ALL OUR GRANDFATHERS ARE GHOSTS

ALL OUR GRANDFATHERS ARE GHOSTS by Pasha Malla, 68 pgs, Snare Books, 4832 A Avenue Du Parc, Montreal, QC, H2V 4E6, $10

Like so many young men, Pasha Malla can't decide whether he wants to be a poet or a comedian. It may not be possible to be both: the comedian's impulse to elicit laughter can overpower the poet's need to be wary of single-minded impulses. A truly funny poem is never just funny-it is like a coin flipping in mid-air, flashing both comedy and tragedy. And with each reading there is a chance that it will land sombre side up.

In this sense, many of Malla's poems are more jokey than funny, with reliable punch lines but little ambivalence. Often, these not-so-urgent gags are matched by a speaker who is too limply conversational, as in "Best Poem Ever": ('You'd think she'd won/the Oscar/for Being Awesome/or something/ when really all she got was/sixty dollars and a plaque/donated by Starbucks.")

Malla' s primary mode is narrative, and some of the poems sag with story. At sixand-a-half pages, "Money for Nothing" - a tale of mistaken identity and retribution - is about twice as long as it needs to be. Malla might be generously compared to James Tate, elder statesman of the comically surreal narrative, but where Tate's poems are unpredictable, taking sharp (often dark) turns, in Malla' s work the voice is frequently familiar, the jokes expected. The book is at its most surprising and most re-readable when Malla's diversions lead him to a finely wrought observation. "Baseball: A Cricketer's Primer" features, among other things, an unparalleled description of umpires: "Baseball is governed by a team of angry white men dressed as elementary school custodians."

To find this, however, the reader must sift through less distinct bits, such as "Explaining Novelty T-Shirts to my Mom," a prose sequence that is precisely what its title promises, and "Natalie Portman, Listen" a frat-house sketch that goes on for five pages ("I want to kiss you/all over your body/but mostly/between your legs/where the vagina part is").

After 60 pages of this, the smooth, stout translation of Rilke at the book's end goes almost unnoticed.

Malla can carve out a compelling scene or tip a moment on its side, but he tends to crack jokes and ring bells until his most interesting lines are lost in the din. Too often, durability is sacrificed in favour of instant laughs. (Daniel Marrone)