I love it when Ric Masten socks me and every other reader right in the kisser with the notion that we are all stark naked. Period. Well, not exactly -- he doesn’t use periods. Or capital letters or sesquipedalianisms. “That’s all?” we ask, “That’s the whole poem?” It leaves us hanging, makes us want to cover ourselves, makes us want to hear it again. Maybe next time we’ll get some insight to cover ourselves with. Not to mention the underdressed poet!
But that’s all there is: we’re all on the same bus; we’re all naked. There’s really no dressing that up. And that stark and naked simplicity and directness, that short and not so sweet abruptness, are the genius of Ric Masten’s poetry. He puts us into a moment and leaves us standing there chuckling or puzzling or ... Or something. He demands a response. He leads us into some innocuous occurrence and drops us there to fend for ourselves, to see what he is seeing or saying. Or not. No one can say, “I don’t understand it.” No one can claim, “I don’t know what that means.” The only questions that can be asked are things like: Is that all there is? Why did he write that? What makes that a poem?
I love that.
To read the rest of this essay, click the "read more" link below!