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Cheer Up, Jay Ritchie
"Charming, funny, and often elegant. This is a formidable collection." —Ben Fama
With an alternating sense of wonder and detachment, Jay Ritchie's first full-length collection of poetry grapples with death, disappointment, love, alienation, and emails—the large and small subjects of daily life. His unflagging sense of humor and aphoristic delivery create a work that is personable yet elevated, witty, and honest.
Jay Ritchie was born in Thunder Bay, Ontario and lives in Montreal, Quebec. Cheer Up, Jay Ritchie is his full-length collection.
With an alternating sense of wonder and detachment, Jay Ritchie's first full-length collection of poetry grapples with death, disappointment, love, alienation, and emails—the large and small subjects of daily life. His unflagging sense of humor and aphoristic delivery create a work that is personable yet elevated, witty, and honest.
Jay Ritchie was born in Thunder Bay, Ontario and lives in Montreal, Quebec. Cheer Up, Jay Ritchie is his full-length collection.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
First published September 27, 2017
34 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
November 18, 2017
A beautiful, slim collection of poems by a wonderful, inventive, serious and seriously charming young poet. In his conversational and observational work he finds a compelling balance between philosophical gravity and delightful absurdity. At least on the surface. But there are many secret passageways leading to places least expected (often because they are willfully mundane.)
The first poem has Clarice Lispector in the title. That's one way to get me interested in a book. With lines like "I might be mistaken for fireflies" and "oh I make so much sense all the time", Ritchie accesses Lispector's playful and sly self-referentiality, self-deprecating humor--and wry awareness of the powers of language to muddle both simplicity and complexity until one is perpetually disguised as or mistaken for the other. By beginning with Lispector he sets a tone--he will insist on being mysterious only up to a point and then he will reflect back to you, in so many ways, your expectations that he will be mysterious for you--were expecting the secret tunnels to lead somewhere a little more...what? escapist? transcendent? Romantic?
Hogwarts?
The second poem "Dog Eat Dog" takes place in a mall. Sort of. Location, internal and external, in Ritchie's poems, seems always collapsing in on itself and fanning outward. Or, location turns to dislocation. (the real secret tunnels didn't exactly come out of nowhere.)
"The mall has secret tunnels
that lead to other parts of the mall...
I get off on being young. I am older
than myself...
Inside of me there is another me
asking for more money..."
It's a bit of a pretzel, this poem. A collection. Indoors and outdoors. Stifling mall air and shafts of sunlight through the trees. It leads deeper into the world Ritchie creates, in which things are never quite as they seem, but also never evasive without, I don't think, the intention of making a reader question their expectations of poetry and of poetic or literary language. (Maybe it is a challenge to the idea of poetry as a place for confession with absolution?)
In "Dog Eat Dog" and other poems in the book, pop culture references are a kind of careful stream of consciousness seasoning along with names, places, a nod to Frank O'Hara and Cafe Italiana, synchronicity and soda bottles, screen doors and modern dance (see the stars "Dumb Body".) There is a touch of the surreal, but it's more than that. It's the constant reinterpretation reminiscent of comedy, but with quieter intentions and set to a different music. The poems function a bit like stream of consciousness collages in which the thinker or speaker practices the art of conjuring moments (themes and images) and then subjecting them to immediate and various erasure and reimaginings and redirections. I suppose these poems are mischievous and sometimes bleak (aware of the cultural bleakness that can be overwhelming in 'late stage capitalism'...in a world such as this) but there is also a tender heart beating in all of them.
The third poem, Water Tower, continues to juxtapose the sacred and profane (mundane?) and leaves the reader in a bit of a...er...jam.
"I held my hands in the shape of a book
and wrote a novel in blackberries.
They were the color of night
in an advertisement."
There is the constant process of definition and re-definition, images and ideas establishing, revising and reorganizing themselves. A reflectiveness that is warm and knowing, and perhaps perpetually disappointed in a world that could be full of such an immensity of wonders, but resolves itself always back into a sad and comic wastefulness--a wakefulness without parakeets.
"I live and breathe
as in a dream
where my roommate moves out,
taking all her parakeets with her.
Of course, she never had any,
but now neither do I." (from Cecilia Pavon)
What belongs to us and what doesn't? What can we valorize with language and what horrors of modernity can never be addressed or made less painful? What is the role of a poet in a world in which words and objects proliferate and lose meaning so quickly? Ritchie doesn't offer answers, but he offers insight and humor and provocative and refreshing questions and juxtapositions.
The first poem has Clarice Lispector in the title. That's one way to get me interested in a book. With lines like "I might be mistaken for fireflies" and "oh I make so much sense all the time", Ritchie accesses Lispector's playful and sly self-referentiality, self-deprecating humor--and wry awareness of the powers of language to muddle both simplicity and complexity until one is perpetually disguised as or mistaken for the other. By beginning with Lispector he sets a tone--he will insist on being mysterious only up to a point and then he will reflect back to you, in so many ways, your expectations that he will be mysterious for you--were expecting the secret tunnels to lead somewhere a little more...what? escapist? transcendent? Romantic?
Hogwarts?
The second poem "Dog Eat Dog" takes place in a mall. Sort of. Location, internal and external, in Ritchie's poems, seems always collapsing in on itself and fanning outward. Or, location turns to dislocation. (the real secret tunnels didn't exactly come out of nowhere.)
