There are some things words alone cannot express, but someone obviously forgot to tell Jewel that.
The pop singer's recent attempt to delve into the noble art of poetry with her book "A Night Without Armor" is, at best, juvenile, and at worst, embarrassing.
Some of her poems read more like babble from a junior high school diary -- a little pre-teen's wistful thoughts on the beauty of nature or love lost then gained -- than a mature woman's view on life.
Jewel's life itself is what poetry is made of, but she doesn't make very constructive use of it.
She was born and raised in Alaska, won a vocal scholarship to a prestigious music school in Michigan to study opera, and juggled countless coffee shop gigs before hitting it big. Not to mention, she lived out of her car for a year -- washing her hair out of restaurant sinks.
Sadly, none of the pain she must have felt as a young homeless adolescent or as a struggling artist is adequately conveyed in her poetry.
The poems are somewhat reminisicent of her songs. Jewel writes about boyfriends who forgot to call, whether God really exists and offers occasional smatterings about her observations of life.
With her music, you have, at the very least, her sweet voice and somber guitar strums to distract you from her simple, pseudo-angsty lyrics.
Her book, on the other hand, has none of the pomp that accompanies her songs -- not even her sweet voice to read you her poems.
Jewel's concerted efforts at profundity mangle her poems rather than enhance them. She doesn't let us enjoy her poems for the mere beauty of words or imagery they create -- which is what poetry actually should be. She just tries too hard to be soulful and deep, instead of just letting her words flow.
Her poem "Too Many Nights" (It's been/too many nights/of being with/to now be suddenly/without) sounds more like a deep thought from Jack Handy than any real poetry.
Another called "I'm Writing to Tell You" about a woman's fading passion for her lover (Neither of us even loved/the other truly/you only thought you did/and I only wanted to) has that same Jack Handy ring.
To her credit, Jewel knows how to employ vivid imagery. She offers rare gems like "Paramount, NY, 9:34 a.m." in which she describes herself being awoken from morning slumber: "Reluctant as pinpricks/dawn pierces sleep/with nimble fingers/I am unwoven."
She even toys with what makes poetry truly poetic -- onomatopoeia, alliteration and assonance. And the title of her book, "A Night Without Armor," is a clever play on words.
But even all that can't save Jewel from her own poetry.
