Why Me by Seymour Shubin a Review

Why Me

In 1953, Seymour Shubin published his first novel, Anyone’s My Name. It was a New York Times bestseller, published in numerous international editions and taught in college courses on both literature and criminology. Subsequently, Shubin wrote more than a dozen other novels.

The effect on me of Anyone’s my Name and other Shubin novels  was more like Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart”. The struggle inside the mind of the killer predominates Anyone’s my Name and has stuck in my mind like the beating of that heart. Shubin stays with you and you know you haven’t read just a crime novel. He portrays the inner thoughts of a character and makes them your thoughts. That can be disturbing and enlightening. That’s literature. Anyone’s My Name and The Captain don’t leave me. They don’t stay where you put them, they don’t stay in their genre.

Rod Lott says, “Few writers can make you feel that kind of pain.”

Why Me is a book of poems, Seymour Shubin’s first glimpse into his life which began in 1921. These poems give us a glimpse of growing up in the Great Depression. They are free of the feeling of wading through it poesy. They are personal, autobiographic, and downright readable.

The storyteller manages to tell a story in each poem, a tiny little story that is a glimpse of his life, little snapshots like tiny books in a nutshell. “Cod Liver Oil” is such a poem. His parents gave him a nickel for drinking cod liver oil. He put his nickels in a “bank”.

But then one day my father
came home and announced
that the bank was one of many banks
that had “failed”
in the Depression
we were living in.
And my money was gone,
along with a lot of other people’s money.

I never drank cod liver oil
after that.

In a poem called  “The Reunion”,  Shubin ends with:

And his sister, she’d had such pain,
is she smiling again?
But do they even know
that I am
here?
I leave a stone in case they do.

As he does in his novels, Shubin takes you into his thoughts and you get a glimpse of the alter ego in the books but, once again, it’s the storytelling that makes these poems stand out. The dude can write.

A poem called “Half Ball” sent me scurrying to Google and Wiki. Stickball is played with a ball up and down the street. Half ball can be played from curb to curb and has imaginary runners. The poem has images of this game interlaced with the death of one of the “kids”. Glimpses, memories which make you want another.
Says Steve Hussy in his introduction, “Why Me communicates complex ideas with simplicity. As a result, it’s yet another form of writing that Seymour Shubin has mastered.”
Why Me is a book of poems published by Murder Slim Press. By their own admission, “This is the first –and probably the last– poetry collection we’ll publish at Murder Slim Press.” Actually I adore their name and think it’s the perfect name for modern poetry but I also admire their business sense. They published it because it was so damn good. Now ain’t that a hoot!

It’s simplicity, honesty, and straightforward storytelling that count in a poem. The poems in Why Me are autobiographical, personal, and give us a glimpse inside Seymour Shubin. I read it in one sitting and now seem to pick it up and open it at a random place, “Oh I remember that one.”

Bravo Mr Shubin Bravo. You captured me again. More!

david michael jackson

Doggerel Poem

My doggerel
bit off the
sentence and
barked,
“You’d better
rhyme
this time”

doggerel

According to Wiki:
Doggerel: derogatory term for verse considered of little literary value.
Since any sentence may be chopped to look like a poem, doggerel has the modern connotation of fake poetry. Quite honestly it is hard to tell the difference since a sentence can be beautiful.

The free dictionary has this:

doggerel [ˈdɒgərəl], dogrel [ˈdɒgrəl]
n
1. (Literature / Poetry)
a. comic verse, usually irregular in measure
b. (as modifier) a doggerel rhythm
2. nonsense; drivel
From the 14th century: worthless, perhaps from dogge dog]

Vocabulary.com does a great job discussing the origins and use by great poets and bad poets of doggerel as wordplay.

david michael jackson

The Question of Modern Art

There are two cavemen
in a cave in front of
a cave drawing of an elk.
They are staring at an object.
One says, “It’s art”
The other says, “It’s just a rock, the drawing is art.”
“If the drawing of the elk is art, then the elk is art and so is the rock.”
The other asks, “Should we save the rock?”

david michael jackson

Social Blue

 

Always trying to be social, always failing, I joined Indaba, a social music site. It is an excellent website for musicians. Collaboration is what it’s about. With the advent of low cost recording, more musicians are recording at home and collaborating over the net. Indaba is one of the good places. They have contests and you can submit music and do “re-mixes”. Famous groups put up the tracks for their songs and people use those tracks to make new music. Imagine getting just the drum track from a hot song and playing along with it to create something new.

