Tom Beckett has a distinct style. I’d wager I could pick one of his poems out of a crowd of 100 other poems. No one does economy of language, does sharp, aphoristic wit, does irrepressible, contagious word play, and no one is as forthcoming about sex inter/intrapersonal as Beckett.

Only he would have the temerity, the sense of humor, the sense of scale (poetry’s not pure, not purity), to start out This Poem/What Speaks?/A Day, his latest book, with these three lines:

This poem
Proffers
Its ass.

[I also hear “proffers its sass.”]

If that ain’t enough to get your attention or your gall, the next two lines are:

This poem
Penetrates me.

Ouch. But what else could you hope for from a poem but an utter mental and physical breakthrough (provided you and the poem agree)?

For Beckett in “This Poem,” and in others of his oeuvre, poem is sensual, is attention (no viagra required), is thought and physical sensation without separation, is a person you know intimately yet will never fully know. In other words, Dr. Frankenstein, indeed, “It’s alive!” To take something as moribund as ars poetica and make it live is no flaccid achievement.

As I re-read the book, I’d like to consider the resonances between the three poems of this quickie collection. The bookends–“This Poem” and “A Day”– provide immediate stimulation. I’m still puzzling through “What Speaks.” Perhaps that’s why it’s the meat of this book.