Friday, May 22, 2026

The Isle of Portland

 

Graphic in Portland: a Triptych by Susan Duxbury Hibbert



touchable stone(s) left in imaginations' flows to be, I hope, re-eroded by readers ... and re-built again by them ...


I'll take that invitation from the Author's Note by Mark Goodwin. In fact I'm not sure how else I would get to the quarry-face of Portland: a Triptych (KFS, 2019) without a weary trudge over explanatory ground.  


Mark Goodwin:


StPaul'sCathedralpartlycrushedbyTheUnitedNationsBuil
ding&otherNewYorkfacadesBigBenThePalaceofWestmins
ter&BuckinghamPalacejostlingonthetipofTheBillBigBeno
nitssidetrain-wiseorlikeapatientwaitingrocketasleeepall
spacesonTop&UnderHillsoccupiedbyallPortlandStonebuil
dingseverconstructedanywhereinaworldonanEarththeTo
werofLondonChristchurchPrioryLondonBridgemangledto
gethertoresembleanornateglacialmoraineyetwithenough
voidswallsfloors&corridorstodrawinmenwithstringinsear
chofbeastslikebullsPolaris&Persephonechattinginnumer
ouscoolwhitesepulchresasifomnipotentascenotaphsrisefr
omrubbleroundthemTheBritishMuseumTheBankofEngla



Tim Allen:

Psalm belly eagles onto platform. He's the train's draper.
For the wild crystal 14 year olds. Flamingo voiced.
Origin of Species inseparable from mum's separates.

Daemon's dropper glare. Kittiwake flounces whitefish skirt.
Morose old coal-horse in love again with a look-alike foal.
High Noon magi dust air shocks pink torchlight dust.

I ironed out helicopters. Any old raison against the current. 
The wood wobbled in the shorts and rotted in the longleg.
Lazy gamer snorts reasons for vandalising Auntie Oolite.

Bucketful of green drizzle makes room for orchard of crabs.
Monstrous tar flowers in Vestal temple. Romantic hate.
Phosphorescent trickle. Smell of the galaxy's dewy cleft.

Austere stillness drums in Austin 1100 as silent as lice.
Behind a veil of herring girt roots of sanity insanely shrill.
Stuff fester milk stiff saucer mould. Fitting room panic.

The young helicopter pilot posed as Aphrodite's owl.
The young helicopter's forearm posed in the owl's boots.
Poverty fox doubts that any of these riches really exist.



Norman Jope:

In this port of call
he paces like a prisoner –
distilled sea water
has turned to sweat,
in a place whose only resource
is salt.

The greens of Charleville are alien
to this place of doomsday fire
where Abel lies, an eternal creditor
in a squadron-whine of mosquitoes,
below Big Ben's dwarf replica
on the slopes above misfortune's well.

He has come to bury his past in gold,
to pay homage at the Tower of Silence.
He hates this horrible rock
but hears its call to prayer
above the muezzin
who marshals the inmates
against this interpreter,
this coxcomb lyricist.

He knows long residence
impairs the faculties,
and soon will dwell instead
amongst hyenas in Harar –
but he bides his time
as sunlight moistens
the harbour's eye,
its cargo of fins and maws.

*

A book about the Isle of Portland, so long as you don't take "about" in a narrowly discursive sense. A book that releases Portland, maybe. 

Extracts are always a violence, and the above samples don't come away cleanly: each is traduced in its own way. 

Mark Goodwin's block of text (from Portland Mix, p.14) is really meant to be black and grey and sideways to the page. Its buildings and monuments are made of Portland stone. Tophill and Underhill are topographical features dividing the island: Portland stone is quarried from the shallow strata of Tophill. 

Tim Allen's growing-up lines (from Pontoon 4, p. 22) are shorn of their marginal commentary. For instance, the first verse I've quoted is annotated Sermon on the Hump. That is, the Green Hump in Hallelujah Bay. Tim's questioning of his childhood faith is a recurrent theme, and hence I suppose the Darwin references. Kittiwake: they nest on the cliffs of Portland and are seen from the Bill. Tar Rocks: coastal reef in Hallelujah Bay exposed at low tide. Austin 1100: popular 1960s car. Little Owl: common on Portland, nesting in abandoned quarries. They are Athene's owl in Greek mythology, but in this memory they are Aphrodite's owl. 

