I love his work. Here is my review of his last book. BUY IT! It will be worth a million dollars one day.
ANGELFLIES IN MY IDIOTSOUP
By: Christopher Robin
Platonic 3 Way Press
Post Office Box 844
Warsaw, IN 46581
Price: $5
27 Pages/ 18 Poems
Review By: Charles P. Ries
Word Count: 168
I don’t read many poets whose world I enjoy entering more than Christopher Robin’s. Angelflies In My Idiotsoup is Robin’s third book of poetry and his best work to date. Again, he captivated me with his view from the street as he reflects on his circle of friends, poets, losers, and lovers. His stories are mesmerizing in their own right, but come to life through his significant gift at creating metaphors and word unions that collide street culture with pop culture. I would say, in this case, to be able to write it one must have lived it. I often think “humor” has become poetry’s dirty word or the kiss of death if one has ambitions. But none of this matters to Robin who continues to find something to laugh at while visiting the snake pit. He reports to us from his village, but was there ever a village populated by such an array of nut cases, lost souls and hearts seeking healing? I don’t think so.
August 10, 2008 at 3:41 am
I love his work. Here is my review of his last book. BUY IT! It will be worth a million dollars one day.
ANGELFLIES IN MY IDIOTSOUP
By: Christopher Robin
Platonic 3 Way Press
Post Office Box 844
Warsaw, IN 46581
Price: $5
27 Pages/ 18 Poems
Review By: Charles P. Ries
Word Count: 168
I don’t read many poets whose world I enjoy entering more than Christopher Robin’s. Angelflies In My Idiotsoup is Robin’s third book of poetry and his best work to date. Again, he captivated me with his view from the street as he reflects on his circle of friends, poets, losers, and lovers. His stories are mesmerizing in their own right, but come to life through his significant gift at creating metaphors and word unions that collide street culture with pop culture. I would say, in this case, to be able to write it one must have lived it. I often think “humor” has become poetry’s dirty word or the kiss of death if one has ambitions. But none of this matters to Robin who continues to find something to laugh at while visiting the snake pit. He reports to us from his village, but was there ever a village populated by such an array of nut cases, lost souls and hearts seeking healing? I don’t think so.