Scenes of the Crime

Donalee Moulton-Barrett was a writer and editor in Halifax.

In his paragraph-long introduction to Scenes of the Crime, Peter van Toorn, founding editor of JAC Press, calls Neale the Ginsberg of Canada. He may very well be right: Ginsberg has certainly written some mediocre poetry.

Like Ginsberg, Neale is full of passion and anger. But anger and passion do not ensure good poetry. That takes discipline and focus. Scenes of the Crime rambles, like a lovers’ quarrel. Words are flung with intensity and determination, but somewhere amid the fire the how and why of the argument gets lost. Like these opening lines, for example, from the collection’s final page: “in/proceeding/torments/of/dirt/odysseys,/ice-scrcams/of/ecstasy/with/bruised/cherries/on/top.” Or these meanderings from “Fading”: “I don’t worship demons, but I love sexual flowers of death./The cause of any reaction is the reaction itself./What is the meaning of universal hope?/What is the meaning of anything?”

Ironically, Neale never seriously grapples with these two questions in Scenes of the Crime. At his strongest, this 21-year-old student of John Abbott College in Quebec creates rhythmic, well-paced reflections that build to a crescendo. These poems are best read aloud; indeed several sound like contemporary punk rock anthems, with which they share a simplistic view and analysis of “the meaning of anything.”