The extract from Norman Jope (Veästa, p. 38) is the most violently decontextualized: this comes from the section about Aden (Aden Mix), and its intruder-poet (or rather, ex-poet) is Arthur Rimbaud, born in Charleville. That was in 1880, ten years before the completion of Big Ben Aden, never mind the "dwarf replica" in Arwa Street, Crater. "Misfortune's well" might refer to British colonisation or the Aden Emergency or the notoriously impoverished back-streets of Crater (Aden's arab quarter in colonial times).  But here as in its other armed service interludes (Gibraltar Mix, Maltese Mix) the poem keeps echoing the Isle of Portland, in this case the village of Fortuneswell in the steep Underhill part of the island. As per Mark Goodwin, Big Ben has a Portland connection too, though actually rather tenuous: Portland stone is in the Palace of Westminster's ancient foundations and recent restorations, but not the 19th-century work. Other Portland references are persistent: the prisoner, the harbour . . . The "coxcomb lyricist" refers back to the Veästa of Portland legend, "a mythical monster, like a red-bearded cockerel with half-yard legs" (Norman's Author's Note). 








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Sunday, August 06, 2023

Things I wrote on Intercapillary Space -- 4





The fourth and final tranche of links to posts I wrote on Intercapillary Space between 2006 and 2015, basically so that the authors I wrote about get included in this blog's label list. 

[My Intercapillary Space links: 

Part 4, continuing from Sep 2011 up to 2015. Anything I've published more recently on Intercapillary Space is simply a copy of a post on this blog, so I don't mention it. 

Better than Language (2011 poetry anthology edited by Chris Goode, including poetry by Anna Ticehurst, Francesca Lisette, Joe Luna, Jonny Liron, Josh Stanley, Jonty Tiplady, Linus Slug, Mike Wallace-Hadrill, Nat Raha, Sarah Kelly, Steve Willey, Timothy Thornton, and Tomas Weber):

John Gilmore:

Rhys Mynydd:

Gale Nelson / Jackson Mac Low:

Patricia Scanlan / Ink Sculptors:

Richard Murphy:

Paul Brown:

Tim Allen:

D.S. Marriott:

Metambesen / Robert Kelly / Eléna Rivera / Tamas Panitz / George Quasha / Charlotte Mandell / Lynn Behrendt / Billie Chernicoff :

Andrea Brady:



















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Thursday, March 30, 2023

TV and kerosene

 


Got a stinker, so I'm making things easy on myself with a few samples of what I'm currently reading.

*

I realized I had forgotten to say goodbye to my mother but, by the time I turned round, she had gone. I waved at the empty space she had left behind and followed the daunting Mrs Berwick into a room where twelve other girls were sitting on squishy sofas and beanbags. I sat cross-legged on the floor, as we used to do in assembly at Kingsclere Primary School.

"What's that pong?" I heard one girl with long hair scooped up in a scrunchie say to another, also with long, tumbling hair.

"I think it's coming from over thar." The other girl pointed towards me.

I sniffed at my clothes and realized that I did smell of Flossy. I tried to tuck myself into as tight a ball as I could, hoping I would disappear. Mrs Berwick looked down her beaky nose and told us all what we could and, mainly, what we couldn't do.

I was sharing a room with two other girls who were much older than me. Everyone was older than me by nearly a year and they all seemed to have been to boarding school before.

"What does your father do?" a girl asked me, as she wound her long blond hair round her index finger.

"My dad's a racehorse trainer," I answered.

There was a snort from one corner, giggles from another. I heard the word "Dad" being uttered with incredulity.

"You mean your father's a stable boy?" the blond girl said.

"No, he's a trainer. He trained Mill Reef." Usually, that was my get-out-of-jail card.

"Huh," said a girl whose father was a colonel in the army. "Mill Reef? Never heard of him. But if you were born in a barnful of horses, that explains why you stink of manure!"

The other girls started laughing hysterically, rolling around on the floor together. I got up and silently left the room.

"I can ride, I can ride," I said to myself.

It was the one thing I knew I could do better than anyone else at this school.

We were straight into lessons the next day, which meant wearing the uniform of green and white striped shirts, green skirt, red or green jumper and green blazer with red stripes. I chose to wear the red jumper as it was new, whereas my green one was second-hand. Everyone else had chosen green. My skirt needed to be rolled over a few times, as it was on the big side.

"You'll grow into it," my mother had promised me.

