Poetry Book Review, The Stuntman by Brian Laidlaw

Poetry Book Review, The Stuntman by Brian Laidlaw

Albums and books are usually two different species.  On the one hand, Laidlaw can twist songs into perfection by high lyrical use and demands special pauses for reverberations when they count as his folkloric extensions, just as odd as they are kind.  Then again, a written book such as The Stuntman can let us fool around with our own imagination as we’re getting to exaggerate our understanding on implications and fictional idioms through our voices.  I don’t know what exactly is in order between the two situations because Laidlaw can be unclenched with general style and typically runs numbers in his head, songs and poems to which great happiness is combined into some critical roles, critical transitions.  Folk music in general attracts the kind of audience who love sitting tight in a corner and giving themselves a silent chance to hear folk music when it roars with local colors, flamboyant nostalgia, and something more complex than old wives’ tales.  Sometimes poets can be bookish when they’re reading out loud; Laidlaw knows how to heighten enthusiasm while being sad or wild- kind folks in Northern California can often be found where nature is as important as drift, although the picture of his words must be in constant transgression on its own meaning.  Poetry itself is an oddity.  Whenever I read something out loud to my dad from this book (since he’s curious as to what lines I’ve taken heart over), he makes a remark with the utmost concern and asks me why I don’t have much going on for me.  Honesty can be taken up with poetry and yet language as new as the morning sun can dress it up as another source of forced errors, on which The Stuntman may actualize with mentioning of clinking glasses and strange hardware by a neighborhood in poor lighting.  From point to point, a new kind of honesty can be imagined through poetry since metaphors can be idioms to add onto the conversations.  Before we lose track, let’s remember that our response to this poetry collection can wind up being a source of another poetry collection, “until kingdom come”, so input on output has to be less than poetry and more than talk.  We can get lost pretty easy.  So after we’re getting into Laidlaw’s poetry on holding hands and the problem of “taking place”, positive feedback here ought to present a review, instead of another case for a review.  Generally, poetry here is remarkable.  America is commented on with discernment and, when the going gets tough but adds on another romance, subtle exaggerations take the form of words at a bite for which vandals may kind of remark on and yet typically go with more-than-extreme offense.  (In response to Laidlaw’s response on brutes, I think Beetlejuice is an example of a failed parent.)  Fortunately, fictional metaphors as presented in The Stuntman take on the zing and flavor of wild reading to which Laidlaw observes with mild sweetness unless a song calls for a more extravagant kind of noise.  He’s played slow tunes in a mourning kind of way, although he’s “never heard of the blues.”  This of course may remark on his take on death since time elapses with windows near other holes; it’s as if, with progress of favor and discernment, intrinsics get redefined with a full, head-on collision of meaning, on which fresh intake and defined emotions lay the way for wild reading, thorough output of vocality, and complicity of self-expression.  The Stuntman takes the cake and pulls a big one, leaving us with rehearsed romances in practicality when stunned listeners may feel the soothing quiet with any of their modes of waiting at concerts while Laidlaw unfolds language into powerful dynamics.  Don’t just sit there!  Pick up a book and let yourself flow into the beauty as it reveals colors toward numbing details.

http://www.brianlaidlaw.com

Video Attribution: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8GABXmJ6Ps