Book Review

Brand New Fence
by Wes Ward
Knopf Publishing Group, 2007
www.randomhouse.com/knopf.
ISBN: 0307265838

Brand New Fence might be the best of all possible names for Wes Ward's book of poetry. A fence isn't glamorous or sexy or likely to transport its builder to another world, but it is lovely for its solidness and there's no reason not to admire, as Ward says in his introduction, "that grace of simplicity."

Ward’s poems are all about simplicity. Narrative, reflective and accessible. "Christmas Morn" was the first poem that really nails it. It starts describing an adult’s embittered Christmas with an incantation-like admission that "the most wonderful time of the year" often is not.

When the poison of the holiday
singes your soul, and the playground
at your feet grows smaller,
remember the distance of the stars,
the invisible sun, and the moon
that speaks gently every hour.

Even in those dark opening lines, there's considerable richness in the repetition of sounds that's as gratifying as holiday sweets. As the poem turns, so the structure of the language and the sound of the verse lightens. It continues,

Be grounded to the sand, be pulled
by the water, be warmed by the breath
of a daughter who sighs in delight,
those new skates on her feet,
ready for a nap on Christmas morn.

Ward has taken the reader from a lowering gloom to a recollection of the things that matter—skates and naps and the chance to rediscover and reconnect to a better, more promising world.

If the title, Brand New Fence, embodies the philosophy behind Ward's work, the poem, "In a Magazine" embodies his plan for execution:

I read a poem in a magazine.
Sounded like a guy with too much time
on his hands and not enough around his neck.

There are poems that sound as if they've been built out back in the shed—you can almost smell the sawdust on them. They're not artificial or machined, but they bear the file marks from the hands that lovingly, painstakingly crafted them. Ward’s work is solidly in this category.

His images are tangible and his poems capture small moments in time as "Sears Catalogue Counter": "...I turn Old Trusty over and over / in my blue jeans’ pocket, / admiring the thing lips / of the Sears lady."

And in between these carved out depictions of the everyday, there are more fanciful delights like "Loc Ness Marcus" which explains that the Loc Ness monster turned out to be "...just a boy named Marus, / who'd been looking for his wrist-watch." The message here is consistant with the rest of the book—there's no need to go looking for monsters when there's a great kid down the street with more real and more interesting stories to tell.

Even Jesus is brought down to earth in the poem "Easter" as the messiah makes an appearance in church:

He snored during sermon,
and when I nudged him, he moaned,
'Red Sox' and tilted his head again.

There are several delightful narrative poems like this throughout the book that tumble the supernatural and the simple with the mundane and the miraculous. There is the tale of "Poor Paul," "Cookies," "Workman's Comp" and, of course, death—all of the things that make life real and interesting.

It is possible, however, to be too real, too personal. Ward's worst example of this is "2 a.m.":

Even the pool water
Tastes of you,
as I squirt tendrils
like rainbows
into the sultry air
beneath your window.

Luckily, this is the exception rather than the rule. Wes Ward has carefully carved out his fences, each poem encircling a clear moment of space and time. I enjoyed nearly of the moments he's corralled and for the few that were a bit off-putting, I can say that I certainly admire the craftsmanship he's put into his Brand New Fence.