The poet Brodie bares himself. All poets bare themselves and their poems sit at a certain balance, between how much the poet is baring, and how much of it we can enjoy or bear to look at. Brodie shows us the edges of his sanity, his demons and his feelings, and with a healthy disregard for how much of it we want to see.  It’s his decision, and we are going to see it all, and it’s brave.  Brodie writes like fuck!  He writes like an apocalyptic angel, and the verses which result appear as narratives in a broken, bedsit kind of way.

The first four pages of Wild ways (Whirlpool Press) are like a winter’s journey; the next six are a relationship. Brodie has a talent for the insane, see Blue Cheese. In the poem A feed we see some plain living guys make soup, it’s Brodie and Jim. The poem A feed is like reading all the poetic lessons that can be taken from Bukowski, and adding another dimension, with something like the noise of the universe rushing in. But the poem A feed is stand out.

The line ‘you missed me wearing my suit’ (blood), is a line worthy of Morrissey, and there are a lot of good asides in Wild ways. Importantly, the collection laid out beautifully, typeset confidently, gloriously smashed together, with ambiguity the whole time about where one poem may end and another one may begin. It gives the collection a wandering feel, like listening to the poet read to himself, with his own mind speaking over himself, as in maybe, the poem Roots, (‘not sure why I thought of war.’)

Wild ways ends with a few of what I can only call spaced-out poems, which are conversational, evocative, thoughts to oneself plus bare confessional, as in maybe the reveries of a country walker. For Brodie it’s ‘Watering wells V’s buzzing beez’ (smoke that thunders) - one of many phrases that show he’s listening to the cosmos, phrases that show that he is awake, and which display a talent for the word that you love to see as a reader.