Review: “To your health: Humanities Diagnosis” by Jeremiah Walton

With poetry making a come-back among the young we are arguably on the verge of a new literary era – or so we hope. Poetry is cheap, and explosive. So few words can expand the mind a millennia – or so Emily Dickinson taught us – and explosion is certainly present in Jeremiah Walton’s short collection of poetry ‘To your health: Humanities Diagnosis’. In a collection overwhelmingly about death, the book’s ironic title twists the grimace into a grin.

Poetry is not just about the words and what they say but about what they look like, and this is Walton’s shortcoming. The font does not fit with words, and is difficult to read, if it is meant to bring to mind old typewriters then it doesn’t work. The font of the titles is also poorly thought through – better go for a classic font that invites the reader into understanding his forceful words than alienate them with mediocrity.

The layout of the poems is not exploited enough. So much can be said with form – something which modern poets are certainly toying with – and so much is missed which could be inferred. The relationship between content and form is always worth considering, and here the form detracts rather than compliments.

The words themselves, however, have an energy essentially opposed to the present-day ennui. What with the simple but effective beat rhyme rife in the first poem, the collection starts off with a bang. However, with strong imagery and a critique of a money orientated society, Walton works with a well known scene and adds his own cynical twist.

The peak is certainly ‘Here it Comes’, a poem which knocks the breath from your body with its impact. Its dark themes are unforgiving but intimate, demanding the reader have a strong stomach. But why should Walton let the reader have it easy? Its beauty is grotesque and gory but works perfectly with the narrative it tells.

Recovery from such a strong poem is ephemeral, however, as the poem: ‘exorcism’ resurrects any fading tension and gives the collection a double climax – it closes on a more sombre, fragile piece: ‘Spring’, an exhale of breath.

Walton’s style is redolent of old and new poetry, with whispers of Seamus Heaney and hints of Stephen Crane, with his own voice shining through. Overall a poetry collection with a huge amount of brilliance promising plenty more offspring.