An Unbecoming Fit of Frenzy
By Bruce McRae
Cawing Crow Press LLC – £8.50/$13.00
A pawn shop loaning out midnight
and the musty quiet of tombs.
Where all that’s unwanted goes.
Where dreams die and rainbows end.
And something else, too, you can’t pit your finger on.
And something else, too, you can’t put your finger on,” shivers amid the sublime possibility that it could just as well have been penned by the ever great, Ingmar Bergman. As its literary, life-like propensity for silence, along with an abundance of beauty and foregone conclusion, ensures it is a (life)line; far more capable of merely detonating the inner sanctum of long-forgotten bile, belief and betrayal.
Not to mention, faith.
Faith, as in the tiniest, of tiniest, humanistic umbilical cords which, ‘Unashamed in his nakedness,’ substantiates that poet and all round sage-like-being of profound, philosophical persuasion, Bruce McRae, still happens to believe in the human condition.
And all things that continue to sparkle amid the tableau of truth.
That’s right. And thank fucking fuck.
For where else within this increasingly dire and dishonest world of redundant humanity, this ‘swastika of smoking ashes,’ would one even have the audacity to reflect upon the ‘soul’s sweetened annihilation’? Facebook? The X-Factor? The (unfortunate) world according to that utter, out-and-out of very large cunts, Robert Mugabe?
From a mere absinthe induced acceptance of Rimbaud’s Illuminations and perhaps Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, An Unbecoming Fit of Frenzy traverses every appalling, yet beautifully lit abyss that ever was:
The actual second you said something
so profound it was impossible to comprehend.
Or I couldn’t understand because I hadn’t heard.
Or I’d heard, but I did not listen.
‘This Too Passes’
Like smoke, I mow down a hallway.
Like fog, I embrace the chill measure
of a life lived after death-in-life.
An ether, I am wholly spiritual in nature.
One of the lost. One of the living.
Undeniably inherent throughout each of these eighty-two, rather magisterial poems (of which ‘It Is Our Nature,’ ‘Sonnet Despairing’ and ‘Lost Ticket’ are simply out-standing), is their all-round, uncompromising, regal resonance. They can and could after all, only have been written from a life lived. A heart pierced. A dream dashed. A tsunami of books read.
A soul drenched beneath a cornucopia of life’s sorrows.
As Charles Simic once said: ”Poetry is an orphan of silence,” and McRae knows this all t-o-o well; which, for all intents and idiosyncratically inspired purposes, is something we need to be eternally grateful for.
So buy this book.
Totally devour it.
Absolutely love it.