It’s usually fairly safe for authors to put some of their everyday life experiences into their work; I do it myself. Some of the information which goes in, however, needs bravery on a sliding scale, and I would put author of White Knuckle Steven Bruce at the top for this collection of poems dealing with the traumas of his first sixteen years of life. He admits himself, in the Acknowledgements section at the back of the book, that the writing was for him a painful, if ultimately cathartic and liberating, experience for him.
Usually when I review poetry I name and quote from my favourites; however, it seems inappropriate to speak of enjoyment, or of having been entertained, with a collection such as this. I will concentrate on the language used, and the manner in which is used. The title of the collection, and the illustration of this, does not dispose the reader to think these poems happy one; but the titles of the early poems contradict this until the content contradicts them in turn. Nursing sounds harmless; but we do not usually associate such things with ‘drug and domestic … physical and emotional abuse’. We do not expect to hear that ‘the breast milk we swallow is rotten’ from the breast-fed child. Similarly, a Domestic Song ought not to consist of ‘Raised voices, vicious words … furniture breaking, police sirens’; a ‘madhouse symphony’, in fact. We’re beginning to get the idea by now, so a Domestic Dance where ‘They struggle, drag each other around the room … He grabs a handful of hair … (and) she scratches his tattooed face’.
So the abuse goes on, the child beaten, trying to care for his smaller brother while his mother sleeps off either drugs, or drink, or both; eating plain toast, ‘a dry bite of existence’. The Adults Here Are Ornamental applies to the collection in general, rather than just the poem to which it is title, and gives an idea of this child’s life. I won’t say more, you get the picture, and I don’t wish to cause the author further pain by recounting more of what he has lived. Yet he made it out somehow, through foster care to the streets to any number of undesirable places, as made plain in Sleep. A Letter to My Young Self, at the end of the book, charts his achievements, which are many. I salute him, and accord him my deepest respect; it would be a good idea for anyone, poetry fan or not, to read this and thereby offer him the same. Highly recommended and worthy of 10*; unfortunately 5* is the maximum I’m allowed to give.