The Garden in the Machine by James Dewar

Foreword

It would be easy, and not inaccurate, to say of this richly diverse collection
that here is a smorgasbord, with something for every taste –
and then simply wave the reader into the dining room. And why not
start loading your plate, right off, with the items bearing the most
savory titles? Maybe, too, the more cautious among those readers
who are aware, already, of the range of James Dewar’s poetry will
likewise concentrate on one favourite “food group” while skirting
others. All of which might be well and good, to begin with. But it
will soon be obvious that, in a book without strict thematic compartments,
the intention is for every one of the various
dishes/cuisines to be feasted on in due course. The twin mottoes for
moving cover-to-cover would then be: “expect the unexpected,” and
vive la difference! That’s because this poet is (to switch metaphors)
a fearless explorer in his art: uninhibitedly crossing boundaries and
stretching horizons. Moreover, Dewar carries the right equipment:
well aware how poems must be molded, and transmuted, if they are
to bear the stresses of adventurous words and harness their energy.
So, then, for the reader venturesome enough to taste each and every
dish, it should not lessen anticipation if I list some main ingredients.
Or better yet, if I write in terms of an accomplished Chef
wearing many big hats. Thus, at the outset, but also interspersed
throughout, we encounter the poems of a man’s man who knows
and loves not only the “Northland’s” landscape and the fishing, but
his buddies on the road and the folks who live there year-round. He
also embraces and unveils the suburbs where he makes his home,
and the urban scene of offices and commuting, of conferences and
smoke-breaks: treating these locales with wise affection, laugh-aloud
humour, and apt irony. And then this manly persona transforms
into those of the lady’s man and lover: ladling out urbane ribaldry,
wistful flirtation, and saucy sarcasm with equal aplomb. Then there
are bardic rhyming poems, some romantic and others jocular, that
could almost be song lyrics, except that they roll their own
melodies. Then come poems of witness, which confront the horrifically
wounded zones of our world, along with poems that peer back
in intellectually-informed ways at matters historic and pre-historic:
in their own altogether distinct and engaging idioms. (Poems of the
anthropologist or philosopher.)
But besides all this, James Dewar’s imagination won’t be bound to
mundane matters or things the media tell us. In the guises of seer
and prophet he creates possible worlds of the sort that haunt us
from dreams, or that project our worst fears. Visionary worlds – and
nightmares of apocalypse. Everywhere from the primal “Garden,” to
an “Armageddon” extrapolated from the atrocities our species continues
to inflict on itself. His style in these realms ranges, fittingly,
from psychedelic to biblical. To those who deem themselves hardheaded
realists, to whom such material may at first seem over-thetop,
Dewar extends the invitation both to gaze deeply with an inner
eye and to see panoramically: igniting some brilliant metaphorical
fireworks that light the way.
No matter where the poetry in this multidirectional book takes you,
or from whatever angle you choose to approach, there are manifold
rewards in store. Whether you dip in selectively or at random, or
whether, sooner or later, you move through it at an orderly pace,
The Garden in the Machine is a cornucopia. Lightly witty and succinct,
or elaborately in earnest, these poems always respect the principle
of pleasure without which poetry could never be what it is.
And so, what are you waiting for? Bon appetit! And enjoy!

Allan Briesmaster