In John McCarthy's debut collection, lifetimes are spent traveling in pickup trucks across the Midwest, exploring spaces between love and its imperfect manifestations. Ghost County drives blue-collar back roads and guides readers through personal meditations about heritage, loss, and the desire to reimagine the past and future. Dateless baseball trophies, the world's largest catsup bottle, and swivel set televisions illustrate a Midwest that is recognizable and echoes with its own poetry, affirming the traditions and experiences that bind this region to self and self to region.
I had a chance to buy this book at AWP, when I visited the Midwestern Gothic table. The poet was there, and one of the MG editors tried to sell it, saying, "I think he's a really great poet." Still, I was reluctant, and decided to spend my money on other books at other booths. When I saw John McCarthy read from the book the following day, passionately shouting out the lines like curses, I knew what a stupid decision I'd made. This collection examines what it means to live on the edge of Midwestern life. No matter how flat the landscape McCarthy describes, the speaker in each poem teeters on the edge of a cliff. Not sure at times about going on, and at other times unable to stop. He zooms through Indiana, Illinois, Kansas, and flat expanses in between in eighteen poems title Pickup Truck, as he explains to the reader: "All we can do is have ideas about not / having ideas about hope." At the end of the journey, he turns key and "listen[s] to the cooling / engine click its tongue." It's bleak at times, but rustbelt small towns, populated trailer parks and rusting pickups and desperate youth, aren't meant to be beautiful. However, there is this element of aliveness that strings its way through the entire book. Broken and downtrodden as it may be, the Midwest still remains strong. And the hardiness of its people shows in this collection as well. It's like the speaker in "The Weight of Dirt and Rust" says as he stares across the street at a shitty little shed of a bar: "I realize that I am young and lucky."