I met John Yamrus through an online forum. I was a newbie in the poetry world, published for about a year. John invited forum members to contact him with questions and comments. So, I did, with no idea of who he was. Or what he wrote.
As he and I continued to chat, I found out that, over the course of a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John has published 35 books, including poetry, novels, memoirs, and a children's book.
When I asked him which of his books would be a good introduction to his work, John recommended that I buy his latest book, “Selected Poems: The Director’s Cut.”
When the book arrived, I was shocked at how thick it was. Was I ever going to get through it in my lifetime? I read the first poem, and I was hooked. I finished the book in one sitting. How is that possible? John’s poems are compact. He sucked all the fat off, including imagery and capitalization. All that’s left are the bones. Excellent bones.
he asked me
how do i write a poem, and
when do i know
that it’s
done.
that was a
fair enough question,
so i gave him
a fair enough answer.
i told him
that i write it all down.
i write it all
down
and
start cutting.
i keep cutting
till i hit
bone,
and
when i do,
there’s your
poem.
“The Director’s Cut” isn’t a book. It’s a gift box full of wonders and surprises. So, sit on the floor with me while we unpack this box.
Believe me, you should sit on the floor. One of the trademarks of John’s poetry is surprise endings, and you don’t want to fall down laughing like I did. A poem might bubble over with memories, and end with a swift punch of reality, such as:
you lay in bed and
there’s a train whistle somewhere
off in the distance and
it takes you back
to a place and
a time you
don’t
even care to remember
where it was or
when.
back to a place with dirty sheets
and dust in the corners and
under the bed and you
start thinking about
why and who and
where and
how
and you know it doesn’t really matter
because there will always be trains
and beds and sheets and the sun
coming up as you wait
for another day
that’ll bring you that much closer to
whatever it is that’s out there,
waiting to
finally
do you
in.
I love the poems he writes to and about his wife. They are unabashedly, nakedly honest, and John clearly adores her.
"stop opening things with your teeth,”
she
said.
“number one,
you’ll break a tooth.
number two...
well,
it’s just a
nasty, ugly habit.
and i don’t
like it,
so,
cut it out.”
she
was right.
she
always is.
“besides,
when you do
something stupid like that
it makes you
look like an ass-hat.”
i
couldn’t
argue with
logic like that.
so,
i put it
on the table,
thinking
maybe this time
i actually bit off
more than i could chew.
You’ll find poems that shrug their shoulders at everyday realities like fishing, weeds, relationships, housework, and drinking beer. If you’re looking for answers, John won’t give you the pleasure, although he might pose some funny possibilities.
he kept her picture
in a drawer
next to the bed
and every now and then
would take it out
and look at it,
hard,
like it held
all the answers.
it didn’t matter
that the picture
was more than forty years old,
and she was a no-good,
squeezing bitch.
no,
what mattered was
a man’s
always got to have
a
dream,
and this
was
his.
I don’t know a poet who doesn’t write about writing (including rejections, poetry readings, interviews, and other writers). If I ever had the balls to respond to a rejection of my poetry, I’d definitely send the editor one like this:
"Dear John:
Concerning your most recent poem...
as always, it’s engaging
and technically correct,
but you’re beginning to sound a bit
one-note to me.
How about trying a poem
that isn’t about other people’s poetry –
or, better yet,
a poem that doesn’t even mention poetry?”
hi;
i’m writing to you
to let you know
i appreciate your concern
for my literary safety...
but, poems are like cookies...
sometimes you just get cravings
for one particular type.
right now,
i’m into chocolate chip.
that being said,
in taking your comments to heart,
i went back and checked...
i’ve sent you
exactly 39 poems,
13 of which
are about the writer’s life,
or writing.
i have no real defense for that.
i’m afraid i AM a writer,
and the only subject matter i have
is me.
however,
that still gives you
26 other poems to consider.
you can also
be happy in knowing
that of those 26 poems,
there’s not one mention of writing...
there are also:
zero unicorns
zero faeries
zero dappled daisies
zero mentions of cutting my wrists
zero use of the words “life sucks”
and zero poems entitled:
"Life, Love or Death."
you can also
feel confident of
finding poems that talk about
picking my nose,
going to the fridge for a beer
and watching my dog take a dump.
thanks for your continued interest...
best...
always...
john
Then there are his dog poems (I’m a dog mom, I think they’re wonderful). This is one of my favorites:
the neighbor’s dog
is
old
and
deaf.
she
sleeps all day,
pees
on the rug
and
throws up
every chance she gets.
i
promise
i won’t do that poet thing
and
compare
myself to her.
i can’t.
i’m
not deaf yet,
and
it’s been weeks
since i even came close
to
peeing on the rug.
John knows how to portray the joys of aging and impending death, for example:
i never thought i’d
end
this way.
chronic pain
24/7.
it
hurts to move, it
hurts to sit, it
hurts to
breathe.
that wasn’t supposed
to be me.
i expected to be
hitting my 60s
fully formed.
the crazy old guy
who hit all
the elevator buttons
and ran.
never,
no way
did i expect
for this to happen.
but,
that’s okay.
you
play the
hand you’re dealt.
besides,
inside
i still am
that guy
i wanted to become.
and
whoever’s
responsible
for that other thing...
you
and i
gotta talk.
The shiniest treasure in the gift box is John himself. In his poetry, you’ll find him fearless, funny, realistic, and a man who pours his guts into every poem. Read this book, and you’ll find yourself liking him as much as I do.
***
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