Reviewed by Charles Rammelkamp
Goddess of Swizzle
by Shirley Brewer
Apprentice House
April 2026, $14.99, 114 pages, ISBN: 978-1-62720-624-2
At the end of the penultimate poem, “My Movie Monsters,” recounting her early fascination with cinematic horror, Shirley Brewer asks herself:
Did I choose poetry then,
in the basement of my childhood? You know
the moment you see something beautiful
and defend it, despite everyone else looking away.
Beauty, love, and humor are all on display in Shirley Brewer’s charming new collection, Goddess of Swizzle. The collection, a banquet for all the senses, is divided into five sections whose titles metaphorically appeal to the tongue and nose – A feast for here and now, Thick brushstrokes garnish the menu, The moon could use a little more sugar, Limburger – a fragrance fierce as love, and Even the green Spanish olives lighten up, all lines taken from one of the poems in each section. But Brewer’s vivid poetry appeals to all the senses; colors abound. “A Taste of Lime,” set in Costa Rica (“Primary colors riot in open air: / parakeet blues, a taste of lime, // an indiscretion of red…”), “Purple Robe, Silver Swan” (“Sizzling yellows / mimic a honey bonfire amid turquoise and pink”) and “The Society of Obscure Yellow Dresses” (“Amber, ochre, saffron, blond, lutescent, never lily-livered”), both homages to Henri Matisse, are examples of the flamboyant, vibrant images throughout the book.
Indeed, the second section, Thick brushstrokes garnish the menu, largely contains poems inspired by Impressionist artists and are often set at the Baltimore Museum of Art. The whimsical “Goats in Wyman Park Dell,” which is located across from the BMA, takes its inspiration from the grounds-care strategy the city employed, putting goats in the dell, in the autumn (“A chain gang with facial hair and horns”), to nibble away at the inaccessible-by-mower vegetation. In the poem, Brewer leads the billies and nannies into the museum.
We skitter past
guards at the main desk who watch—wide-eyed—
my fragrant friends climb the staircase with ease.
I herd them toward mountain works. First, Cezanne’s
Mont Saint-Victoire Seen from the Bibémus Quarry.
For a few seconds they seem to relish the rising peak,
luminous contrast between blue sky, orange rock,
the savory temptation of green,
savvy patch of lavender with precipice.
There’s more color on display at Rochester’s “Royal Dress Shop,” but what’s key here is Brewer’s memories of her hometown and the people she grew up with. Like Baltimore – “My Gig as Tinsel and Beau,” “The Center for Useless Splendor,” “Pink Wig and Other Wanderings,” to name a few – Rochester is a recurrent setting for her verse (while others take place in Ireland, Italy, Norway and elsewhere). “Coming of Age in Wegman’s,” “Sweet Dreams, Dance Man,” “Sacristy of Sweets,” “12 Bright Oaks Drive,” “Pat’s Dancing School” and others are fond memories of her childhood and youth in upstate New York.
Elegies for lost friends and family highlight this nostalgic vibe. “At Mac’s Drive-In” is for her brother Richard, a memory of a seasonal fast-food joint they frequented together, especially on opening day. (“In your honor // I will order two Hoffmann’s All Beef Red Hots.”) “Emily Dickinson & Cher Settle in for a Heart-to-Heart” is for her sister Nancy (“A bundle of maladies took her fast, / not before she sang her own song, I love you. I am not afraid.”). In both “Undaunted, We Dare to Swizzle” and “Elegy with Squeegee Boys” she remembers her father’s passing. Elsewhere it’s her Aunt Alvina and her mother (“Jean and Alvina”), a beloved dance instructor (“Sweet Dreams, Dance Man”), a blind poet friend who was the victim of ALS (“Manet’s The Dead Toreador”), another friend who died from AIDS (“The Sounds of Sorrow”). “Homage” is for a hometown friend with whom, in their youth, she enjoyed Finger Lakes grape pies. These poems all brim with love and compassion.
But as the title of the collection suggests, these are all poems of celebration, and how does one celebrate if not with a toast? “Family Spirits” recalls her father’s taste for Manhattans, Genesee Cream Ale, her own taste for Kahlua. “Dear Dad” likewise recalls her father’s fondness for Manhattans. It ends:
The summer you died I found your wallet in your top drawer.
Driver’s license, insurance, your secret recipe for window cleaner—
my pink and white Lady Bartender business card
with the slogan we agreed on: I Mix Well.
“Undaunted, We Dare to Swizzle” celebrates all kinds of alcoholic concoctions, beginning “At the intersection of Tanqueray and tonic” and including the imagined preferences of Noah, Vermeer, Picasso (“his fondness for absinthe”), Van Gogh, and Humphrey Bogart, as well as the Manhattans dear to her dad. In the title poem, Brewer laments that in her first bartending job, after “two stirring weeks” at Maryland Bartending Academy, she mainly poured beers for the watermen who frequented Captain Clyde’s, “a waterfront dive,” instead of having the opportunity to mix Side Cars, Manhattans, Pomegranate Martinis and the like, but what the hell –
Stars like specks of beer foam
spatter the perfect night sky.
In “Twist,” over a Bombay Martini with a twist, Brewer remembers Chubby Checker (“I picture the lemon remnant gyrating / round and round this slippery cocktail glass”). In “My Life According to Cocktails,” she summarizes her life by way of Pink Squirrels (late teens), Black Russians (college), Vodka Gimlets (her thirties), Chardonnay (mid-life), and Manhattans (“A liquid flag waving—torn yet triumphant”). “My Prince of Cheese” celebrates the exuberance of cheeses while “Now Eat Your Fucking Cannoli,” like “Sacristy of Sweets” and “In Place of Cakes,” applaud the special joys of desserts.
As is obvious by now, Shirley Brewer’s poetry is hilariously playful. In “Ballet and Mushrooms” she notes how Autocorrect distorts her cousin’s text message (“skewers / her vacation plans”) – “I’m sure Fran meant ballet and museums” – constructing an extended metaphor from the apparent mix-up.
Beware the denouement.
A pair of Deathcaps among the corps de ballet
catches the principal male dancer unaware.
After a shaky jeté, he collapses—
in a tumult of tights—into the pit.
Even in my fungal state,
I’m gobsmacked by diction,
how the perfect word in a poem
rises en pointe.
Getting drunk on Shirley Brewer’s words, binging on her rich imagery and drinking in her joyous perspective are truly the bacchanalian treats offered by Goddess of Swizzle.
About the reviewer: Charles Rammelkamp is Prose Editor for Brick House Books in Baltimore and Reviews Editor for The Adirondack Review. His most recent releases are Sparring Partners from Mooonstone Press, Ugler Lee from Kelsay Books, Catastroika from Apprentice House, Presto from Bamboo Dart Press, See What I Mean? from Kelsay Books, The Trapeze of Your Flesh from Blazevox Books, and most recently, The Tao According to Calvin Coolidge, published by Kelsay Books.