reality . . . the very reality in which all of these poems enrich.
Gould should be read in sacred places. Gould should be read when you are half buried by burden. Gould should be read when you are in no need of options. Gould should be read when you are imbibing. Gould should be read when lackluster and clutter will not do. Gould should be read, and you might as well start with A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter.
Beasley Barrenton
Because Mat Gould was a former contributor to Hobo Camp Review, I was excited to receive his most recent effort from Dog On a Chain Press in my mailbox last month. I knew his poems read like a shotgun blast, with pellets of words and lines hitting you in a lot of places at once��"a bit scattered from time to time but often hitting the mark. And this collection felt the same, wild potshots in the night that made you duck, and working my way through the book felt like trying to break in a horse that wouldn’t be broke, and with only half an idea of how to do so. Gould writes with a strong current, so I told myself to just go with it.
I’ll admit that some of the poems held a cadence and a rhythm that seemed to allude me, pass me by as I tried to read through the lines, such as in “unless of course”, and yet within the poem there are lines that stuck, and stuck deep��"squeezing the Nile to its very rind and underneath the fat there is meat at my teeth and run with the sun into the hills/where chimneys trumpet. Sometimes the parts were greater than the sum, but they were still indeed great.
And then other poems strike with line after line and build up a combination of punches with such heft that you’re KO’d before you hit the mat. His poem “every herd has gathered under branches” is a fine example of this poetic pugilism. In it, he laments the fact that we stand and watch the hell breaking loose all around us and how we never take the chance to bend this “carnage on the road” to our will and become better than who we currently are; no, we settle back into our stasis, but Gould isn’t having it. And neither should we. It's a fine piece, and is one of my favorites in this book.
I don’t want to give the impression that this collection staggers, stumbles, or fails the path in any way. It’s more of an untamed animal that you have to watch, dodge, and run with side by side in the night, through the trees. The collection is gorgeously produced by Beasley Barrenton’s press and comes complete with pin-up girls hidden within . . . visuals to sooth the savage beast, or perhaps to rile him onward. Gould certainly has chops, and I wouldn’t turn away from whatever path he’s taking without looking into his work for yourself. Check him out here if you have the chance.
James H. Duncan
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