Mum had refused to buy me the burgundy penny loafers that were on the school uniform list because they were "ridiculously expensive". Instead, I had orthopaedic shoes that would support my arches. I hated them.

Clare Balding's first day at boarding school, from her irresistible memoir My Animals And Other Family (2012). (For non-UK readers, Clare Balding is a TV sports presenter. Initially her specialism was horse racing but she's doing Wimbledon this year.)

*

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within;
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!

My native Land! 
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest"; the poet feeling the alienating force of a nature that had no personal association for him, but intrigued too.The original draft of the poem (apart, presumably, from the one in the album at the inn) was sent in a letter of 17 May 1799 to Sara Coleridge, who was keeping the home fires burning at Nether Stowey.  "Not that they possess a grain of merit as poetry," he wrote (as was his wont). But this poem's thinking about nationalism and internationalism, about our relations with nature in a local context and outside that context, holds my attention.

Like many readers of our time, I'm discovering Coleridge's poetry (other than the half-dozen standards) through Richard Holmes' inspiringly-curated Coleridge: Selected Poems (1996).

I must say that my own experience of coming back on the Calais-Dover ferry is that the fabled white cliffs are at least as dingy as a kidling!

*

She passes right by many dense patches, leaving them to sway in the breeze. "It's our way," she says, "to take only what we need. I've always been told that you never take more than half." Sometimes she doesn't take any at all, but just comes here to check the meadow, to see how the plants are doing. "Our teachings," she says, "are very strong. They wouldn't get handed on if they weren't useful. The most important thing to remember is what my grandmother always said: 'If we use a plant respectfully it will stay with us and flourish. If we ignore it, it will go away. If you don't give it respect it will leave us.'" The plants themselves have shown us this -- Mishkos kenomagwen. As we leave the meadow for the path back through the woods, she twists a handful of timothy into a loose knot upon itself, beside the trail. "This tells other pickers that I've been here," she says, "so that they know not to take any more. This place always gives good sweetgrass since we tend to it right. But other places it's getting hard to find. I'm thinking that they might not be picking right. Some people, they're in a hurry and they pull up the whole plant. Even the roots come up. That's not the way I was taught."

From Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teaching of Plants (2013) by Robin Wall Kimmerer. 

*

Grisha, completely forgetting who was boss, hugged the berry commissioner and, squinting at him slyly, mischievously drawled out:

An old tramp helped me escape . . .

And the berry commissioner sang, sighing as though the words had been written for him personally:

I came to life, sensing freedom . . .

Ksiuta came out from behind the wall, rubbing her sleepy eyes, and gently put her finger to her lips. Out of respect for the infant, they stopped singing. 

And then Ivan Kuzmich Belomestnykh said, "People should live together the way they know how to sing together. Everything would be all right then. And, people should start talking and not be afraid of their thoughts. For if you're afraid of your thoughts, you won't have any at all.

"Thank you, dear guests, for coming with this precious present -- my grandson. I'm often not kind enough, and there's no point in even talking about education. Forgive me for that. And you forgive me, Ksiuta. People fight against each other, mostly over trifles. If we stop fighting over trifles, then, God willing, there won't be another big war either."

"To peace!" the berry commissioner cried out ecstatically, hugging Belomestnykh. "Hey, Ivan Kuzmich, you and I . . . You and I . . . And all of us . . . I'm staying with you, my native land. Yes, staying! Where else can I go?"

And he offered a large tear in place of the innumerable emotions he couldn't express with words. And then fell asleep in the chair where he sat, his head in the sauerkraut. Grisha and the geologist lay down in the haystack. The night wind, penetrating the cracks, rustled the hay, and it moved, breathing as if alive, trying to share its thoughts with people, but unable. The pole over the well creaked in the wind, its long neck swaying under the tired stars, which continued to shine for all their weariness. And they would have to shine for a long time more, so that people, weighed down by the earth's gravity, could sometimes raise their heads, look at the stars, and think that besides funny things and sad things, besides meanness and kindness, besides life and death on earth there was a universal eternity.

The mushroomer was put in the side room on a creaking iron bed with nickel-plated knobs, and when Ivan Kuzmich lit the way for him with a kerosene lantern, Nikanor Sergeyevich saw, hanging over his bed, an oilcloth with swans. They even flew this far, Nikanor Sergeyevich thought, and laughed sadly. But he slept soundly, dreaming that he and Kuroda were in some extraordinary forest, where giant mushrooms grew taller than a man. They were using a saw to cut the stem of an agaric so gigantic that your arm wouldn't fit around it. They would take it in Grisha's truck to Hiroshima and show all mankind, to make them ashamed of that other, terrifying mushroom, invented by men. 

