Customer Reviews

A Night Without Armor: Poems

5 star:		(190)
4 star:		(58)
3 star:		(33)
2 star:		(23)
1 star:		(116)

 

 

I am a poet, with work published in places like Amelia and Impetus. And for 6 years, I published a poetry magazine called Whisper. I read tens of thousands of poems, from many of the same people who are here, reviewing Jewel's work harshly. I spend my time talking about Lifshin or Lewis or Cummings with other poets, go to coffee shops for poetry reading now and then, and even hosted a few poetry slams. I tell you that for two reasons: first, to help you decide if I speak with any authority; and second, because I am going to commit a mutiny.

I will not join the chorus of poets in protest here. Saying "this isn't poetry!" over and over again won't make it true. Getting all bent out of shape over how Jewel is making poetry available to (gasp) the masses is ridiculous. I feel like I'm watching the punk scene happen all over again -- every time someone had a success, the fans screamed "sell out!" My, how we love to topple those on top.

My loyalty is not to the poets, but to poetry. My loyalty is not to some exclusionary club of latte-sucking introverts, full of pretense, but to language itself. And that is why I must break ranks and say this book is just what the world of poetry needed. Poetry may be "language molded into magnificent text" and many other things, such as meter and rhyme -- but the single most important trait of poetry is that it is relevant. It affects you in a way that is deep and impactful. And Jewel's poetry does exactly that, with so many memorable poems and vivid images filling my head that I eager to read her book again.

When reviewers complain that Jewel ought to read some poets before she publishes her own work, they betray their own failure to read her work. For in her book, she DOES talk about her love of poets and mentions them by name. Bukowski comes to mind. In fact, her work resembles Bukowski's. And I realize half the poetry community would gasp to hear me make that comparison, but so what? Both poets write in plain English, without even so much as an attempt to embellish or prop it up with words so full of pompous exaggeration. They both write about everyday events in an almost prosaic way.

Does this mean that Jewel's work is a pinnacle of success? No, she lacks the experience of a man like Bukowski, or Cummings, or dozens of others. But she has the talent. In fact, after reading more poems by more poets than nearly any poetry lover could stand, I feel it is reasonable to say that Jewel outshines 90% of the poetry out there. It may take another 2 or 3 books before Jewel has honed her craft, and if she's any good, she'll spend the rest of her life reinventing her words. But what you have here is the poetry of a young woman on the verge of a breakthrough -- the words are raw, but often brilliant.

Okay, I bought this book because I really enjoyed Jewel's songwriting. But after reading just a few of the poems, I wondered why I had bought the book at all. These poems are absolutely terrible. Yes, they are from the heart, but that doesn't mean that it's going to be good poetry. I kept reading the book, hoping to find a good poem, but I really couldn't. She wrote poems about goldfish swimming in her stomach, a father and son ogling her breasts, and an old gypsy lady that stole her luggage at an airport as sausages fell out of her pocket. That is not poetry. Honest words that came from her heart, but it is not good poetry, let alone poetry at all, if you ask me. I am an avid poetry reader and write poems myself, so seeing that these kinds of poems could get published made me sick. As she said herself, they were only published because of her music selling millions. If she wasn't a name, there is no way that she could have gotten her poems published. It just makes me want to try all the harder to get my poems published, since horrible poems like these can get published so easily. And to compare her poems to Shakespeare, Frost and Dickenson, is just absolutely unreal. They were great poets and will forever be cherished over time. But Jewel is just an amateur writer who never deserved to have this book come out. Let the thoughts that she has stay to herself. If you want to read a good book, read Lord Byron, a brilliant poet, or Poems That Come From The Heart.

Walt Whitman, what have you wrought upon us?

The advent of free verse was like literary punk music: While a potentially liberating influence which could serve to wrest artistic expression from the elite, it also leveled the playing field to such an extent that almost anybody putting words into a "poetic" arrangement could now call his/her work "poetry".

I liked Jewel's early music a lot; I'd bought her record Pieces of You a whole year before "You Were Meant for Me" became a hit, before that song made a little neo-folk album (which had many tracks recorded live, acoustically) into a sales juggernaut. But even when I was listening to her songs, I never considered Jewel to be much of a lyricist. Her chief strengths were really melody, a simple guitar style, and her voice. Jewel's lyrics were almost always direct expressions of what she believes -- no hidden meanings, no craft, and almost never any surprising thoughts (after all, she was 20).

