The following review was contributed by: PAULA BARDELL

For over thirty-three years, Tom McCoy composed poetry purely to satisfy a personal need and to share his deepest thoughts with family, friends and neighbors, never once considering publication or wider recognition. From his home in Silver City, a rural New Mexico town in the foothills of the Pinos Altos Range, he earned his living as a stained glass artist, farmer and mechanic, while calmly absorbing the subtle details of the quiet, tree-lined streets and the immense expanse of the Gila National Forest.

The effects of human interaction on the natural environment fascinated him and poetry provided an outlet for his witty, often satirical and occasionally piercing meditations.

as we grow into our skins /

life fills up /

like deposits on artery walls /

we look for meaning /

where there is only rain /

we must find solace /

in trees /

and sunlight off crow’s wings /

and things shining /

(“things shining”)

Tom’s editor describes him as ‘a kind of modern day Emily Dickinson on the one hand, with a bit of non-ambitious Robert Frost on the other, combined with a dash of Kerouac and Gary Snyder…’ Certainly, the similarities with Dickinson are evident in his recurrent themes, mystic apprehension of the natural world and lack of personal ambition; and in many ways, he shares Frost’ s ‘simple woodland philosophy’ (Norman Douglas, 1913) and Kerouac’s rugged individualism. The writer, John Gist (author of “Crow Heart” and “Lizard, Dreaming of Birds”), rates McCoy’s work alongside that of the old iconoclast himself, e.e. cummings for his ‘use of image and irony’ and describes the poet as ‘a rare find that will surely open some eyes in the realm of American verse.’

McCoy’s simple language, pathos and humor draw the reader into his vividly revealed world. Whether the subject is natural or domestic, his concerns are with decay and renewal, moving and standing still, new and old ways of living; and his voice is compassionate, introspective and as proficient at spinning surprising conceits as capturing rustic snapshots of life in rural America.

-flannel sheets /

the honeymoon’s over- /

grandma said /

can it be? /

that great sticky god vanquished /

by a few yards of nappy cotton? /

the purest form of war pared to a touch? /

but still my body moves with your body /

there are as many ways to find us /

as leaves in a witch’s wind /

as smoke rising through the trees /

(“forms of war”)

Silver City – a place so fundamental to McCoy’s work - is known principally for mining, ranching, ‘critter’ watching, rodeos and ‘Cowboy Poetry’. It is home to Western New Mexico University and a handful of established poets, such as Julie Miller and Victoria Edwards Tester. John Gist, the man accredited with ‘discovering’ McCoy, lectured at the university for a period, which was where he encountered the reticent bard at a local poetry reading. Thereafter, the two men spent weekends together exploring the region’s desert and mountainous terrain, while discussing writing and philosophy. Several months into their friendship, Tom revealed some of his poetry to Gist, which led to the author eventually persuading him to pursue publication and High Sierra Books issuing this first volume.

“Days Like These” takes us on an extraordinary journey, which redefines our way of seeing the world with a unique and single vividness.

purple pears /

o bridges of bright morning pears /

o ransom of pears /

red pears in the sunset /

the flawless pears of evening /

o see the sails of the sea are ripe with pears /

high-heeled pears /

pears your mother never made /

(“homage”)

In “this dominion of dogs”, where rain comes down like “…nipples in a sultan’s dream”, children are “…coarse as gravel” and “friendship lies like magnificent unsmoked cigars”, we are as likely to encounter chickens, fleas and quirky characters as hummingbirds and “gossiping trees”.

There are fascinating and rewarding discoveries to be made and McCoy’s technical skills are as confident as his wit is irreverent and skillfully delivered.

god stumped into the kitchen shaking off light like a wet dog /

it fell in pools on the floor /

he smiled and shrugged /

we had shredded wheat and bananas for breakfast /

he used a lot of sugar /

Although in his late fifties and quite obviously content to write poetry in complete anonymity, Tom McCoy must surely now be classed as a rising star on America’s - and possibly the world’ - poetry scene. We can only hope that the dazzling rays of public recognition do not wither his exceptional talent.