And the infant, probably, didn't dream anything, because he still had no past and, therefore, no memories to give birth to dreams. 

From Wild Berries (1981) by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, translated by Antonina W. Bouis. 

*


despite the hopelessness of their position they didn't despair they were

not as hopeless as their           position         human beings do this fine

though you might say it's something they only do when the mood

takes them AS THEY SAY                  hey big spender despair is       quite

gratuitous and             never accurately quoted                    humanity is anti

-universe                     never curated Quixotically               do you know i

still don't really know what i'm made of not really i read the books         etc.

and watch Horizon but one day it will repeat itself too often to memorize



empty                                                                                            reminder

say 2 different words and the 2nd. will always be a repetition of the 1st.

sunlight                                                                                         labyrinth

see what i mean                       if only liars could be seen silhouetted against

the sun             white ash        black ash                        white lash blacklist the

star emerging from the wormhole                 rolling on quantum shingle an

empty reminder like a moth in the fist                      deluded into folly       by

the truth          the prisoners turn to dust                    visitors' book bleached


Extracts from two poems near the start of Tim Allen's Very Rare Poems Upon The Earth (128 Improvisations) (Aquifer, 2023). I only recently embarked on this, but I'm already hauling up treasures. (NB The extracts are the second half of "Intrusion", and the first half of "Modification".)

*

From tall rooms, largesse of peonies, 
the porches summercool, the bed upstairs
immaculate in its white counterpane,

to kerosene-lit evenings, the wind
an orphan roaming the silver maples,
sudden widowhood: to meaner comforts,

a trumpetvine above the kitchen door,
then one night her new husband didn't
come in from the milking: to the lot

she bought with what that place went
for, dwindlings in a doll's house: to
the high-rise efficiency condominium,

television on all day, to the cubicle
in the denominational home, to total
unprivacy of bed and bedpan, nurse shoes,

TV with no picture or else coming in waves,
a vertigo: to, one nightfall ...


The beginning of "A Winter Burial", from Amy Clampitt's Westward (1990). I had relished her three earlier collections when I first set about discovering modern poetry in English, but it wasn't long before I was focussing on kinds of poetry that were not so readily purchasable in Waterstones. Thirty-five years later, and closer to the poet's own age (she was a famously late starter), I now seem to hear different strands in the incredible weave of her verse. 

She died in 1994, just eleven years after the publication of her first book. I was actually surprised at how relatively little there is about her on the internet... She had been celebrated, so far as poets are ever celebrated, during that decade. But even celebrated modern poets drop out of public memory with staggering speed. (A thought that might also apply to Yevtushenko.)

Anyway, there's a couple of evenings of Amy Clampitt's poems here: https://www.amyclampitt.com/poems-main .




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Monday, July 26, 2021

Peasant Tower

 



A new poetry book by the brilliant UK poet Tim Allen, published last week. Peasant Tower is a book-length journey flowing without breaks from the epigraph to the end notes. In that respect the reader's challenge is very straightforward. Here's a sample page from around half way through.


eggshell dates frock shop walk-in wrecking ball
passenger absently watches mid-air fuel change

unbaptised bee tumbles in through fire door
filing system has feelings just as the dirty peanut does

brown wine with a head wins plain grey pennant 
he does penance for coveting her pittance

what happened to him hasn’t happened in her notebook
on first name terms with happy history teachers

patriot larger than a country is smaller than this city
ceremonial matchstick archly complaining

film director stands out in swarm of snappers
litter on radar skittles behind vehicle

skis clutter up left luggage 
get your tongue around the yawn of an afternoon prayer
 
bums and faces but no overheads
stories in which young men’s wallets are cuckoo clocks

incinerator in church cellar
a bird with eleven feet gets accepted by the establishment

messing around with an extraction fan
emasculated by a dowsing stick

subeditor crosses out coincidences in crossword 
e.g. bus shelter in cathedral crypt

gull on its tod on refuse tip reads scorched love letter
vintage carnival route empty of the peanut

she stands back-to-front before a lost child
motorcycle sidecar carrying a demolished block of flats

This is normally the point where I'd dive off into a sort of conversation with the poetry, but it doesn't feel quite appropriate this time, because (I'm thrilled to say) Peasant Tower is published by Disengagement Books, my own imprint. 

