Poetry zine, Boris Paillard, 32 pgs, [email protected], $7
The name of Boris Paillard’s website, “Leftovers from the Feast” is far more appropriate than any reasonable person may guess at first glance. If Home Body is, in fact, a little book of poetry, I find myself only interested in its leftovers.
Paillard’s Home Body is comprised of 21 poems and 11 strange pieces of art. The former is largely concerned with the dangers of capitalism and the frivolousness of a Western lifestyle, but the latter is a great deal more varied. Paillard achieves more in his collage art and bite-sized aphorisms than he ever does in his verse. These range from a striking image of an underwater volcano bursting from a toddler’s arms, or the split-second before an imaginary beating in Times Square. The themes often remain the same from poem to image, but Paillard seems less dedicated to the repeated morality found in his verse. A perfect example can be found in the zine’s centrefold, plastered in large font: “how much & how long can one write with a chain pen at a bank?” When Paillard is good, he is great.
Verse-wise, however, he exposes himself to weakness through his uncompromising dedication to rhyme. Lines like “love cannot be a one-man job / is there any point in a sob?” are not enough of an exception to the rule to be forgivable. The odd strong image appears, like a city with “167 massive steel erections,” but they’re stifled by this strict adherence to rhyming. Paillard’s Home Body has some great moments, but would benefit from buckling down and staying consistent. (Joel W. Vaughan)