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All the Poems I Never Wrote
by jacob erin-cilberto
36 Poems ~ 48 Pages
Price: $15.00
Publisher: Praying Mantis Press
ISBN: 9798854073288
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Reviewed by Michael Escoubas
In a humble inscription on cover 4 of jacob erin-cilberto’s latest collection, the poet states his case for All the Poems I Never Wrote:
“Writing isn’t always an occupation, nor a hobby, but it is breathing.”
It is as if these poems had been incubating in erin-cilberto’s heart until their bones were strong enough for the page. Indeed, my goal is to show the strength, power, and rich diversity of a mature writer whose work truly is his breath of life.
In several poems erin-cilberto breathes the rarified air of notable poets. He does so in “Frost is Shuddering over This.” Here he comments on trends in contemporary life that would have astonished, if not appalled, the erstwhile poet:
the train’s speeding past
a flying Amtrak
sparks ignite
along the path
as innocent trees watch in fear
their friends suddenly consumed
they whisper final prayers
even God is so puzzled by this
a cigarette tossed by a fleeing human
and more Armageddon
is inhaled
The poem concludes with a rueful commentary on smoking. Don’t miss this one! Other examples such as “I hear John Lennon singing in the background,” recall Jesus, Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcom X, and George Carlin, all in the same poem. It is erin-cilberto’s approach to “how” these figures influenced our lives and times that is so fascinating. As I gave these poems time to marinate their rewards increased.
I feel an affinity with nearly every poem. This is because, I too, share in erin-cilberto’s generation. I’m with him in the turbulent 60s, where Vietnam dominated daily headlines and Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society made its way through Congress. Where college dorms without AC were hot in summer and papers flew off study desks courtesy of late summer’s hot breath. In “1968 to Fast Forward” the poet recalls the black light poster in his college dorm room:
enough said,
when the lights switch off
and love turns on
moonful arrow
shot through the blinds
slanting breezy night embrace
softly the skin glows
like a black light poster
in an old college dorm room
reefer scent still hiding in the shadows
maybe I am just remembering
maybe it is happening now
I wonder if it is really the same moon
as ago in time,
or perhaps just an errant switch.
This collection is about memories. I find myself awash in memories. Memories are the “breath” of life as they animate my poems. I sense the same for erin-cilberto. Several poems are about the art of poetry. These relate to the poet’s reason for writing … “not an occupation or hobby, but breathing.” “a gardener’s dream” is a well-crafted metaphor:
don’t flower me with false petals
scrape the thorns off your poems
and stay in a sincere garden
or the water will be turned off
the tears fake
the roses will vacate the heart
there will be no pretty
no hushed whispers of love
don’t flower me with false petals
I need not your shriveled blooms
to decay in my memory
press them into your own book
let your poems fossilize themselves
into a gift of humility
into an impression of truth
maybe that is your only capability
with you less-than-green thumb
and your colorless pen.
If I were teaching a course in writing, I would include this poem in my syllabus. Other syllabus-worthy poems include “Extra Napkins,” which uses, “meanings that have an aroma / like coffee / just poured / on the page // to make a poem,” and “Mother,” which begins:
you were a sonnet
in strict meter,
some beautiful imagery mixed
with comfortable notions of rhyme
because that won’t stray from the truth.
All the Poems I Never Wrote is a valuable collection for one simple reason. Jacob erin-cilberto’s is faithful to the first rule of poetry: Tell the truth. Poetry, as truth, helps us live our lives. Poetry challenges the values that we hold. A good poem may cause the reader to rethink the way he or she has been living. In dark times poetry offers its readers a sense of hope and purpose.
In “subliminal message” I envision the poet imbibing the sweet breath of life and truth that only poetry can give:
in the park
hands peek into pockets
he watches the children play
Out of this careful watching, I have come to understand why, for Jacob erin-cilberto:
“Writing isn’t always an occupation, nor a hobby, but it is breathing.”
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