Some Music And A Little War
Peter Finch (right) with members of Cabaret 246 outside the London Musicians Collective, May 1985 |
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
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magnetism
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magnetism
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turn
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magnetism
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charm
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tude
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magnetism
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Way.
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Magnetism
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electri
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magnetism
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magnetism
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brain
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magnetism
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magnetism
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s
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magnetism
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t lps
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magnetism,
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nd re
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magnetism,
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generate
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magnetism
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without
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magnetism
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endowed
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magnetism
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diffuse
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magnetism
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collect
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magnetism
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anima
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magnetism
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Thus many
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from the
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atomic
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is the union
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in
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we do not
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developing
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tism,
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they
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nal
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net
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nat
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tis
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king
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mag
m,
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as a
study
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sup
stucture
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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: Claire Powell, Peter Finch, Writers Forum
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