Pluckin' Amazin! (Apparently) The Breakfast Machine, Helen Ivory (62pp, £7.95, Bloodaxe) Apparently, Matthew Caley (79pp, £8.95, Bloodaxe)
	Ok. The fly leaf inscription of Helen Ivory's book reads: To the chickens, and to Martin, always. Now I don't know about you but when someone puts an inscription like this at the beginning of a poetry book I kinda know what I'm going to get. And sure enough I and the plucking chickens get it: The Tooth Mouse All the teeth bought by the Tooth Mouse are piled up in an out-of-town warehouse They are gnashing and grinding and want to return to the mouths of sleeping children It is said that they are whiter than bone, cleaner than melt-water, more innocent than the children themselves... I'm wondering if the chicken's are ready for this. Read on I say, skipping to page 19: Luck Your black cat has been gone for days (eating the chickens no doubt) He returns to you now with sooty paws... No that's right 'sooty paws' And after 'sooty paws' we get to the meat - or to the chickens - for whom the book was written - and I'm nodding like Churchill over the speed bumps: 'PLUCK PLUCK!' Meanwhile, in 'Making Rain', on page 29: It's always summertime in the cellar and the chickens are chattering softly to each other about the impossibility of this, and other things... It takes a certain type of individual to be able to empathise with chickens - you know get inside their head man. I'm thinking I need to get into this McChickiny world. Read on I say, jumpng to page 54: Puppet Look at you, darling puppet all snug in your box - it's high time you kicked up your heels now the nights are drawn in... I'll send you out like a bad mother, with the path impossibly narrow and the trees bound to snag your strings best to ignore those anonymous howls.... Pluckin amazin !
	After poem three of Matthew Caley's Apparently, a real depression began to sweep over me. Perhaps it's the inhalation of too much volcanic dust living so near Iceland but I can't do this any more. It's obvious that the poetry editors at Bloodaxe know little about poetry - and you could say this for most of the mainstream poetry publishers at the moment. With a whole eruption of incredible talent about it is a mystery to me why mediocrity is preferred to craft and invention. All I seem to see is pop music poetry that is awful. Like a painting that needs a highlight here and there - it's close but not finished. There has to be more than sincerity; there has to be craft gleaned out of reading and dissection and dare I say being hard on yourself. To take poetry to where it needs to be you need to focus and look hard at the subject. Just using a gimmick like starting every poem with the word apparently isn't new or effective - and after fifty apparently's the impact is one of revulsion if not hatred. It's obvious to me that tastes are different and this is not for me. I'm taking the Bloodaxe to the chickens and the poems. © James McLaughlin 2010