Romey’s Order is what poet and critic Susan Stewart describes as a “pure product of America,” and what Poet Laureate Kay Ryan calls, “brilliant and consuming and thoroughly strange.” Ryan notes that reading Riley’s poetry “forces you out of your old eyes.” Indeed, Romey’s Order functions as a witness to space and time, exploring the intensely personal emotions and thought processes of a young half-Japanese, half-white youth growing up in rural South Carolina. And while the book is at some level a narrative, following this central character as he experiences and remembers and notices the world around him, it also challenges standard notions of poetry and poetic form. Readers are forced to stop and ask themselves, “Is this poetry? Where is the meter? Where is the structure? Where is the purpose?” At times, the strangeness of the work, to which Ryan refers, overwhelms the beautiful morsels of imagery, as words flow swiftly on a westward current of incoherency.

The second poem of the book, “Picture,” is a perfect example of Riley’s writing at its best. The action is simple, and the language is potent. Each line paints a visceral picture of the character’s surroundings: “Our roof is crimp-ribbed (and buckling) tin, and tar… Our steps are slabs of cinder-crush and –temper, tamped and cooled.” Through the mind of Romey, Riley approaches the idea that everything which has happened and which will happen in a specific location converge on it in the present moment to make it what it is. The boy sees this house as what he later refers to as his “blood-home.” He tries to explain, “This is the house (and jungle-strangled yard) I come from and carry.” To Romey, and to Riley by extension, reality and memory intertwine to give significance to existence.

Several other poems in Romey’s Order contribute to Stewart’s ‘American product’ assessment. “Strand” teaches us to read these “hammered, wired and jerried homely words,” and “Hutch” emphasizes the earthy, raw and vernacular. The use of created words and local jargon open up our eyes to a new language, a new way of perceiving the world and trying to understand it. The language is alternately roundabout and precise, connoting emotions and tactile feelings both about the outside world and inner demons. There are sad things, personal things as well. These are gems of human experience and feelings that transcend the lived experience to the universal. In “Object,” Romey sees something of himself and his mixed lineage in an inanimate doll. He yearns to “pull on her speech-string until it was frayed good and gray-greasy. I would bend down and press my ear against the speaker-holes in her body’s (probably) pink plastic, the way a doctor would check your chest for heart-sounds, the way a landlocked child might listen for live ocean in a shell.”

Yet, Riley’s work leaves this reader with mixed emotions. Much like the poem “Skin”, there are many great ideas buried in the overall work. “Skin” directs our attention to the many tattoos that we all carry, seen and unseen as a result of our life experiences. Whether from chores, enlistments or scrapes or punishments, the scars are related, but each unique. Each tells a story of its own. However, the reader must dig for these images in his poems, we must mine for cogent sentences and wait for the nuggets of “brilliance” to surface. Over and over again Riley forces the question, “What is poetry about? What should it be about?” The poem, “Filmstrip”, is an extreme example. Each line of the poem is a new image, and every phrase is an object or adjective, no action. If the tile of the poem defines its purpose, then the goal was successfully completed, but we are left to wonder, what is the purpose? Does it even matter? At times Riley’s unique relationship with language seems an obstacle to his message. Whether intentional or not, Riley draws upon Japanese tradition in the spirit of haiku. However, his usage can be drawn-out and bloated, making the passages ungainly and perplexing.

One phrase from the poem, “Drill”, highlights the best aspects of Romey’s Order. Riley muses, “Everything is homemade.” The real strength of these poems lies in their unassuming attitude. Riley’s characters have no pulpit; they preach nothing but the everyday. The simple truth of these messages give them power. Riley forces us to ask questions not only about how we perceive others, but also how we perceive the medium of poetry. Ultimately, we leave the work with a better understanding, if not a greater appreciation, for how poets can, and will express themselves.