John Hulse Collected Poems (1985-2015) volumes 1-3

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Winner of the International Poet of Merit Award and the Shakespeare Trophy of Excellence.

Powerhouse poetry. A magisterial collection. A combination of Bukowski’s Last Night On Earth and Orwell’s 1984.  Susan Hampton, Edgewood Journal

An emotional rollercoaster. Soon to be a cult classic.  Kristina Betts, Lapel Review

His poetry will go on being read and studied for years to come. From his pillowcases with magical powers, the consequences of a man coming home five minutes too late, or a Marine platoon in Vietnam making a left turn instead of turning right. The poems build upon one another with lines of creation, then of destruction. Then start all over again with the next poem and the next line. It will wear you down. An overwhelming presence here. And while you are reading, starvation seems inevitable. Survival unsure.

I fully agree with Bukowski Lover's concise review. John Hulse does, indeed evoke the wordplay of the Late CB, but he brings an honesty and openness way to beautiful and fragile, so that you'll weep every time that pure sweetness meets the mean streets of this Reality we all share. He'll make you yearn for its Deliverance, and then, suddenly, you'll know what you must do to save it. ... and you're not alone... even if you feel like it. Hulse evokes here a sort of Matthew 5: 1-12 Beatitudes for our times, through deep-diving, immersive views into the world of Empathy and Mercy, and Compassion that are spell-binding in their simplicity.

This book should be included in the "Welcome to Humanity" Packets for all newcomers. John Hulse is a true Master of the Word, and most tender of Champions for the Human Condition.

Mr. Hulse displays a mastery of the foibles of humanity—specifically men. He’s got a sharp wit, a fresh an interesting take on relationships, and isn’t afraid to push the envelope with his content. His bio discusses his world travels and myriad life experiences, and this reader can’t help but notice how his past very obviously affects his work. It appears to be an organic evolution, because growth in technique, word selection, and image creation is evident throughout. A thoroughly entertaining jaunt through the mind of a man who is without doubt as interesting as his work.

Whenever I’ve had the opportunity to read Mr. Hulse’s work, I am always struck by the mix of brutal honesty and humorous social commentary. He hasn’t failed to impress with this latest release. His jabs at the evil of corporate America, his insights into the dichotomous nature of public America, and his humble and hilarious comments on his personal life never disappoint. His raison d’être is poetry, and this dedication is obvious. With the loss of so many great poets in the last 10 or 15 years, I am glad another voice is there to contribute to the art.

we only really ask two things of congress

don’t let them cheat us

don’t let them poison us

but it all depends on how much

campaign cash

they receive

from their biggest donors

then maybe they’ll

let them

poison us

a little

or maybe a lot

again, depending

on the

cash.

on the back of a dollar

got a cheeseburger.

paid.

got the change,

and on the back

of one of the dollars

returned to me

was written,

“whoever finds this dollar

will be the first one

to witness

The Rapture.”

but it could have said

something else?

the handwriting

was terrible.

the best and the worst job I ever had

It was the first week of the

first Gulf War

and we were headed

to the Jewish Community Center

in Berkeley.

When we arrived

it was my job to patrol

the outside gate

and wait for

crazy men with bad intentions

who might want to open up

on the synagogue

with an AK-47

or

with a load of explosives

strapped to their chests

or inside their cars.

My job was to make sure

they didn’t get through

the front gate.

The hours passed

as the rabbi’s continued

their lessons

in peace.

Baruch atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melech ha-olam,

she-asah neeseem la-avotaynu ba-yameem ha-heim

ba-z'man ha-zeh.

(Blessed are you, Lord, our God, king of the universe,

who performed miracles for our ancestors in those days

at this time.)

I wondered what my mother

and father back in Indiana

would think of their son now,

staring straight ahead

wondering what

the next moment

would bring.

For two weeks

I patrolled outside

the synagogue

without incident.

The same time in Israel,

suicide bombers

killed 22 and wounded 17.

I prayed for a return

to the peace

of the cornfields.

I was alive,

and it was time

to go home.

poetry

Horace felt that you really couldn’t write a decent line of poetry

if you didn’t drink something stronger than water.

Keats talked a lot about the soul and thought it best when the poetry was unobtrusive, the subject was what really mattered.

President Kennedy said that poetry reminds man of the richness

and diversity of existence.

