ReviewStack: McAllister's Mates Twenty Four
Hi all
Two reviews from my first round of open submissions - I enjoyed these immensely - I have a few more to post before I open the next round in two weeks or so. For now please enjoy the exceptional works of and
These reviews are part of Reviewstack run by the great writer and pillar of the Substack Community :
An ongoing series of reviews of some of the wonderful articles, poems, and stories I’ve discovered on Substack (and other places) and more importantly the beautiful souls behind the works.
P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!
Please take a few moments to read the works of these authors, artists, and creators and if you find their work as life-affirming and life changing as I do, then please let them know. We need to support and cherish these voices.
You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.
OK so before we get to the lyrical gorgeousness, there’s something of a “literary political” point to address. Blace (like myself) is very much a lyrical poet and opens with a tirade against free verse. Now there is free verse and formless verse. He specifically brings in examples like Attics, Gabbie Hanna, and Rupi Kaur. I’m in full agreement about how staggeringly awful their work is. I have many free verse friends on Substack but it’s not the same. They are dedicated to the craft of language, the exploration of consciousness, and narrating the depths of experience. This is not the same as the God awful greeting card messages and meme texts mainstream publishers are slopping onto pages - now on to Blace’s piece.
The craft here is beautiful - I’m immediately reminded of the rhythms of John Dunne, the darkness and intensity of Edgar Allen Poe and (this may surprise some) - the delicate balance of the Cure’s Disintegration album. Much like Robert Smith’s pinnacle work, Blace has found the perfect intersection between horrific gothic intensity and rich seductive beauty. There’s nothing scarier than the realisation you’re being romanced by dark forces. This is a tale of a monstrous character named the Hierophant (a priest or interpreter of sacred mysteries) and their descent into madness. A lot is left to the reader’s interpretation, the poem’s main focus is on creating a series of compelling sensory and emotive hooks to hang your hat (well, mind) on. While there is a narrative arc of a priestly character’s descent into madness, a lot of space is left to pour your imagination into as a reader. My personal reading is that the Hierophant has slipped into a tunnel of arrogance and self delusion. He starts to see his every thought as divine and superior, temptations and baser instincts become twisted into “divine messages”. I can imagine him speaking the poem in evocative and seductive tones, not in prayer to the divine, but as a brash statement of intent to the divine oozing with hubris.
Some highlights of the gorgeous sensory imagery include “wivied and ivied wings”, “ginger smelling cups” (filled with depraved thoughts), and “flesh bricks building interior castles”. Olde English is employed in part, not as a shallow aesthetic or to force a mood, but as deliberate cadenced structures to drive the poem’s meticulously crafted but flowing rhythms. The removal of the v in key places, like o’er instead of over etc gives the poem clearer and more percussive beats, creating a similar effect to minor piano chords. The poem pulls us in with a hypnotic but doom-laden melody much like Chopin’s “Funeral March”.
This is a rich, dark masterpiece perfect for a late autumn night. Just like a dark, sweet chocolate or even a bottle of something that calls to you when you really should be in bed… The Hierophant comes for naughty children, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The omnipotent leviathan of the media that invades our homes, our speech, our minds sometimes pays lip service to “presence” and “mindfulness”. We get mealy mouthed platitudes about awareness and living in the moment between gorging petty celebrity culture and fuel for anxiety.
Will doesn’t ask you to be present, he passionately demands it in an essay that is both tender and ferocious. There is a deep love of life, the world, and humanity in these words but it isn’t the casual, insipid “love everyone” memes thrown around in today’s culture. This is the unstoppable force of a parent or lover seeing their beloved about to come to harm. Be under no delusion - so many of us are on the brink - disassociated from each other, the world, and even from our own bodies.
Will not only champions, he enhances the ideas of Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is a call back to nature. Will implores us in beautifully eloquent but powerful and urgent prose to BE IN nature. We must surrender ourselves - not just casually observe the pretty flowers and animals.
“His calling towards the truth that sustains our reflection upon Nature which we, simultaneously, form. Through us and without us, we act upon Nature. Let us revel, let us play!”
Isn’t that beautiful? A stroll through the grass may be pleasant, but a barefront sprint will not just quiet the mind, it will shock its chattering to silence. Blace makes a compelling argument that we only reach our “enlightened” (or at least heightened) states through rediscovering our wilder natures. When we run through the winds, waves, and the wild grasses - oh we feel alive and are one with our all too often neglected bodies. Of course then comes the not so pleasant realisation - we are very small pieces of a much larger world. This is the inescapable yet liberating truth - you are here, you are real but as consequential as you thought. The call to be - one of the wisest and most fascinating points in the essay is that this “call” is so often ignored because it simply isn’t a call at all. It is the silent knowing we fear, and the silent longing we so often can’t meet. It is the final point of this essay and beautifully expressed in a way I will not divulge here. To reveal the plot is to spoil a story and to spoil the elegant, flowing prose for this piece would be criminal - I have outlined Blace’s argument but the delivery - that is something beautiful you must experience for yourself - Go, BE in the moment. BE in these words! https://substack.com/home/post/p-178982431
I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed seeing them and writing about them.
You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.
P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here! You can also claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks.
If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.
Wonderful review! Glad you enjoyed the work and it’s a real honour to be featured as a mate here again!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go stick my toe out at Stefan some more.
Cheers!