oceanender's review
dark
emotional
reflective
tense
slow-paced
4.0
a collection that felt like diving into a specific, dark dream in the author's head-- one replayed or reformed in a variety of ways, from poem to poem to poem. some pretty experimental forms, but they never felt overly jarring in my opinion. rather each poem's structure energized it in such a way that despite feeling trapped in this kind of 'dream', I was strung along like a fish on a hook.
Content Warnings
Spoiler
mentions of blood & violence.kell_xavi's review
3.0
There's a recklessness or contained chaos in these poems. Olade peels back layers and layers of darkness. The language forms an architecture of Lagos and human bodies twined with religious allusions, longing, dreams, and death.
Two poems that moved me were "Lagos Winter" and its sequel, which grieve for family, neighbours, the blood of a country:
some who lived; some who died/ some who swallowed/ ocean like a final meal, blessed/ the water over & over.
Gold,/ in the empty street,/ gold, in the desperate night.
even the crickets pray, cold hands/ held together,/ begging for one/ empty morning. No caskets: no sons/ no daughters/ floating in the river./ Singing hymns/ into the night,/ their palms turned up. Their bodies/ cold as ice.
These two poems begin the collection with a broad scope that grows contracted and intimate in later poems. They introduce the presence of hunger and death; in later poems, this hunger grows to starvation, "savage" and begging; death is tied to desire, violence is confused with love. These poems reveal despair through speeches both unreliable and heavy with conviction:
a/ lamb that will not bite/ the wolf was not/ born hungry enough.
like a bullet - confession can't - be held - under the tongue - only fired - from the throat - into any body - kind enough - to take it whole - absolution - in exchange - for doing - onto other - what they - have done - onto you
the blood - becoming - its own - sacrament - the body broken - into pieces - small - enough to - consume and - not enough - to satisfy
The latter two excerpts are from "Trauma Guide to Gunshot Wounds," which, with its sequel, were strong experiments with disjointed, trauma-stricken consciousness.
There are a few poems toward the middle and end that reused similar ideas, similar phrases: bruising, violence, love as death, burying wrists, August. These felt like a catharsis, tension and release, but they became derivative. The final poem, "Symptom," seemed to me a muddling through rather than the passage to an ending.
Olade has a rich style fashioned from earth, blood, and gold. I enjoyed the reading overall, but was disappointed that the collection lost tension in the second half.
Two poems that moved me were "Lagos Winter" and its sequel, which grieve for family, neighbours, the blood of a country:
some who lived; some who died/ some who swallowed/ ocean like a final meal, blessed/ the water over & over.
Gold,/ in the empty street,/ gold, in the desperate night.
even the crickets pray, cold hands/ held together,/ begging for one/ empty morning. No caskets: no sons/ no daughters/ floating in the river./ Singing hymns/ into the night,/ their palms turned up. Their bodies/ cold as ice.
These two poems begin the collection with a broad scope that grows contracted and intimate in later poems. They introduce the presence of hunger and death; in later poems, this hunger grows to starvation, "savage" and begging; death is tied to desire, violence is confused with love. These poems reveal despair through speeches both unreliable and heavy with conviction:
a/ lamb that will not bite/ the wolf was not/ born hungry enough.
like a bullet - confession can't - be held - under the tongue - only fired - from the throat - into any body - kind enough - to take it whole - absolution - in exchange - for doing - onto other - what they - have done - onto you
the blood - becoming - its own - sacrament - the body broken - into pieces - small - enough to - consume and - not enough - to satisfy
The latter two excerpts are from "Trauma Guide to Gunshot Wounds," which, with its sequel, were strong experiments with disjointed, trauma-stricken consciousness.
There are a few poems toward the middle and end that reused similar ideas, similar phrases: bruising, violence, love as death, burying wrists, August. These felt like a catharsis, tension and release, but they became derivative. The final poem, "Symptom," seemed to me a muddling through rather than the passage to an ending.
Olade has a rich style fashioned from earth, blood, and gold. I enjoyed the reading overall, but was disappointed that the collection lost tension in the second half.
divineauthor's review
dark
emotional
slow-paced
4.25
this was so stunning. literally every word threaded together to make me rot
vintage__victoria's review
3.0
This is an intriguing collection of poetry. I’ve never read anything like it before. I think, though, that the description fits the collection well.
