B. H. FairchildRecensioni

Ejemplar 4 de 30

There were some gems in here, don’t get me wrong (the title poem The Blue Buick is masterful), but if I read one more poem about lathes, I was going to toss this over the ridge. I get it, you are a mid-western, blue-eyed, blue collar bloke who has cashed in on all that HARD WORK to sit on his ass and write poems now. Good for you. It was like a Bob Seger album without the benefit of a band.½

This 2003 offering from crusty Texan B. H. Fairchild goes straight to the top shelf of contemporary American verse. Fairchild's voice effortlessly combines the lyrical with the gritty, marrying a Westerner's laconic fatalism to the inchoate yearnings of the true romantic. Lonesome plains, deserted roads, tall tales, cars, jazz, baseball, liquor, sex…Early Occult is a fever dream of a lost America, the one that fell between the armrests of a beer-stained movie theater in Topeka, Kansas circa 1953, just before the fall.