But anyway, I've written quite a bit about Tim's poetry in the past (and surely will again). Here's a longish post from about 2015:

http://intercapillaryspace.blogspot.com/2014/04/tim-allen-settings-etc.html


Buy a copy of Peasant Tower:

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/tim-allen/peasant-tower/paperback/product-975zdw.html?page=1&pageSize=4


Peasant Tower reviewed by Steve Spence in Litter:

https://www.littermagazine.com/2021/08/review-peasant-tower-by-tim-allen.html

Peasant Tower reviewed by Billy Mills in Elliptical Movements:

https://ellipticalmovements.wordpress.com/2021/11/25/recent-reading-november-2021/




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Tuesday, April 30, 2019

yeT I gUess the appropriate institutiOns simplifY horseplaY




The Carousing Duck is a zimzalla object (2014 ish): even its title is more a convenience than a fact. It was made by Tim Allen, with Tom Jenks providing the stylings I suppose.

It's possible to extract a text from the bewildering object, so here are some lines. I'm not going to bother about the upper case letters (because if I did I wouldn't be able to use predictive text).

*

giggling when getting in the maze but soon gets serious
the stately home is on fire boom go the windows
however sorry for the entire orchestra is conductor only
taunt the passionless with a throat sands run through

i'll be late indeed and not because i'm ill or anything
divided the day war broke out with bystander's standards
secondary mod school duped then tooled in development
layers of beauty beneath which a witch on aspirin

i guess the water filtered through the knot on a yacht
transparent institution or just a filigree of swimmers
thinking for example of them ears that walls have
ain't a soliloquy what warps them what hear shouted out

the hearse filled with petrol while we filled with tears
days turned into the library car park quite seriously
motifs, action plans, misrepresentative commas, drift ice
the only period in history i haven't an o'level in

*

The book or object or poem has something to do with Bob Dylan's version of "Froggy went a-courtin'".


A lily-white duck came and swallowed him up, uh-huh...

*

My much longer post about Tim Allen's poetry:

http://intercapillaryspace.blogspot.com/2014/04/tim-allen-settings-etc.html




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Thursday, March 22, 2018

early pages of Tattered By Magnets




Tim Allen's Tattered by Magnets, front jacket



Tim Allen's Tattered by Magnets was published by KFS press in 2014




the Months the Magnets


1:1


The poems are adventures.




1:2


"parky / prison visitor locked in the / conservatory"


Tim Allen's approach to eliminating the narrative I involves a host of flitting characters usually tersely described by some epithet such as occupation or animal name or object name. The cast-list of a joke. Here it's the prison visitor. In 1:3 "air hostess's complimentary Beano" . In 1:4 "self-correcting fox cubs". 1:5" small panther". 1:8 "gravedigger calculates disintegrating spiral of panic's limits". 1:10 "the radiator has its critics"


Tim's favourite verb tense is the historic present, suggesting a news headline. But the past simple and present perfect get a look-in too.


1:7


"magnets / a desert of exhausted magnets / rustle leveled up / magnetic rust / a dead sea of uphill doors"   There are a great many superb natural landscapes, dystopian or utopian but in any case the landscape of romance. Compare 1:6  "dark valleys  .... valley made of millions of small valleys... down unknown streets of darkness"




1:10


For some reason the narrative scena is as euphoric as the land of Faerie directed by Mel Brooks. Even when the storyline is noir, as here. "drugged pot boiler / dragged into the black light / ...... chimney breast man / shot in the back / by / chicken blackleg torch operation idea"

1:12


The narratives keep on playing: there is a constant level of churn. "water trusts glass / glass trusts water" ......... "water still trusts glass / glass no longer trusts water" ......


the Days the Dead


2:1


Lubrication makes its third appearance (see 1:3, 1:5). . Why? I don't know. The book, like nature, is full of what we can't ever know. And "arc" (from 1:3), returns here in another animal story: "before boarding arc hind says yes to blackberry". Anthropomorphism is central to the narrative world, everything is alive, though not necessarily very switched on. "duplicator fails to understand duplicated pamphlet", for example. and 2:11 "the turtle looks fed up". 3:2 "pilfered shopping trolley snivels on way to school in looted bedrock".


