Admittedly I’m not the most qualified person to be reviewing a book of poetry. (For souring me on the literary form, I blame years of being forced to unpack/dissect poems in the name of academic purposes.) But maybe that makes me even better suited for it. Instead of falling over myself for every stanza I read, my critic senses have been hardened — thankfully, any person who’s not a fan of flowery, over-the-top poems can look to C.R. Avery.
Best known for his work as a rock musician over the last several decades, Avery returns to the game of poetry with his third book, Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It, 61 pages of unabashed, curt storytelling. Divided into four colourfully named chapters, Avery’s experiences from over the years undoubtedly helped create this myriad of anecdotes, covering everything from apathetic romance and hooking up, to feelings of inadequacy throughout life, along with the overarching tone of not really giving a shit.
There are a ton of poems that deserve mentioning but a few personal favourites are as follows: “Lunch Pick-up Poem,” in all its Velvet Underground referencing glory; “Thin Walls 95.3 FM,” a cup-half-full quip about your neighbours having particularly loud coitus; “Ghost Car & Ragged Glory,” a perfect and brief insight into a sketchy nightclub and its even sketchier patrons; and “Another West Side Girl,” if only for the opening lines of “She gave me a blow job on her sofa / Now my job is to blow in the direction of the black-vestry night.” With 35 different poems included, it’s hard to pick just a few to highlight.
While most of the memorable poems come with at least a tinge of sexual innuendo, they never feel like a shtick or even remotely juvenile. Instead Avery uses sex as a device and a way to make his writing personal and honest, regardless of how unpoetic the sexual encounters might be.
Some Birds also boasts a healthy number of music-related puns that most likely couldn’t have been put together by someone who wasn’t a musician themselves. Take the closing lines from “Do they play Zombie Zoo,” for instance: “You’re not going to believe this, but they joined a Tom Petty cover band, it kinda broke my heart,” and “Well, they’re heartbreakers now.”
While the shorter poems — most of which are 10 lines or less — offer most of the comedic relief and quick jokes, Some Birds really shines with the poems that run between one and two pages. Avery’s strength comes from his ability to build a whole narrative instead of a brief snapshot into a character’s life and that’s where the payoff lies. The words might not flow particularly nicely, but Avery tells a story and he tells it well.
Like I mentioned before, I’m not a poetry guy and most likely never will be, but if you’re looking for something light to take with you to the beach or while you’re trapped waiting at the laundromat, C.R. Avery will do just fine. While some readers may be turned off by his non-decorative language and generally sex-centred topics, it’s easy to appreciate Avery’s work for what it is: an entertaining read.