I found that these members awesome and it was hard to compete but I did write a song or two and I deduced a few things about the music industry. It wasn’t just the advent of the mp3 that made the industry stumble, it was also the advent of low cost recording.

These days a studio that would make Elvis drool costs a thousand bucks and people are pulling it off more cheaply. With drums and loops from a machine and some talent an artist doesn’t end up in “debt” to a label. This creates, shall we say, an increase in the number of artists and in the volume of material available.

If you visited a friend in 1975 you’d know every name in their music collection. Today we have trouble keeping track of who is a star and who isn’t. Do we have star overload? Is there a limit to the number of famous names we can remember? We certainly have music overload.

With any art there is always the feeling of rolling a message into the bottle and casting it into the sea on a lonely beach. In my new thing I am casting songs into Itunes. It’s especially lonely in there. In Indaba it was, “I listened to you so please listen to me”. It’s about trying to get a bunch of faces under your song. It’s about singing to the choir, but Itunes makes me miss the choir.

Here is the song I wrote for some contest at Indaba. I never intended to release it, I may even have missed a beat, but it strikes a note. The outcome fitted the song, the bottle sank, but it’s still a good message. Even if no one hears it, like all art, it never quite was about them, was it Vincent?

Oh my pot farm it died one day on Facebook
Cause I had no friends in my social network
So I went to Indaba and I joined up
I picked up some old songs and I put them up

Oh the cold, cold wind it blows when nobody likes you, you suppose

Oh nobody will ever hear this little song I wrote
When they see my little picture they’ll skip right over it.
I’m just a little bird who sings mhis lonely song
I suppose it shouldn’t matter if no one sings along

Oh the cold, cold wind it blows when nobody likes you, you suppose

I should get another account so I could have a friend
And every song I sing he could press like again.
I sent myself a message, said I really like your songs
And I’ll be sure to listen when another one comes along……..chorus

Well they’ll put up with me cause I paid my fifty bucks
And I’m gonna stick around until I catch up
Cause every little bird that sings has a song all it’s own
And you can’t teach the bird to sing you can only sing along

And the cold cold wind it can blow…it can blow it can blow it can blow
Cause I have to like me this I know and you have to like you this you know

I know it’s crowded here but you were once alone
Look around you.You are as rare as the precious stone
So give yourself a break this year and rejoice in your song
And when I see your picture here I’ll try to sing along.

social

All of These Poems

…..and was it worth it
after all
after all of these poems
dropped in the night,
metaphors,
images of this cat or that cat,
memories of
sunshine,
blind,
kind,
or just hot and sweaty,
lying there in some blog,
some rag like
sand in a shoe,
blue like blues,
red like blood,
yellow like the sunshine.

I followed the plow,
the dirt piled over the plants,
I uncovered,
and my grandfather worked the mule,
Gee for right,
Haw for left,
and I am now as stubborn as that mule
and my halter has made callouses
and I scrape my mule hoof
in the dirt
and I strain against the plow.

My grandmother brought
lemonade to the field
and rang a bell at noon.
I still listen for the bell
but it is silent
and the house is
gone,
but I remember the field
and the slap of the harness
and I can still see the water jar
wrapped in paper in the shade
of time itself.

and was it worth it after all
to have written it down in a box
on a page of magnetic spots
that glow ones and zeros like a firefly
in the night.

david michael jackson