Friday, April 13, 2018

Some Music And A Little War

Peter Finch (right) with members of Cabaret 246 outside the London Musicians Collective, May 1985



[Image source: http://www.peterfinch.co.uk/photopf2.htm]




 
One of the pleasing things about Peter Finch's Some Music and a Little War (1984) is that you can’t pick out a poem that typifies it. Your way of reading is subject to review; it’s one of Peter Finch’s instruments. Here's one of the central pages of Instantaneous Magnetism:


 


  enemi 
magnetism
 
 
magnetism
                     turn
 
magnetism
       charm
               tude
magnetism
 
               Way.
Magnetism
 
  electri
magnetism
 
 
magnetism
                       brain
 
magnetism
 
 
magnetism
     s
 
magnetism
 t        lps
 
magnetism,
      nd      re
 
magnetism,
 
           generate
magnetism
 
             without
magnetism
 
endowed
magnetism
 
          diffuse
magnetism
 
        collect
magnetism
 
   anima
magnetism
 
 
 
Thus many
          from the
 
 
          atomic
 
 
 
 
is the union
 
 
in
 
 
we do not
    developing
 
 
 
          tism,
they
                   nal
       net
 
                   nat
           tis
 
   king
mag       m,
 
 
 
  as a study
sup  stucture
 
 


 


This doesn’t look as good as the book by a long way, and it really isn’t supposed to be in a table, but I couldn’t get it to line up around the crucial central column of “magnetism” otherwise.


That central column is in part unseen but no less felt, just like the real thing. The palimpsest of academic, perhaps scientific, writing is also discernible, but comically disrupted by a vein of demotic and perhaps accusatory comments


(“...(fuc)king mag(netis)m..”?). “tude” is part of “student”, I think, but it might also be part of “attitude”. “nal” and “nat” suggest – by a sort of rhyme with “animal magnetism” – “natural”, and (just as potently for a Welsh author) “national”. But there are no right answers, only good questions. It is curious how a poem that you can’t precisely read aloud nevertheless has a distinctive voice. Or you might call it music, like the title of the book; but if so, it’s music with a lot of space through it, like Cage or (an acknowledged influence) Trout Mask Replica.The whole page shimmers. One has a palpable sense that even in the original book Instantaneous Magnetism doesn’t really fit on the pages. The visible part is a section of a trailing knot of energy, that is eventually likened to the pattern on a tie-dye shirt.


 


Bright Wind, the companion-piece to Instantaneous Magnetism, is concerned with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, another invisible play of forces. The “and” in the following passage comes from the sixteenth-century doubling of epithets beloved by the translators who made the prayer-book and the bible. But Peter Finch keeps one mundane eye on the incongruous break-up (or break-down) of a charismatic service into modern, urban men and women.


 


motives and desires


gas and electric


rushing and struggling


faith and godly


distinct and convincing


strenuous and occasional


week and many


bed and found


uneasy and disturbed


methods and results


city and people


frowned upon and imitated


fingers and bade


life and opportunity


god and they


 


sinners in the hands


 


The poem allows fingers to be pointed.


 


The “little war” of the book’s title is (of course at one level only) the Falklands war of 1982. Sometimes foregrounded, it is more pervasively there in the background and in fact it’s no part of Peter Finch’s purpose to spell it out. He is dismissive of attempts to do that: “The full story is bent like soft plastic. It fits the contours of the newscaster’s head.” So what seeps onto the page is in various ways oblique. Thus we find a nineteenth-century empire-builder subduing an empty part of the dominion (and pinning down its creatures as lists of names) in An Idea of Empire. Or a piece with this title: I wanted this piece to have a title which mentioned Warsaw and the Ghetto and perhaps connotated the press, the illegal press. But all these terms mean something else now. I won’t bother. It starts like this: -  (I’ll quote some of it in a minute).


 


We carry a lot of questions around with us:


 


            is plastic alive


            is blood forgotten


            is air emulsified


            is an ant a giant to a microbe


            is an atom a star


            is chess a product of bicycles


            is seawater evil


            is rubber hollow


            is double vision the result of rainwater


            is fishfood not really food


 


                                                            (Some Blats)


 


They’re funny, and more intelligent than they might seem at first, but we have no answers. We need advice, but in this book advice leads in unwelcome directions:


 


            Grasp the grenade in the throwing hand


            no gloves, no rings,


            with the fingers holding the lever tight


            against the body


            tremble, let the blood flush under your nails,


            pull out the arming pin,


            do not relax grip on the lever before throwing.


            Throw.


            Throw.


            Throw.


            Throw. 


 


                                                            (Strategic Targets)


 


That’s exciting, but it’s obviously not right. Or perhaps this good advice appeals:


 


            Keep quiet, you can betray –


            but not everyone can.


            Don’t talk in the street.


            You must not make notes,


            code it, destroy it,


            the less said, keep quiet.


 


You listen:


 


            all the time the water running,


            rolling together, confluencing,


            swelling out from the thickness of your arm


            to the size of your thigh. Large it’s large.


            It makes more noise. It goes


            splartsch splartsch splartsch


 


Quiet comes to this:


 


            They entered the Umschlagplatz, scrubbed,


            hair flat, clean clothed, four by four, four by four.


 


                                                            (I wanted this piece to have a title which...)


 


 


Advice is one thing, and then there’s testing.


 


                  tevt tevt


            tawfully tsss


            ting what


            tevery it


            ting ting


            ten tag tag


            tsst ting


            tevt tint


 


When this eventually streams into a less clotted sound it becomes like this:


 


            then you know


            it is awfully hard for anyone to


            go on doing anything because


            everyone is troubled by everything.


            Having done anything


            you naturally want to do it again


            and if you do it again


            then you know you are doing it again


            and its not interesting.


 


                                                            (Gertrude Stein, Doing It Again)


 


If the line about blood flushing under the fingernails caught your eye you might also appreciate this:


 


They wanted the salt, the water to cleanze them. To take all the flames from out of their souls. They had died in their hundreds. Half sunk in sand, their flappy mouths filled with sea. He looked across them, saw the remains of an ambulance – its red lettering still showing faintly as it rusted back into the coastline....


 


The dusk was coming. He wanted all his energy for the sea. He touched his forehead, felt the bone flex sponge-like under his finger...


 


                                                (Strategic Targets)


 


It’s with the sense of touch that the book ends, an artist’s account but no more purely “autobiographical” than any of these other poems:


 


You know what I’m doing. I’ve told you.


Smoothing, planing, rubbing, rolling.


Each time I look at it its less,


smaller, rounder,


like a pebble you’ve had in your mouth and kept in your pocket and taken out and sucked and rolled under your tongue and spat out and dried on your shirt and put back in your pocket and thought about and then tried sucking without it and felt what its absence might mean and touched it, the actual pebble, with your fingers at the same time, niggled it a bit, down near where the rip in the material at the bottom of the pocket is, so the pebble touched your skin, not too sharp because you’ve softened it, not cold, and you take it out, palming it, suck it again.


It’s like that.


 


                                                            (If Marcel Duchamp had been writing this...)


 


*


The Peter Finch Archive, an essential resource for his poetry and a lot more: http://www.peterfinch.co.uk/sitemap.htm


Claire Powell's informative essay "The Art Of Noise: Peter Finch Sounds Off": http://www.peterfinch.co.uk/noise.htm


Peter Finch's blog (almost dormant but very good): http://peterfinchpoet.blogspot.co.uk/






From Peter Finch's Antarktika (1973)




[Image source: http://www.peterfinch.co.uk/newvis~1.htm]











Labels: , ,

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home

Powered by Blogger