NEAR OCCASIONS OF SIN Review By: CHARLES P .RIES
By: Louis McKee
Cynic Press
Post Office Box 40691
Philadelphia, PA 19107
Price: $8.00
44 Poems
79 pages
ISBN: 0-9673401-6-0
Louis McKee exemplifies the ‘philosopher poet’. From the title of his lasted
collection of poetry, Near Occasions of Sin to the content of his poetry we
see a writer who is not just good with word, or good with image, or selective
about the moments in time he chooses to inspect, but a poet who is capable
using his well honed skill with word, image and observation and elevating all
of them with a philosopher’s mind. McKee is rich and textured in his yearning
observations, nimble in his rich insights and wise in his conclusions. I felt
I was not only being entertained, but learning. I was growing larger because
of his clarity and counsel. It is not surprising that McKee has led an
examined life as suggested in his poem, “After The Sixth Visit”:
“That’s that one
when you lie
back and say no-
thing, everything
having been said
at least five times
already, and she
says well, what
are you thinking
right now? And you
tell her that
you’re thinking you
want to fuck her
and she says why
do you think that
is? but it is
too late, time is
gone, fifty minute
hours, seventy
dollars, and you
know when you leave
that you won’t be
back, you are better
then you have
any right to expect."
McKee is a man who wants love, who loves love; a man who adores women
but has had more then his share of challenges getting them, keeping them,
and loving them. He, like all lovers (and writers), is a work in progress.
This is illustrated in his poem, “Failed Haiku”:
“This evening I took a moment
to indulge a fantasy – you,
walking naked along a Jersey beach,
the sunlight on your lovely ass.
An ancient Japanese master
could work miracles with as much.
I am content with this.”
And again from his poem, “The Reason I Write”:
“I like to think she gets naked
and looks at herself in the full-length mirror;
as she does, and with a smile, slips
into soft bliss of soapy comfort,
the almost-too-hot water uncomfortable
for just a moment but then just right.
With her wondrous hair pulled up,
she uses it as a pillow, pours a glass
of wine, then picks up a book of poems.
This is the reason they were written.
The rest of you, get your muses where you can.
I write for this woman, naked in a hot bath
under a modesty of bubbles. This is our
moment. Our poem. You find your own.”
As I read this, McKee’s thirteenth collection of poetry, I could not help but
think of the late great small press poet Albert Huffstickler (who passed in
2002) who, like McKee, had the ability to yearn and observe so purposefully.
When I read poets of McKee or Huffstickler’s emotional depth I wish they
wrote novels. I wish these short, rich, textured scenes and their meaning
could be extended 300 more pages. Many poets write well, but few poets
give us work as rich and profoundly meaningful as Louis McKee.