On her poetry, the problem burns right through. Stripped of the melodies at which she excelled, her writing is awfully sappy, worthy of high-school student scribbles. And it reads without much verbal (ie. poetic) flow. Have the layout artist put the verses and stanzas back together, and it sounds like undoctored prose. What use is the term "poetry" if it's just prose broken up? Sometimes Jewel does come up with interesting imagery, but if her artistic expression is all image and no verbal artistry, then she should be doing photography or film work, not poetry.

Young readers with little experience reading poetry may respond to the artlessness of it and embrace the direct sentiments of this writing. But to them I would suggest: Write your own poetry, get your friends to do the same, and read one another's works. Chances are it'll be just as good as what's collected and published here. Even Jewel herself admitted that the publication of these poems was due to her fame as a musician, not her skill as a poet, and frankly, I don't think her writing comes close to being able to stand alone without her guitar and songwriting.

I think it should be required that celeb-poets read a FEW renowned works of poetry before striking out on their own. While this book proves that all it takes to make a bestseller is a little cash-in-hand...it's certainly a woeful addition to the world of poetry.

Of course, to compare Jewel-the-poet to any other modern poet being published in the same forum would be outright cruel. So we must do our best to acknowledge this book's merits.

Certainly, its adolescent simplicity is drawing and the plain-language narrative probably finds a home in the hearts of an audience for whom loftier poetry is simply no fun at all. It is gawky poetry, and in that sense, is endearing. She tries, and we smile and acknowlege that much.

But poetry is about language molded, images laid out in magnificent text, and this series nowhere approaches that destination. Were this another chapbook put out by a mysterious press, or a poem on that last page of our favorite literary journal, we'd be more tolerant. As it is, having a hardcover book adorned with the author's winsome face thrust onto our beloved bookstore shelves will make us more critical...and indeed we should be. If there was every any doubt, this book proves that all the money in the world can't buy you the poet's gift.

It's hard enough for good poets to be published without pop-music celebrities stalking the coveted publishers and so I can hope Jewel feels a twinge of guilt each time she sees her book's spine resting none-too-comfortably next to the likes of Dylan Thomas, Audre Lorde, or Emily Dickinson.

Fairness demands that we judge this work on its own merits. So put out of your mind the platinum certifications for "Pieces of You". Even go so far as to remove the dust jacket with its enormous, glamourously lit photograph of the poet. (Now if Emily Dickinson had had the sense to do something like that, she might have had more readers.) Open to a random page and see for yourself what verbal deftness, what metric skill, what artistic insight the author commands:

"A father and son bond / by ogling my breasts"

Hmm. Maybe you better hang on to that dust jacket...

Art is expression of self, not how one measures up to an arbitrary model. I enjoy Jewel's work... I find it simple and beautiful. Very enjoyable and, I beleive, very much Jewel.

I truly enjoyed Jewel's book. Granted, some of her poetry is simple, but poetry does not have to be complex and contain hidden meanings to be good. Jewel is an honest writer who bares her soul and her feelings. Like others who have bashed her book, I too, have read a great deal of poetry. I have read Yeats, Eliot, Auden, and I am taking an entire course on Shakespeare alone. All of these writers are amazingly talented, but at the same time so is Jewel. She may not be on the same level as the "greats" but she has been able to inspire many people, not all of whom are a bunch of "teeny-boppers". I think that her poetry is beautiful, straightforward, and honest. I also believe that many people have used this review to bash Jewel because they just don't like her, not because of her poetry. Poetry is a connection between thoughts, the soul, pen, and paper...who are we to judge???

If you want to read good, accessible poetry that anyone can understand, check out Billy Collins. Don't waste your money on this book. Sure, it's poetry. You can call anything poetry. But it's bad poetry. The only reason this was published is because Jewel has a recognizable name and the publishers knew it would make money. Don't reward such blatant bastardizing of the word poetry by supporting their methods and buying this book. For every book out there like this, there's one less book by a good poet. We're already such a celebrity-ruled culture in every other respect, I hate to see the publishing industry go in that direction as well.

Maybe one metaphor in this book is fresh, the rest is cliched. The stuff can be argued to be song lyrics or prose divided badly into lines, but they are not poems. She is like one of those incorrigible girls in my creative writing class who is constantly castigated by our teacher but maintains she'll become a successful singer.

I have never been so insulted on both an intellectual and emotional level. What can I say, she has NO talent. I am fifteen years old and have written more profound and life-altering poems on my math homework, and I'm not getting paid for my thoughts on life. People are looking to her for an insight into the unknown we call life, and she throws back dribble. I am very offended as to the matter of this book. She has disappointed me to no end.