Emily Dickinson said when she wrote the great poem

it felt as if the top of her wonderful head had been

taken off.

Eliot spoke of the inexact formulas when emotions are recollected

in tranquility.

Maxwell Bodenheim compared writing poetry to trying to paint

the color of the wind.

Marianne Moore, such a clever girl, said that poetry was nothing

more than verbs and nouns.

Elizabeth Drew read poetry because poets were haunted

by the inescapable tyranny of time and death.

Robert Fitzgerald said that poetry existed somewhere between

elegance and revelation.

Flaubert believed that poetry was an exact a science as geometry.

Brodsky said that if a society failed to appreciate poetry it was doomed to oblivion, or at the very least destined to be ruled by

a tyrant or dictator.

Emerson had a beautiful thought. He believed that every word was

once a poem and every new relationship was a new word.

Christopher Morely believed that the courage of the poets is to

keep the door open that leads to madness.

Uncle Walt yearned for the good audiences. He found them.

Dylan Thomas believed that a good poem helps change the shape and significance of the universe.

For Wallace Stevens it was love, love, love, love. Love of the images, the rhythms, the ideas and the words. A poet was the priest of the invisible.

With Dudan, poetry was a destiny.

Chesterton took his mind to wild places, all the while praying like mad that it would return safely.

Robert Graves was kind enough to thank those around him for his

inspiration.

E.B. White believed in mystification. Where was the pleasure

in giving all meaning away.

Randall Jarrell spoke of the poetry of thunderstorms and was struck by lightning a half a dozen times.

Robert Penn Warren called it the deepest part of autobiography,

a hazardous attempt at self-understanding indeed.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge described poetry as the best words

in the best order.

Poets to Santayana were the priests of the muse.

Yeats made poetry in the conflicts within himself.

Mr. Sandburg thought about what was going on behind a half-closed door and how we were all really sea animals living on land, wishing with all our hearts that we could fly.

Bukowski believed in the muse and that poetry was the only thing

between you and impossibility.

Robert Frost, with conviction, had it down.

Poetry is a way of taking

life by the throat.

madly, deeply, truly

standing on rooftops 4 floors

above the concrete,

on my toes leaning off,

almost went that time.

the cars and people

move along below,

no one notices

my high wire act.

a strong wind and that would

have been it.

tried to invent new games

to avoid thinking of the end.

try not thinking about it

for one minute,

five minutes,

an hour.

An hour was impossible

on so many nights.

body wasting away,

from the inside out

it seemed,

177 pounds,

had turned into 147 pounds,

and down

and down

and down…

even my wrists somehow

looking terribly thin,

Oh God,

did I do things back then,

because of the pain,

and the hunger,

and the madness,

I did so many things

that I am not proud of,

and for the billionth time

from the bottom

of my heart,

I am truly

and deeply

sorry.

That's How Bad It Is (January 2-8, 2004)

At a place called

Logistical Base Seitz,

somewhere

west of Baghdad,

insurgents began

a mortar attack

wounding

36 US soldiers.

near Baghdad,

insurgents detonated

a roadside bomb

wounding

4 US soldiers.

outside of Kirkuk,

insurgents blew up

a roadside bomb,

wounding 11,

including 3 children.

in Balad,

insurgents began

a mortar attack

at 5:04pm,

resulting in the deaths

of 4 US soldiers,

3 others were wounded

in the attack.

south of Baghdad,

insurgents detonated

a roadside bomb

killing 2 US soldiers

and wounding 3.

at a place called

Nabil’s Restaurant

a huge car bomb exploded

killing 10

and wounding 35

civilians.

in Ramadi,

insurgents attacked

a US convoy.

Part of the convoy

included a giant oil tanker.

An RPG set the whole thing

sailing skyward

in a giant ball

of flames.

Casualties unknown

at this time.

A lot of mothers, fathers,

sisters and brothers

are crying right

now.

Can you hear them?

I can.

the poems that I have to write for joni

the responsibility

of this task

is almost

more

than I

can bare.

to the lost volume of poetry, part 1

due to

lack of pen,

lack of paper,

lack of energy,

too much energy,

psychotic technology,

broken pipes,

rain, flood, fire..

and the beautiful woman

waking up in bed

wagging her finger at me.