A memory picked from a flower wilted, its petals faded all color crushed. How can I forget such fragrant perfume? The lingering regret of a love long lost.
I noticed this book because of its cover – so strikingly similar to Faudet’s first book, Dirty Pretty Things. I used to follow Faudet’s poetry on Facebook. I felt some of his works were good, if not the stuff of classics. But Bitter Sweet Love just did not work for me.
It was either Isabel Allande or Anais Nin, I can’t remember who now, who said Erotica is a feather, but pornography is the whole hen. Faudet seems to have missed that memo. There were some of his earlier works (not in this volume) that fit better into the erotica bracket. Those were lovely poems, and the reason why I was interested in his poetry in the first place. But after reading Bitter Sweet Love, I can’t seem to quell this niggling feeling that his work is, on the whole, extremely juvenile.
All the so-called poems in this volume probably fit within 140 characters. They’re just broken into
that may go on
See what I mean? Just because it rhymes, it can’t be called poetry, now, can it? Although this is what seems to pass for poetry amongst the contemporary crowd, or the tumblr crowd, as they are called. Now don’t get me wrong. There are several tumblr poets who’ve produced works of exceptional beauty (Christopher Poindexter comes to mind). But Faudet’s book reads more like a Penthouse. And it was not fun either; just saturated (migraine-inducingly) with a lot of love and fucking (because (and I quote), “this is no weather for making love”). Oh, and vodka.
Bitter Sweet Love is dedicated to Lang Leav, another contemporary poet whose works I’ve called high-schoolish in the past. Interestingly, along with this book, I got a copy of her latest, The Universe of Us. Pretentious title aside, I think it fares much better than this one. I’m only halfway done, so more on that in my next review.
Note: I received an ARC of this book from Netgalley. This review is honest and unbiased.