Clive James has said that writing poetry was mainly a matter of making phrases. I don't think he'd disagree with the argument that it also needs structure, possibly even syntax and punctuation, maybe something you could call heart or mind. Michael Sharkey's poems in this book have all these qualities -- no verbal equivalent to action painting here, no automatic writing or L.A.N.G.U.A.G.E (not that I actually know what that is). This book's got phrases! it's got syntax! it's got colour and movement and a finely controlled tone! It generally communicates its meanings clearly enough that when there's a typo (I only noticed one) you can tell it's not intentional language-torture. The satirical bits are a little misanthropic for my taste, but at one point I caught myself wishing I'd read these poems 20 years ago, because then I had a reasonable chance of remembering some of them.
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