Terse profundity would be the phrase I would use were someone to pin me down and force me to describe this work by John Yamrus. Although pinning things down is something Yamrus himself would probably disapprove of, certainly if his poem "I tell them to," is anything to go by.
Yamrus urges aspiring poets to "never write absolutes/never write a poem called Love, Death or Life" because then "too many things can go wrong". Rather writers would be focusing on the little things, the petty disappointments and tiny victories that are what life is really about.
This is poetry of short lines and simple wisdom. There is a touch of the Far East about the structure and minimalist philosophy that underpins them; there is no surreal baroque parade of language; these are sticks arranged subtly against a white wall.
But the arrangement of those sticks is often into the shapes of a sharp cartoon rather than a pencil drawing of a still life. "He had this thing" and "T-boned," show an understated sense of humour that one senses would work even better when delivered live by the poet.
Dylan Thomas & the Dying of the Light
The sadness behind the smile is gentle but perceptible. Yamrus meditates upon death and the passage of time, keeping the magnitude of the void that follows life at bay with a stoic humour that could almost be English in its phlegmatic attitude. There is certainly an acceptance of fate in lines such as: "He died/Friday night./ without grace,/ or gallantry,/or style./he died." These are not poems that rage, as Dylan Thomas urged, against the "dying of the light," rather they appreciate the shades of experience which the light's slow fading brings.
Yamrus appreciates the effort made by ordinary people. McGinley, the average baseball player whose effort so overshadowed his ability that he became something of a team-mascot before disappearing into the obscurity of other people's lives; Jesus is "nothing but a scapegoat"; Henry the cool who becomes more likeable when seen by the poet outside a porno store; Tony the suicide. They are all everymen trapped in their own sagas, their own Greek tragedies, the central dramas of their lives well away from any shining spotlight, and one senses that the poet feels that they are better for it.
There are some contradictions here though. Yamrus urges all of us to shun the "look of fear" we might see in a mirror, as something far worse than grey hair or wrinkles. There is the delight taken in the madness of an online, on the phone poetry reading, which namechecks some of the poet's poet pals. But there is also a nihilism at the heart of the material, a sense of ploughing on through life's essential vapidity.
Yamrus writes: "i didn’t want to/tell him/that no matter/what you’re doing,/there’s usually/nothing/there." More than any other line in the book, one senses that this is what Yamrus's outlook boils down to. He even pinches out someone else's candle to make his point about life being basically pointless. The thing is, that sort of undermines all the life-affirming lines in the collection, giving the impression of a pessimist who really wants to be an optimist but can't quite manage it, typified by the line: “everything’s a load of crap./it’s just a matter of/perspective.”
Impotence and Wilson Pickett
There's even an entire poem, "he", albeit a short one, dedicated to this kind of impotent melancholy: "he/lay back,/angry,/knowing/nothing/would/ever/really/light/her/fire."
Yamrus seems almost embarrassed when he expresses hope, like a man making excuses for the smallness of his ambition. Relationships, as they tend to be in life despite what the adverts will tell you, are a case of putting up with things which are less bad than the alternative, something more of us than would admit to it could relate to: "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."
But it is in the gentle musings on love that Yamrus shows his modest strength. There is a touching beauty in lines such as: "Thucydides/wrote/the history of the/Peloponnesian war./all i’ve got/for my/claim/to/fame/is/you." There is no need for trumpets or angels and roses, just the simplicity of love and existence, and such a lack of pose and pout is refreshing. One can only relate to and celebrate lines like: "but i remember thinking:/we’ve got/today,/and we’ve got/Wilson Pickett/on the radio.that ought to be/enough./sometimes,/the gods just/turn their heads/and look the/other/way." There is no point cleaning a car until it shines just to drive it away and get it dirty again.
The politics in the collection are of a similarly understated hue. It's clear that Yamrus doesn't really like what capitalism does to people; he feels sorry for telemarketers who phone him, but he's no bomb-throwing Anarchist. He hits his targets by making a pointed effort to ignore them entirely, though there is something almost revolutionary in the way he talks about a potential employer who tries to gauge his political views at a job interview: "they’re always/out there,/doing/their business/behind their own/crazy/set/of/locked doors,/desperately hoping/the world will one day/prove them/right."
World War Two Generation
Yamrus also looks back to the collective strength of the generation who fought in World War Two. The two uncles who recall their war experiences in "i wanna tell you a story," seem so much more defined as people, confident in who they are and what they were, than the whiny pseudo poet types the writer encounters in his contemporary life. When his uncles recall the war, they seem: "collectively/young/and tall/and strong./i saw them/at their/finest./and i’ll/never forget it/as long as/i live." One senses he mourns the passing of that spirit, forged in the Depression and the War that made people something more than a crowd of ill-defined individuals.
Yet it is the individual to which the poet returns, knowing that in the end all that each of us have is ourselves. Life is defined by the choices each person takes and Yamrus enjoys fostering that spirit of rebellion that marks a life out as meaning something more than empty gestures. He writes: "there’s something/good about being hated. it’s as real as/rain." You believe him too, as when he states:"i’m just/glad/Miles Davis/never/listened," when it comes to doing things to please yourself and not the conformist hordes.
American Snapshots
Yamrus is a writer who delights in the everyday – scratches on old records, cutting the grass, walking the dog, Sunday afternoon drives, tapes of old radio shows – but that is not all. Something hovers behind all these minutiae, though he would probably never be arrogant enough to try to explain it to you. Anyway, it's nice to have things in shade rather than out in the light, as he says himself: "see, you’ve always/gotta have/a little/mystery."
Looking for that mystery amidst the short, spare lines and the American snapshots is the kind of gentle struggle that should keep anyone happy. Just don't try too hard, you'll spoil it.
More information about Can't Stop Now by John Yamrus is available from Epic Rites Press
Join the Conversation