The mastermind behind Cirsova Magazine knew what he was
doing when he commissioned “My Name Is John Carter” and spread it out over
several issues. He’s got me hooked on
this literary drug, and every time he offers up another hit of this story, I’ll
be right there sitting on the curb outside the Circle-K taking a hit.
For those of you who aren’t aware, “My Name Is John Carter”
starts from a very simple premise: What if you retold “A Princess of Mars” not
in prose form, but as a Homeric poem?
You might cringe at the blasphemic notion of twisting one of
the all-time great books into long form poetry. Sacrilege!
You would probably do that if, like me, your potential love of epic
poetry was strangled in the crib by an education system that loves literary
gimmicks above all else, that premise probably sounds tedious. If, like me, your main experience with poetry
consists of listening to the litanies of pointless phrases and empty
alliteration spouted by “Poet Laureates” at the inaugurations of the
God-Emperor’s predecessors or the dreary exercises thrust upon students in
classrooms, you might even roll your eyes at the notion.
Slow that roll, my dude!
Hutchings strings rhythm and rhyme together to present a
rollicking tale of adventure that is Homeric in scope, but that doesn’t pay the
price of two thousand years of language and culture drift. His wordplay is thoroughly modern, but no
less epic. Many writers fall head over
heels in love with their own cleverness, but Hutchings dodges that trap by
never letting his ingenious word choices overshadow the story itself. To compare him to another classic poet, he
writes poetry with the grace and style of a modern day Kipling.
I know what you’re thinking, but hold that thought for a few
paragraphs. Kipling’s neglect in
American High School English classes is borders on child abuse. Telling kids that poetry is great and then
not exposing them to Kipling is like telling kids sculptures are great and then
not showing them anything from the Renaissance period. No art instructor worth his salt would fail
to show students Michelangelo’s David as a prime example of just how good
sculpture can be, and yet countless English teachers commit the same by showing
students the literary equivalent of a statue made of used tampons.
Seriously, if the English teachers of America truly wanted
to instill our youth with a love of poetry, they’d cram Kipling down their
throats early and often, and leaven that fare with a light spice of
Chesterton. Trying to pawn off Maya
Angelou as a worthy successor to these guys is like trying to pass a Big Mac
off as prime rib. Maya Angelou ain’t
half bad. Her craftsmanship is adequate,
and her choice of subject matter is mostly inoffensive pap. She might just be the best of what the modern
poetry field has to offer, but holy cats is that damning the culture with faint
praise.
Let’s get back to comparing Hutchings to Kipling. Clearly, Hutchings comes off as second best
in that comparison. For one thing,
Hutchings isn’t even telling his own tale – he’s ripping off Burroughs! Granted, Kipling’s poems speak to universal truths
of the human conditions and provide cutting and incisive insights into
everything from war to romance and everything in between. Kipling was a sage, a prophet, a patriot, and
a realist all rolled into one. Hutchings
is just presenting a great tale, well told.
That aside – and admittedly it’s a pretty big “that” to set
aside – Hutchings shares something very important with Kipling. His word craft is clear and readable.
Hutchings will have none of that. There are four armed aliens to fight, princesses
to save, and buckles to swash, and his rich and accessible word craft is as
clever as it is unobtrusive. Granted,
his word choices often make me laugh out loud in awe at the sheer audacity of
his writing, but it is the pure laughter of discovering an oasis in the midst
of a desert. That laughter is an expression
of marvel that poetry could be used to such electric effect. In Hutchings hands the choice of epic poetry fits
hand in glove as a natural fit for retelling the saga of John Carter. It harkens back to the days of oral tradition
when poetry, rhythm, and rhyme were used to lend weight and meaning to the epic
legends and histories.
In the end, and in the hands of James Hutchings, that simple
premise gets turned on its head. The
question is not why tell John Carter’s saga in this manner, but why did it take
so long to happen?
The only answer can be that it took a man with the talent
and creativity of a Hutchings to get around to it.
