John Yamrus’ poetry is very humorous. Not expecting that I was caught by surprise. While reading his book, New And Selected Poems published by Lummox Press, I found myself laughing out loud and laughing so loud that people nearby turned to look at me. Yamrus laughs at himself and us, the main theme being, we’re all in this together. He uses his humor as a tool to wipe away the artificial boundaries between us. He laughs if his muse is around or not around and will sit and write even if his muse is late. The trick of it is: if you want to be a writer you have to write. There’s no way around it.
the trick of it is
to be there
waiting
at the typewriter
when it happens.
and when it does,
if you
don’t write it down
and show it to someone
then
shame on you.
Yamrus’ poetry is about the little everyday things that take us through a normal day, like where the dog is sitting and what he’s thinking while taking a dump or when he’s annoyed at his hemorrhoids.
This time it’s hemorrhoids,
And they’ve been
Bleeding since Sunday
The doctor
Wants me to have
Surgery,
But I’ve been
Putting it off
Needless to say,
It’s a real
Pain in the ass.
Poetry about hemorrhoids, hmm… Reminds me of when a neighbor bought my book and later when she met me on the elevator, said, “I expected to read beautiful lines about nature and the sky and instead I read all about your personal problems.” So I guess that makes Yamrus and I poetry brethren.
How can any writer not examine himself? In my book that’s one of the prerequisites of being a writer, like it is for a therapist or social worker. If you don’t know your self how can you write about others with knowledge and insight?
Aside from Yamrus' annoyance about people who 'wanna be writers' without writing, there is his accompanying frustration with people who compare him to Bukowski. In the poem, "Bukowski's property," Yamrus writes:
this poem
isn't mine...
nothing
I do
or think
or write
is mine
it's all filtered down
through you
Mr. Bukowski...
and I wish
you'd
come here
and
take it
back.
Yamrus knows he's not Bukowski and doesn't want to be, or try to be. He can't help being compared because he's taken a style and made it his own. There are more poems too that deal with this poignant issue. In the poem, "Did I ever tell you..."
about the time
Linda said i was good
but that i'd never be
Bukowski? ...
She said that i was good,
but i would never be great ...
because I wasn't mad
Bukowski (she said) was mad...
and he was
great.
i wrote back
saying that she was right...
Bukowski IS mad
and Bukowski IS great,
but if one of the qualifications
for being mad
and being great
was having to put up with the likes of her,
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