"Writing about music is like dancing about architecture" quote of disputable origin.
I am turning this book in front of my inner eye already a week and still I don't know how to write about it. Thin and white, it contains a whole exploding universe between its covers: Running animals, burning trees, erupting rivers, sweating skins, laughing lips, red lanterns, bleeding lungs, torn limbs, crashing helicopters, shooting guns, cutting shrapnel, flocking birds and clustering clouds.
It is a perfect structure of 73 pages. A poem on each page. Each poem, even the shortest, is like a film. Some poems that go along the length of the page are like a show of multiple sequels, say ten, where each stanza is a story and each line is a sub-story. Like in "One Thousand and One Nights", a story opens into a story that opens into a story opening into a story. A mechanism as in a dream, magical and scary.
I think of it as of a book and not a poetry collection. Even though it is more poetry than any other poetry. And the Ark of the Covenant of poetry it even is. And Brian Turner is the Indiana Jones of a parallel reality 1001 steps away. And the book is a Brian Turner Code containing the DNA of the East and the West ciphered on its pages.
I gave "Here, Bullet" to myself as a present for Christmas 2015. Read it up and down the Victoria line through January 2016. In March I was already collecting the shattered pieces of lives that I read about on its pages on the beautiful shores of Greece.
Such is the power of the written word.
Such is the magic of the book.
Such is Here, Bullet.