On the one hand, I’m happy for the interest in poetry that the viral success of Rupi Kaur has brought mainstream. On the other, well, you get the feeling that everyone feels that they can write poetry now.
And yes, to a certain extent, everyone can write poetry. But too often writers confuse epigraphs with epigrams, and churn out the former while utterly convinced that they’re producing the latter. Abraham Rodriguez is a talented performer and a writer with plenty of potential who has also, alas, fallen victim to this mindset. There are some really good poems in this second collection of his, but there are also several baffling choices in the shorter works that speak, I believe, to his relative youth (he’s 24!) and perhaps to a need for a more rigorous cutting process, if not outright rethinking of the shape of the finished book.
Honestly, as I was reading this collection, I kept feeling less like it was a completed entity and more like the blueprint for what could be a really impressive memoir or novel in verse. The progression of the poems goes from Mr Rodriguez’s childhood; his struggles with the church and the abuse he suffered; the pleasures and heartbreak of sex and romance, and his experiences in Hollywood, as well as the body image issues he suffered as someone who must, of necessity, trade on his looks to succeed. He writes on all these subjects with honesty and raw emotion, so there’s no doubting the creative core that lies at the heart of this endeavor. But while this collection works just fine altogether, too few of the poems are capable of standing alone. “Welcome to the closet” and “Counting my calories” are fortunately some of the stronger pieces. “Whose fault is that?” and “We take turns”, on the other hand, aren’t anywhere near as clever as they’re trying to be.