One of my favorite poems was Lagos Winter. I loved the play with space… for example “Take your own life / in your own hands.” The play with ‘take your own life’ is really neat.
I think the best two poems are Cut and Incision. There is some great imagery with those two. It reminded me a bit of Land Del Rey lyrics in Ultraviolence, which is one of my favorite songs.
Ending with Symptom was a strong choice. I love how it began and ended. Beautiful.
A few of the images seemed a little cliche, but overall, it was a solid collection.
*I was given an arc of this collection from the publisher in exchange for an honest review*
One of my favorite poems was Lagos Winter. I loved the play with space… for example “Take your own life / in your own hands.” The play with ‘take your own life’ is really neat.
I think the best two poems are Cut and Incision. There is some great imagery with those two. It reminded me a bit of Land Del Rey lyrics in Ultraviolence, which is one of my favorite songs.
Ending with Symptom was a strong choice. I love how it began and ended. Beautiful.
A few of the images seemed a little cliche, but overall, it was a solid collection.
*I was given an arc of this collection from the publisher in exchange for an honest review*
kamila79's review
3.0
I got the slim collection of poems “Dark When It Gets Dark” by British Nigerian poet Yves Olade from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. This is the first time in my life I agreed to do it but the chapbook piqued my interest so I agreed.
Olade himself says he looks for honesty and this is very much what I look for in literature and in particular in poetry. I don’t believe that poetry needs to be autobiographical but the rhythm of the poems must reflect the heartbeat of the author. Olade’s heartbeat is fast; I hear fury, grief, resentment in it. If heartbeat could taste, his would taste bitter and metallic. Olade’s poems are visceral and raw, they smell of blood and open wounds, of pain and exhaustion that come with the realisation of one’s self which is not always on accordance with how one wants to see oneself. The suffering, the loneliness are too much for one person so he invokes God, but does God listen and does he answer? The author, himself a graduate of ancient history, reminds me here of Greek gods crying for Zeus for help and rescue.
I can’t deny that Olade’s poems are intense and filled with longing for what was and was not, for what could be, filled with the desire to undo certain events or words which are merely suggested. However, what I am looking for as well in poetry, besides honesty, is a reflection of the author’s journey, of growth. I failed to find it here. I had the impression that I was reading the same poem, depicting the same state of mind and body, only with words assembled in a different configuration. He himself said in an interview: “Honestly, I tend to conceptualize my work less as a series of poems and more as the same poem, written over and over again in different ways.” I feel it would have been better to call “Dark When It Gets Dark” one long poem, only separated by chapters. It is done brilliantly in “Migritude” by Shailja Patel.
I see a lot of potential in Olade. At the moment he spits out his pain, puts it on the palm of his hand and observes it. Hopefully in the next collection he will wade through pain and emerge from it on a path which will help him grow.
Olade himself says he looks for honesty and this is very much what I look for in literature and in particular in poetry. I don’t believe that poetry needs to be autobiographical but the rhythm of the poems must reflect the heartbeat of the author. Olade’s heartbeat is fast; I hear fury, grief, resentment in it. If heartbeat could taste, his would taste bitter and metallic. Olade’s poems are visceral and raw, they smell of blood and open wounds, of pain and exhaustion that come with the realisation of one’s self which is not always on accordance with how one wants to see oneself. The suffering, the loneliness are too much for one person so he invokes God, but does God listen and does he answer? The author, himself a graduate of ancient history, reminds me here of Greek gods crying for Zeus for help and rescue.
I can’t deny that Olade’s poems are intense and filled with longing for what was and was not, for what could be, filled with the desire to undo certain events or words which are merely suggested. However, what I am looking for as well in poetry, besides honesty, is a reflection of the author’s journey, of growth. I failed to find it here. I had the impression that I was reading the same poem, depicting the same state of mind and body, only with words assembled in a different configuration. He himself said in an interview: “Honestly, I tend to conceptualize my work less as a series of poems and more as the same poem, written over and over again in different ways.” I feel it would have been better to call “Dark When It Gets Dark” one long poem, only separated by chapters. It is done brilliantly in “Migritude” by Shailja Patel.
I see a lot of potential in Olade. At the moment he spits out his pain, puts it on the palm of his hand and observes it. Hopefully in the next collection he will wade through pain and emerge from it on a path which will help him grow.
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