"The mall has secret tunnels
that lead to other parts of the mall...
I get off on being young. I am older
than myself...
Inside of me there is another me
asking for more money..."
It's a bit of a pretzel, this poem. A collection. Indoors and outdoors. Stifling mall air and shafts of sunlight through the trees. It leads deeper into the world Ritchie creates, in which things are never quite as they seem, but also never evasive without, I don't think, the intention of making a reader question their expectations of poetry and of poetic or literary language. (Maybe it is a challenge to the idea of poetry as a place for confession with absolution?)
In "Dog Eat Dog" and other poems in the book, pop culture references are a kind of careful stream of consciousness seasoning along with names, places, a nod to Frank O'Hara and Cafe Italiana, synchronicity and soda bottles, screen doors and modern dance (see the stars "Dumb Body".) There is a touch of the surreal, but it's more than that. It's the constant reinterpretation reminiscent of comedy, but with quieter intentions and set to a different music. The poems function a bit like stream of consciousness collages in which the thinker or speaker practices the art of conjuring moments (themes and images) and then subjecting them to immediate and various erasure and reimaginings and redirections. I suppose these poems are mischievous and sometimes bleak (aware of the cultural bleakness that can be overwhelming in 'late stage capitalism'...in a world such as this) but there is also a tender heart beating in all of them.
The third poem, Water Tower, continues to juxtapose the sacred and profane (mundane?) and leaves the reader in a bit of a...er...jam.
"I held my hands in the shape of a book
and wrote a novel in blackberries.
They were the color of night
in an advertisement."
There is the constant process of definition and re-definition, images and ideas establishing, revising and reorganizing themselves. A reflectiveness that is warm and knowing, and perhaps perpetually disappointed in a world that could be full of such an immensity of wonders, but resolves itself always back into a sad and comic wastefulness--a wakefulness without parakeets.
"I live and breathe
as in a dream
where my roommate moves out,
taking all her parakeets with her.
Of course, she never had any,
but now neither do I." (from Cecilia Pavon)
What belongs to us and what doesn't? What can we valorize with language and what horrors of modernity can never be addressed or made less painful? What is the role of a poet in a world in which words and objects proliferate and lose meaning so quickly? Ritchie doesn't offer answers, but he offers insight and humor and provocative and refreshing questions and juxtapositions.
Read
February 20, 2018If your conviction expires Jay Ritchie understands. You read him because few poets can express the artistic merit of the copy on a Lululemon or a Starbuck's cup and then go on saying things like "masculinity wouldn't let me/say, I need help", "I can imagine a better world./I'm a good fit for this position." Three Cheers for Jay Ritchie! Hip-hip... Okay, that's enough.
December 14, 2017
Originally posted on: The Quirky Book Nerd
*I received a copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review*
I’ve been reviewing a lot of poetry recently, so I will start off with my usual disclaimer—poetry is an incredibly personal experience that is unique to each reader, and it is extremely hard to review. What works for someone might not for another, and unfortunately, I happen to fall in the latter category for this particular collection. And from what I’ve been seeing, I have the less common feelings about this work, though I do believe that this is one of those very hit or miss type situations. Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely see the poetic talent of Ritchie, however, his choppy and random writing style did not flow very well with me.
To be honest—and this is a little embarrassing to admit—I had a hard and sometimes impossible time actually understanding just what Ritchie was writing about. His poems were somehow simultaneously humorous and fun to read, but also unintelligible. They were well written and interesting for what they were, but I failed to find much meaning in any of them, therefore making it very hard for me to connect with this collection. Again, this is just my personal experience with Ritchie’s poetry—it will not be the same as everyone’s, and my view on it may have been affected by many factors, including my mindset while reading it. It was a very quick read and, as always, I recommend giving it a go and experiencing his work for yourself.
*I received a copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review*
I’ve been reviewing a lot of poetry recently, so I will start off with my usual disclaimer—poetry is an incredibly personal experience that is unique to each reader, and it is extremely hard to review. What works for someone might not for another, and unfortunately, I happen to fall in the latter category for this particular collection. And from what I’ve been seeing, I have the less common feelings about this work, though I do believe that this is one of those very hit or miss type situations. Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely see the poetic talent of Ritchie, however, his choppy and random writing style did not flow very well with me.
To be honest—and this is a little embarrassing to admit—I had a hard and sometimes impossible time actually understanding just what Ritchie was writing about. His poems were somehow simultaneously humorous and fun to read, but also unintelligible. They were well written and interesting for what they were, but I failed to find much meaning in any of them, therefore making it very hard for me to connect with this collection. Again, this is just my personal experience with Ritchie’s poetry—it will not be the same as everyone’s, and my view on it may have been affected by many factors, including my mindset while reading it. It was a very quick read and, as always, I recommend giving it a go and experiencing his work for yourself.
October 16, 2025
The building
you live in is split into rooms for rent,
the body you live in is split into skills
for rent. A concentrated pressure
builds at the base of your neck
and you remind yourself to look up,
maybe lie on the floor
and look up at the underside
of the kitchen table, just to not
know for a minute.
you live in is split into rooms for rent,
the body you live in is split into skills
for rent. A concentrated pressure
builds at the base of your neck
and you remind yourself to look up,
maybe lie on the floor
and look up at the underside
of the kitchen table, just to not
know for a minute.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews