Review: “Surf Noir” Relentless Waves of Image and Sound


Pacific Standard Time: New & Selected Poems By Kevin Opstedal, Ugly Duckling Presse, 216 pp, 2016

Introductions in poetry collections are something I generally skip over. But after reading a few poems in Pacific Standard Time: New & Selected Poems by Kevin Opstedal I decided Noel Black’s opening remarks might be useful, though the title of the intro – “Bansai Palm Trees: or Pre-Apocalyptic Romanticism and the Psychogeographic California Landscape Poetry of Kevin Opstedal” – could confuse the issue even more. However, it doesn’t. Mr. Black gives a fairly clear picture of a poet living a poetic life far away from academia, as free as a surf-bum (which Mr. Opstedal is) and dedicated to writing and running small-presses. I checked with a publisher friend in California (thanks Dave Boles) to see if “Surf Noir” was a movement in poetry that I had missed. It isn’t. This kind of poetry is confined to the California coast between Venice and Santa Cruz. It is heavily influenced by the Beat poets, Charles Bukowski and writers who were fueled by psychedelic drugs during the sixties and seventies. Thus informed, I dove back into this extensive volume.

The book is divided into three sections and seems to be chronological, though there is no clear indication of this provided. One page poems are the norm but a few run longer. Some of the poems are as dense as only psychedelically addled gibberish can be. Others are touching, funny, original and insistently rhythmic. And still others are absolutely brilliant.

“Surf Noir” (a descriptive coined by Mr. Opstedal) should be ocean oriented and, of course, these poems are all about the poet’s relationship with the sea, both as metaphor and as a natural fact. Recurring themes of tides, waves, sand and sometimes squalid, sometimes beautiful beach towns dominate the pages. Vivid colors, sad and broken people, decay and cleansing are themes with many variations. And this poet manages to make most of the variations work well and stay interesting. Surprises come often like these lines that open a poem called “The flames could be seen for miles”:

One of the earliest recorded

beach barbeques

was the cremation of Shelley

Or these from “Over the Edge”:

Another day made of preternatural acetate

folded to fit every corner of the sky

a kind of see-thru-origami

And there are surprisingly beautiful uses of language as in these lines from “Invasion of the Body Surfers”:

drenched in sunset