Stuck Up: Poems by John Dolan

by John Dolan

This is the record of one summer in the life of a failure—a resentful, defiant, absurd figure sulking in Canada's North Woods. The poems in this collection chronicle his writhings—comic, violent, pathetic, and malevolent by turns. The result is raw, gross, pitiful—and funny.

Genres: Poetry

70 pages, Paperback

First published April 28, 1995

About the author

Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name.

See also: Gary Brecher.

Reviews

[Adam McPhee · Rating 5 out of 5]

I swear to God
– I swear to Michael Collins, better still,
who fought the Wordsworths of his day
and beat them all
and laughed while doing it:
I swear by Michael Collins
I will walk eight miles
every day; I will write
five pages of eminently tame academic prose
every day; I will head home
with two books finished, I will walk
through customs weighing 185;
I promise to take aspirin – without codeine, OK –
every night so my veins don't clog and pop.
That's the first step: not dying.
Not dying is important!
There's nothing ignoble–
I have to remember this–
there's nothing ignoble about not wanting to die.
And Vitamin C,
so you don't shade and shrivel
like an apple slice.
n.b. Wordsworth walked ten miles a day
–in his Goretex parka
and his decaf, the bastard!
Not that I want to be Worsworth; no,
as our war chief says,
'We must learn their ways,
not so that we become like them. . . '
(whole tribe grunts assent)
'. . . but so that we can overcome them,
keep our lands. . .'

(another angry grunt)
'. . . as our father-father,
Coleridge. . .'
(low moans)
'. . . failed to do.'

Nod, rise, and take our weapons;
jokes and quiet,
between brothers. No hurrying;
this is not over yet, no matter what
the pious thieves may think!

'We will give these hymn-singing settlers
and their pious wife-sisters
something to sing about!'


Brilliant.

Poems written one a day during the poet's exile in Victoria, BC, as he relives his latest defeats over again in his mind and tries to deal with his annoying neighbours.

There's no personality quite like Dolan's, and it's in abundance here. He's erudite, hilarious, bitterly honest, and a fantastic champion for his personal pantheon (Mongols, mammal solidarity, Ireland, etc).

I Dreamed We Walked Through Derry is maybe the funniest poem I've ever read (In Which I Materialize, Horribly Maimed, In The Transporter Room of the Enterprise is a close second) but I think How I Came To Be Born In Late-Twentieth-Century California is my favourite. Or Let Me Not Be Coleridge.

[Anil · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Only the bad parts are true
...The peasants' brave defence just makes
Their village seem worth taking, and attracts
Worse, bigger outlaw bands.
Bronson never finds who killed his family
Drinks himself to death"

[Maya · Rating 2 out of 5]

Not bad poems -- just not for me.