The phrase that came to mind when reading this collection was 'working class blues'. Every poem spoke about the rampant alienation in the poverty-stricken north; not just in the financial sense but also in the spiritual sense. Wetherspoon's was a good example of this: 'Those soulless chain pubs'. What was once respite for local communities of drinkers is now being lost to these bland franchises. Such a simple poem asks big questions about the way big business is destroying everything around us - even those places we go to drink and forget.
And then there was Toiling in a Moss Bros Wedding Suit. Not only have I been to these sorts of uniform wedding events, but the way it ended gave me a sense of how we are part of this dull, cyclic existence. I don't know if this is what Black intended (probably not!), but the last two lines made me think in this way.
But my favourite poem was The M62 Corridor. I'm no stranger to this motorway and it summed up the north almost beautifully: 'Bleak, unique...'
More so than Black's other work, these poems made me feel a bit sad and depressed. However, this is because the subject matter is relatable and the imagery used was vivid and ghostly. The more I read Black, the more I get the impression that I'm stooped in a similar environment which has created a similar worldview.
As always; I look forward to reading more from this talented poet.
How did we get here? This slim collection of direct poems looks at the vacuum that is ordinary life. Anodyne, functional, a post corporatised sludge where the only liquid that has trickled down smells like stale urine that’s been festering in the faded plastic of a Tesco Everyday Value still water bottle.
I don’t read a great deal of poetry, but when I do I want to hear a distinct voice. I hear that from MJ Black, though it’s a voice that is ever-present and recurrent in any gastropub or nostalgia facaded eatery you’d like to pick today. Truth is there are elements of this desolation for those relegated to lower socio-economic means that do not change through the epochs but Black takes the particular timbre of the vacuousness of uniformity and wields words that are maddening in their volume of saddening.
As with all poetry it pays to sit with each piece for a time. Rereading these very short bursts is of essential benefit as the meticulous nature of their simplicity could be missed if rushed.
I have to star it down to a 3.5 as there were a couple, which is a significant percentage for such a brief collection, of poems where I felt that the individual voice faltered. This is only noticeable, however, as a result of the voice being strong elsewhere.
This is the everyday for most and we have to square up to it in order to recognise how to inject it with anything, ANYTHING, better.
MJ Black has been really inspired by a greedy world in this collection. This guy keeps getting better and better, it makes me really jealous I can't write poetry like this. There are so many good lines here, each page I turned revealed a new favourite, in the end I settled on this being the best "the ambience of a mortuary replaces vibrant community hubs".
From footballers demanding more dish to the death of the local boozer and the shocking double denim, this is a fine collection of poetry that needs to be read by the masses. Keep them coming!