2:2
Space itself brings things to life. That is, you merely name them and put plenty of space around them : sometimes that's all you need to do.  We haven't troubled, elsewhere, to represent the physical appearance of the poems. But here's the middle quatrain of 2:2 .




the     the    the    passive         founder        of a department


natal          department            river reeds                basket


glazed water wheel           lukewarm zest      in the department


naf       naïf     what part were you?         the exiting cathedral?








For instance, that island of river reeds, surrounded by clear water: I can absolutely see them.  (Readers of my and Tim's generation will be thinking of the infant Moses.)


2:3
"directing the bed / from war"
2:6
"the poor people of Norwich", quotes the author, highly attuned to a possible joke. (Anachronism is a partner of anthropomorphism in this narrative world.)  "Liverpool on the Meuse" hangs there like a punchline that's on the way, eventually receiving the response "mosey around" (2:7)
2:7
Bucolic village life, all the way from the "quicklime corner" (graveyard? or dodgy local hostelry?)  to the "nymph apple", via plenty of honey and cider... the dubious "red cider" and "green honey"... and other works of importance to villagers, such as the compost heap, and "the slime supply". Age-old village feuds (forgotten / never for / given). La terre meets The Darling Buds of May.  The poem isn't about that.
2.12  
Googling  "vous Flamel" for something germane to say, I ended up reading about Charles Poncy (1812-1891), ouvrier poet of Toulon.




the Knights the Numbers




3.1
Those scenes of desert, countryside or sea (in this case)..... somehow link to the expansiveness of the book. Now, just two twelfths in, we begin to realize the scale. Our sense of it varies but it can seem huge.




the drips above are too small to see                            sad wanderer

volume of concentrated nothing         knowledge is not information

etc                               etc                     etc       etc














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Thursday, March 23, 2017

big avant-garde poetry books

Tim Allen's Copyright, front jacket






In the ecosystem of my life big poetry books lead an especially precarious existence. I seem to move house about once a year, usually into smaller digs, and with each year I more eagerly anticipate the breaking of the chrysalis into a fully mobile travelling lifestyle with no encumbrance of "things" at all.


And I suppose I'm only in the vanguard of social changes that we all feel to some extent. Our possessions are becoming digitized, we are most relaxed not in our own homes but in coffee bars, and we carry our passports.


So it is that, along with much other lumber, I'm sadly having to say goodbye to these two big books by Tim Allen, books that I've hardly opened until today.  I'll be carrying the miniscule though brilliant Default Soul into my next life, but that may be all.


Copyright or (c)  (Dept Press, 2013) , once delved into, isn't really all that different from Default Soul, just more of Tim's endlessly curious and good-natured investigation of the world. I don't know whether it's because I'm currently doing a TEFL course, but some of the lines now seem even funnier than they did before (Tim is a primary school teacher).


The phrases I like best are the ones where the reader feels a vague semantic or logical discomfort, just begging to be teased out. E.g. (from the pages shown below)


"an assortment of negatives"


"i match tear to paper"


"i need a dark to see stars through" (p.10)


"i warm up on the ice" (p. 12) 


and so on...








first page of Tim Allen's  Copyright


"homeless builder and purpose crazy" (p. 8) -- evidently Tim's comment on my lifestyle.


Another page of Copyright






Tim Allen's Copyright, rear jacket




List of other books, from Tim Allen's Copyright.  


That is to say, a list of books by people called Tim Allen. I think these are bona fide books, at least I've just looked up The Lost Abbey of Abingdon (2011) and that one's real enough. Did you know that Abingdon Abbey was about the size of Wells Cathedral?  Despite this, as soon as the titles are detached and brought into Tim's list they start to feel irresistibly comic and strange. "Strange Way to Save the World"..... utterly bizarre.....  "Queuing Theory".... hmm, intriguing.... "The Lost Abbey of Abingdon"...  oh dear, where can it have got to? As for his own books, the list of course misses the most recent ones, including my fave Default Soul and also the book that I'm about to mention, Tattered by Magnets.






Tim Allen's Tattered by Magnets, front jacket



The poetical enjoyment of Copyright is a relatively pure contact with the words. Tattered by Magnets (KFS, 2014) is quite a lot more intricate, because it weaves the verbal material into beautiful stanzaic forms --- and consequently, is rather more resistant to being sampled by a page or two.


