A new collection of poetry by Paul Cordeiro.
Paul Cordeiro is a former shoe salesman. His work appeared recently in 1870, The Gasconade Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Heroin Love Songs, Seppuku Quarterly, and Synchronized Chaos.
A new collection of poetry by Paul Cordeiro.
Paul Cordeiro is a former shoe salesman. His work appeared recently in 1870, The Gasconade Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Heroin Love Songs, Seppuku Quarterly, and Synchronized Chaos.
“The wind gets more / insensitive by the year.” Dennis Rivard, author of Sidelong Glances, Wrinkled Sea Press
UFO Motel
Buzzards are swimming
in oil puddles
left behind by
adulterer's junkers.
I hallucinate the buzzards
like a tourist dried-out
from red-eye jet lag.
Someone's Mrs. leaves
the gift shop with a potted cactus,
maybe a western state thimble
for a dust-caked collection.
I steer the white sedan rental
out of the UFO motel
parking lot.
It's aluminum dome-shaped
roof, like a flying saucer
for snow to slide off,
glints.
Librarian, Ex-Wife
She wouldn't wear
a crucifix
between her small breasts
even to a biker's wedding.
Sunday Breakfast, Next Booth Over
Finishing their hotcakes
and scrambled
special with sausage,
the louder talker
in the next booth over
grins with braces.
I hear his static.
Both men wear pinstripes
like luxury car salesman.
But then capped front teeth
banters on about Brady's
longevity, how he met
him once on Federal Hill.
Both men over tip
and step out in cordovan brogues
bright as the dome of a city
aptly named Providence.
The word 'windswept' alongside the poem with the same name sets a tone for the poetry collection by Paul Cordeiro. The world created by the author is 'windswept' in the sense that after revealing itself in one precise moment in one particular place, it slips into the blurred background, leaving a reader with no regret or sorrow. Opposite to the modern tradition of poetry writing, this poetry collection doesn't intend to evoke emotions. The author's detachment from reality manifests in observing things rather than wholeheartedly experiencing them, be it a poem about a waitress at a Tokyo Bar or about trees whose 'roots sang to each other of summer.' The book's attractiveness lies in the sober - masculine in the old-fashioned definition - approach because the feelings mean nothing and can change nothing to the pre-existing order of things. They are not totally excluded from the big picture, though: the book contains a very personal poem, 'The Stranger, Not My Father,' that depicts the brutality of a father/son relationship. The father with a 'jaundiced eyeball' is more potent than an 'icy gutter wind;' his hair 'whiter than death,' 'white steel straight to the keyhole like it was me.' The tragedy of being a 'keyhole' is expressed in the author's characteristically detached manner, while a reader can feel and relate to the pain hidden behind the words.
The book's descriptive, not sensual, nature is evident at all levels, starting with the linguistical. Out of 23 poems, only six contain I/me pronouns; most lyrics start with indifferent he/she/it; adverbs are almost absent from the writing. Each poem represents a complete piece of work as if the author said what he wanted to say, and there is nothing more that can be added to the mix. Yet, due to the poems' shortness, they shine together only as a whole: if examined one by one, without interconnection, they lose their charm. The poems force readers to rethink reality, and the collection would benefit if it included more pieces.
I recommend Windswept as an alternative glance at reality. The book will be an ideal companion if you are tired of emotionally charged poems.
I received an advanced review copy through Reedsy Discovery, and I am leaving the review voluntarily.