I'VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO MY FAT

A debut volume of poetry embraces aging while mining memories for universal truths.

“I’ve grown accustomed to my fat,” notes Hood in the titular poem, a parody written with Mary Lois Hood Ketchersid, which opens the volume. “Why should I bother to reduce? / I’ve grown accustomed to the rolls that ooze over my belt / My jowls, my hips, my fifteen double chins / Are so familiar to me now.” Such acceptance is common in this collection, which Hood divides into three sections. The first contains odes to specific people and human relationships: a Sunday school teacher; a painter in Knoxville, Tennessee; ruminations on friendship, kindness, love, and God. The second section features poems composed in praise of objects and places: trees, spider webs, choir lofts, and instances of graffiti. “Each trunk and leaf whispers to me,” begins “The Singing Forest.” “My spirit’s fingers trace the giggling leaves / My tears form little rivers through bark canyons. / My eyes blink as they cross the slanting shafts of sunlight / descending through the gloom from high above me.” The third section, which the author calls “Puzzles,” includes narrative poems on subjects like apple and strawberry picking, a stroke, and even a neutron bomb: “A NEUTRON BOMB LANDED QUIETLY ON OUR CAMPUS. / LAUNCHED FROM A HIGH PLACE BY THE SYSTEM / WITH A TRIGGERING DEVICE DESIGNED BY ADMINISTRATIVE FORCES / A NEUTRON BOMB LANDED ON OUR CAMPUS.” Hood’s poems are generally free verse and composed of long, wordy lines that often read like prose. He sometimes achieves an economic thought or image, as here in “A Bushel of Apples”: “Every year the same sturdy cardboard boxes / to fill with firm, fresh apples. / Roll them in gently so they won’t bruise! / Be sure to give full measure!” More often, though, the verses are clumsy and discordant, relying on clichés or abstract language: “I feel America fading, / a country once borne strong / out of the womb of revolutionary courage. / The First New Nation / Free from the heritage of monarchy / not owing to any particular religious tradition.” Despite a few promising moments, the level of craft is not high, and readers will not find many gems in the work.

A varied but uneven poetry collection.