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Cafard is technically a pamphlet, and a handsomely produced one. However, its thirty-nine pages of poems are almost enough for a collection, which would be the author’s second. Cole is one of those poets who has travelled a lot (providing much of his material), doing oddball jobs (eg ‘correspondence clerk, music tester for Polygram’). He claims to ‘have devoted himself to studying and writing poetry’ since he was fifteen. As he’s now knocking fifty, you wonder why he hasn’t published more. Or maybe the 1951 birthdate is a typographical error, because a lot of Cafard reads like the work of a young man, anxious to impress.

     That said, there’s much to admire here. These poems often sound great. Several have a confident, terse staccato with gritty word-play.

After Casino we sacked a cathedral
gunny bags of quattrocentii
razor-bladed icons slipped off like transfers.

They tarred and feathered Mother and Child
This is wig-growing country, lagged with
                                                       booty,
sleeve and leggins; a hair-shirt of Art.

is the first half of ‘Spoils’, one of the simplest poems here, and one of the best. But two pages later you get lines which clunk in every conceivable way. From ‘Next to Drowning’:

The second-hand flicked past 12
like futility in the dentist’s chair.

     Then there’s the title poem, which sits opposite one with the pamphlet’s only footnote, explaining that ‘in Rembrandt’s canon a peacock is a symbol of luxury and lust’. Curious to be told that, but rather more essential to know if ‘Cafard’ is a real or fictional French painter (presumably the latter, since my search engine failed to locate him). Also, is the reader meant to know (again, I had to look it up) that ‘cafard’ is French for cockroach and slang for feeling low? It’s a prosaic poem about poverty and art which packs some punch. However the characteristically abrupt ending, ‘these bastards know nothing of beauty’, isn’t earned or effective. Too many of these poems either dribble away or go out with a dull thud.

     Cole’s strongest poems are the personal, reflective ones. ‘Last Things’ is about the death of his mother.

              all your life
you talked about saving, spendthrift,
at the last in your best dress.

is touching, as is

There’s silence in your room
next to night as never.

That second line is literally meaningless, yet more powerful for it.

     There are two poets here. One writes unpretentious, accomplished lyrical verse - of which, as they say, there’s a lot about. The other is ambitious, ostentatious and occasionally pretty good. But not quite there yet.