In Buzzing Hemispheres Urayoan Noel gives us a sort of freed, free verse, a gaping universe of open verse, one that conforms to no form, abides by no conventions, flows in and out of cracks, suffers no fools and is apparently a fan of David Bowie.
I think we often forget that poetry is not prose and therefore cannot and should not fulfill the functions that a narrative might attempt to. Poetry doesn’t tell us a story, it tells us a feeling, it doesn’t speak in sentences, it speaks all in breath, sometimes holds that breath, without the help of punctuation, only to let it all out again in a rambling waterfall of syntax. Poetry is a novel deconstructed into only its most basic feelings; it is an autobiography on acid sitting in a dark room mumbling into a tape recorder.
If poetry attempts to paint a picture then Noel’s is holding a brush in both hands. It is pictorial, descriptive, sensory and alive. It is words as 8-bit characters stamped on a page. It is an old mac running DOS, typing coded language horizontally,
:img :img :img :img and so on and so on and on.
¿Qué diablos es esto?
I don’t know but I like the way it feels.