No Planets Strike by Josh Bell

Molly Prosser

You know that nauseating, irritating feeling you get when you see your boyfriend checking out an amazingly hot chick, all tan and thin and tall, and wearing a blouse that you own, but you could never, ever look that good wearing? It’s a bit of envy, mixed with obsessive curiosity and compulsive violence. You know the feeling--you’re angry and disgusted with him, but to be honest, you realize you can’t compete with her. You’re pretty, sure, even cute, but she is hot, and in fact, you were checking her out a little, too. So, you just sigh, and go on drinking gin and tonics until it’s time to go home, wherein you will make him sleep on the couch and buy you a bagel in the morning.

That’s what it’s like reading Josh Bell’s No Planets Strike. You may have thought you were a good poet, adept with words, and at times, profoundly creative. Then, you read Bell, you get that sickening envious feeling, and decide to give up writing poetry forever. There’s just no point in continuing. He’s created the best images ever imagined, and employed the most impressive metaphors. His diction is a cunning mix of contemporary references and formal appreciation that dazzle the mind and make lesser poets hang their heads in reverence. Even the blurbs on the back cover gush some of the most academic, pompous baloney you’ve ever heard, but you realize it’s because the critics are jealous, too. And that makes you feel a little better.

I know it’s not ‘PC,’ artistically supportive, or even nice to get mad at poets who are better than I am, but I can’t help it. I would kill to have written the line “your love is like a bad tattoo,” or “your eyes take on the wind’s perspective” like Bell does in “Love Double-Wide” and “The Beautiful American Poem.” I want to kick myself for not thinking of comparing a motorcycle gang to a swarm of armoured bees, the smell of death to apricots cooked in mud, or a drive-in movie screen to the forehead of a worried monk. Sadly, Bell beat me to it.

One of the most impressive/frustrating aspects of this collection is the fact that Bell is fearless with his poetry. He does not hesitate to indulge in total self-reflection to stunning ends. He makes his process numbingly apparent in poems like “Coming Attractions” – a long list poem about poems he’ll most likely never write – and “Poem Voted Most Likely,” wherein he lists the possible effects his words will have on the reader, including drinking hot dog water and huffing tractor fumes. He goes so far as to invent a recurring character called Ramona who indulges in all of his random musings. We eventually discover that this young girl is simply Bell in disguise – a realization that is as shocking as it is hilarious, and intensely creative and brave.

He’s actually quite infatuated with the idea of femininity. Many of his poems revolve around fantasy idealizations of women from mermaids to ex-girlfriends to trailer-park Ophelias to sexy waitresses to Julia Roberts. Ramona is his compass, guiding him through his sexual repressions and confusions, and shedding light on his thinly veiled adoration and infatuation with unobtainable women. Finally – a man who loves women so much he tries to step into their shoes in order to better understand them. The down side? Bell writes women better than I do.

This debut collection is full of quirky, repeating images like ceiling fans, weddings, caskets, zombies, sea creatures and suicides. It’s always surprising, inventive, and undeniably attractive. No Planets Strike is the hottest of the hot girls at the poetry party, and it will leave you hovering over the punch bowl, staring, dribbling tropical punch down your chin.

 

 

Molly Prosser holds an MFA in Poetry from Carlow University where she teaches literature, marketing, and writing. She works for ModCloth.com as a Fashion Writer, and is on the board of the International Poetry Form and the Small Press Festival. Her work as appeared in the Pittsburgh City Paper, La Fusta, Football Bloody Hell and Weave Magazine. She is currently working on her chapbook entitled 'The Slip.' Molly is a lover of travel, urban farming, and Bollywood movies. She lives in Regent Square with her husband and mini wiener dog, Keith Richards.