But for what it's worth, here they are.











Tim Allen's Tattered by Magnets, first page




"the exiting cathedral?" (2.2). I suppose that must be a comment on Abingdon Abbey.





Tim Allen's Tattered by Magnets, another page




There's a lot of interacting ingredients here and some of them I haven't particularly noticed in Tim's earlier work. Like this sort of landscape painting in the first line of 1.3:




arc             smile    limb   mile   lime   acre




Or the way the rest of the poem yearns towards another sound, (via lido, bimbo and Beano  -- "air hostess's complimentary Beano")  before finally converting the lime into limbo.


My admiration for Tim's inventiveness could hardly have been much greater, but repeatedly on leafing through Tattered by Magnets I catch myself thinking: I didn't know he could do this... 













My main essay on Tim Allen's poetry is here:






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Monday, June 06, 2016

experimental and mainstream poetry in the UK

These are some emails I recently contributed to a discussion on the BRITISH-IRISH-POETS list on Jiscmail (the conversation, under the heading "Names", ran all through April and May 2016). My own principal interlocutor was the experimental poet Tim Allen; later I was also responding to Geraldine Monk, Peter Riley and Jamie McKendrick. For the purposes of this blogpost I'm just going to paste my own emails and leave the contexts to be inferred.


(What term to use for innovative/linguistically innovative/experimental/avant-garde/post-avant poetry?)

19th April:

Of course there's no simple answer. I think I've used all the terms at one time or another.

I think avant-garde is the most problematic because of particular historical associations, within poetry and beyond.

I kind of favour "innovative" or "experimental". (Linguistically-innovative seems to me an unnecessary clarification...) . Perhaps because those terms have the virtue of not having been taken up or associated with more exclusive groupings.

And a secondary virtue, it connects with experimental music (the term "experimental" is much more widespread in the music world). There's a hidden link there to what I consider the epitome of experimental poetry, UK stylee: John White ... Clarence Cardew ... the anti-University ... Bob Cobbing....

Of course I'd want to stress that the terms "innovative" and "experimental" are intended as descriptive rather than complimentary, they are not just an infantile way of bigging up one's favourite poets at other people's expense.

But these terms do seem to me to point to the most fundamental distinguishing feature of this body of work, compared with poetry as conceived by most ordinary people and as practised at all levels from primary school up to the poet laureate.

 (And - to attempt, like Peter, to head off inevitable debate on this score - this includes a host of poets that I admire and that at their best, I'm ready to agree, are as truly inventive and original as the best experimentalists, and much more so than the all-too-often-seen work that only apes innovative styles.)

Despite these provisos, there remains an essential distinction in the practice of writing poetry as conceived by the experimentalists (And, in fact, this might be said to include the terms "practice" and "praxis", borrowed from art college like so much else on the experimental side). Whether as reader, listener or writer we begin, as it were, with the assumption that the poetry is meant to be in its essence an experiment, a provisional project. Not so much the production of poems (love-poems, elegies, and all the other good things that poems can be) as an open-ended exploration of the possibilities of poetry. Isn't that simply it, really? ... [I might add that I wouldn't consider most of my own poetry to meet this criterion...]

21st April:

Hiya Tim ...

You are right of course. Within one's own praxis, whatever that is, there are only perhaps a few days when conscious of attempting an experiment; and these may be the least valuable days, since most experiments are failures. On the other days the practitioner is most likely doing more of what they do; a work that grows and evolves rather than leaping randomly about. So from the practitioner's own point of view, this work is not literally an experiment, for the most part. Even if, in hindsight, the practitioner's work as a whole comes to be seen as strikingly original or experimental. Even if the practitioner in question is a composer of "British experimental music" or "linguistically innovative poetry".

This makes me think about terms for groups of artists. They are terms of convenience, and the people they most convenience are the audiences, the students and academics, the promoters and sellers. The artists themselves generally don't have much need for such labels, and usually when saddled with one are painfully aware of all the ways in which it isn't particularly appropriate. (It's really with my reviewer's hat on that I feel the need for a term.)

Such terms can either be coined anew ("modernism") or they can deploy a word that already exists and adapt its meaning ("romantic") - not completely, but somewhat. The sight of a ruined priory above a waterfall on the Scottish borders is romantic. Anna Laetitia Barbauld isn't romantic in precisely the same sense as the Scottish view, nor is Samuel Rogers, or Wordsworth (maybe Byron is!), but still the word Romantic is useful as a way of connecting them to each other and at least it isn't totally un-apt. That's the most I would aspire to in the case of "experimental".

