Reviews by Hugh Fox

A Review of two new books by Sean C. Theall, The Poet’s Address (Main St. Press, Easton, MA.), Gothic Verses: The Halloween Collection (Beachcomber Press, Scituate, MA).


          Sean Theall is one of those omnipresent Boston-area genius-types who, among other things hosts the poetry readings at the Main Street Cafe in North Easton, and will read on September 21st at the Best Seller’s Cafe in Medford. Someone ought to give him a reading somewhere on Halloween too, though, because if there ever was a Mr. Macabre Shudder in the Boston-area woods, Theall is it:
          ...Ah, dear children
          let us begin with
          a skillet and stove,
          the frying of human skin.

          Served alone on plain
          white bread. Have no
          fear dear soul;
          you’ll feel better
          now you’re dead.
                        
                    (“Lecter’s Lecture,” The Poet’s Address,
                         p.12)


     You can understand a little better where Theall is coming from when you read “Lifeblood” in which he identifies his writing itelf with his blood, teeth, hair, veins, spine:
          My DNA is made up of vowels.

                                                  2.
          Teeth of stanzas.
          hair of antonyms.
          breath of slang.
          hands of nouns.
          legs of Homonyms.
          feet of verbs.

          Veins of description.
          spine of bookbinding.

          blood of ink.

               (“Lifeblood,” The Poet’s Address, p.8)


     When Theall’s vision expands out into the socio-political, we depart from sci-fi, horror-filmish contexts into an even more horrific context of real-world happenings. Horror poetry becomes horror contemporary history:
          The word is given.
          The sirens squeal.
          The orders are shouted.
          We move out.
    
          Countries from across
          the sea come to destroy
          the city ; we will defend
          the world from foreign
          powers.

          Nothing can stop the
          world now. The world
          is burning in its own
          (private) social fire....

                                                       3.

          The city is now asleep.

          Welcome to the city
          of children;
          the city of dreams;
          city of haste.

          The city of children
          (of life) is no more.

               (“The Final Decision,” The Poet’s Address, p.28)


     The second volume of poetry I’m working with here, Gothic Verses, the Halloween Collection,although it had a horror-film-ish cover on it of a monster skeleton sitting on a throne, and begins with a reference to my old friend E.A. Poe,it isn’t that much different from The Poet’s Address. Theall is dancing graveyards, nightmare blankets....although here he at times gets almost medical. As in “Autopsy”:
               Doctors in white stick me with needles,
               drain me of expired blood,
               feed me with chemicals I can exist on
               for twenty years or so....

               The kidneys removed,
               bladder, stomach lining, lungs,
               all placed on a cold steel plate
               for disposal some later time.
               Was my death a senseless crime?         
                                             (p.13)
                                             4.

     There’s even one poem about murdering and perhaps even sexually abusing children:

          Little Children,
          trusting, pretty smiles.
          Give them candy,
          coloring books and toys....
          having my way with them
          all the while.

          Sweet tarts laced with arsenic,
          hey, do you want to see a trick?
          Here is a Barbie doll,
          a matchbox car...
          rock my world,
          take me far.

                              (“Captain Howdy,” p. 17)