When Jack sent me this work, I was hesitant to write an introduction for it. It worried me that the English language would not twist to my wishes the same way that it clearly undulates to the very life force of Mr. Cambrian.
The poetry of Jack Cambrian is immensely delicate, as subtle as free verse, but at its best one can hear in it a finer cadence than is possible in free verse.
His work amazes, surprises and betters us, like a fresh flower, or the sound of expensive hardwood on a slate floor, or the feeling that one gets from the first taste of air after being submerged in bath by vengeful gangsters. If one thing can be said about Jack Cambrian’s work, it is that, in many ways, it is like a pony.
Writing in Pen
O, how I hate writing in pen!
I’ll protest it again and again,
I would rather use pencil, or crayon, or stencil,
Or a quill freshly plucked from a hen.
O, how I hate writing in blue!
There are far better things I could do,
Like writing in green, red, or aquamarine,
But my choices are tragically few.
Bugs
There are small, crazy bugs that live in my eyes,
They’re elongate and spotted and tiny in size,
- And they certainly caused my optician surprise.
A family of ants now inhabits my spleen,
(The bile duct is specially reserved for the queen),
- The worst case, my doctor says, he’s ever seen.
There are jellyfish, hydra and such in my bones,
The corals have claimed my left femur their own,
- I should get rid of them all, but I’d feel so alone.
Arachnids
Arachnids, despised by much of my kind,
Are helpful in eating the vermin they find.