It's important too that any such term is value-neutral and that it encompasses not only the startlingly original pioneers of the genre but, just as important, the enthusiasts who write in the same sort of style yet without the same originality or urgency. Just as "Romantic poets" covers the full gamut from genius to slavish dabbler, so must the term I require.

For a term to be of any use to me I need to be able to use it without in-depth assessment of whether the poetry is good or not. I need a way to name what I can see from the most superficial assessment of style and manner. I want to be able to say, for example, that such and such a mag publishes experimental poetry. That's a useful and meaningful thing to say, entirely leaving aside the merits, originality and inventiveness (or not) of individual contributors.

Today I happen to be reading Lars Gustafsson (Swedish poet who died last week, recent Bloodaxe selection) and Lisa Samuel's Tomorrowland. I admire both to distraction, but the former I should call essentially traditional poetry (for all its originality and excitement), and the latter definitely experimental, innovative, or whatever. As a reader I find the encounter with these texts involves totally different approaches and expectations. Anyway, I'm rattling on, I think you and I are in agreement about the existence of this very clear distinction, it's only the choice of terms that we're still debating.

(Tim asked if I thought of experimental and traditional poetry as different art-forms or as part of a poetry spectrum in which intermediate positions were possible).

25th April:

I've spent a bit of time thinking about your question about the spectrum and I haven't come up with an easy or fully satisfying answer.

On the whole I tend towards the view that experimental/traditional is an either/or and best treated, almost, as separate artforms. That is, I see each form as having evolved its own rules, tactics, aspirations and the practitioner either does one or does the other, but you can't really do both at the same time. My analogy would be serial/tonal music as conceived by Schoenberg. He could compose either sort, but the procedures were so different that there wasn't really a middle position between the two. Either you had a tone-row or you had a key signature.

And on the whole I think this is the best model to describe the two poets I mentioned. If you use the "new sentence" (Silliman's valuable term), then the mind-blowing polyvocality of Lisa Samuels' Tomorrowland becomes possible. But on the other hand the kind of things Lars Gustafsson can do with traditional narrative, anecdote, tone and irony and so on become unavailable. His art requires the "old sentence".

So with that kind of model in mind I am usually a little prejudiced against the hybridity promoted in recent years. But I think others might see it differently. I'm aware that the "new sentence" is only one aspect of modern poetry and that there are poets I care for very much (Lee Harwood, Peter Hughes spring to mind) for whom the on/off model seems entirely to break down, and when contemplating those poets a spectrum model of universal discourse seems to reassert itself.

May 4th:

Hi Tim,
Taken me ages to reply but not because I haven't been thinking about it.


>I see the spectrum or essential difference question as being like the wave/particle duality in electromagnetism
>depends what aspect you are measuring
Yes!Yes!

>Narrative is more likely to be implied or fragmented, but it's still narrative as a device. Tone - whole areas of possible tonal manipulation are possible when a poet breaks out of the typical mainstream mode. Irony becomes something else, often twisting into something extreme. Etc.

Yes, there's a transformation. Naturally I agree with you that old excellences can still be found in new forms, - . But the transformation is radical, and it involves subtraction as well as addition. For example, the new sentence can go beyond traditional description in its extraordinary ability to suggest the multi-dimensional quality of lived experience. Still, there's a sacrifice in terms of definite assertion, though in another way the impression is needlesharp, transcending the potential of stated description. But much art and much that is possible is kind of dependent on that discursive basis. I'm not saying it well but that's how I see it.


>In the past I've put forward the idea that it is the modern UK mainstream poem that is the real anomaly within poetry as a whole, both with regard to the past and to poetry internationally, not the linguistically innovative.

I kind of have an inkling of what you mean, but it's a pity you haven't been challenged on it so I'll play devil's advocate. In all the nations whose modern poetry I have some faint acquaintance with (US, Aus, Sweden, Spain), the poetry that is most publicized, most studied in schools and most sold in bookshops is traditional poetry -. In Finland maybe the norm is more towards experimentalism but even in Finland there is plenty of what I see as mainstream traditional poetry. Is UK mainstream poetry so different in kind from what's marketed as poetry in other nations, or is their traditional poetry an anomaly too? UK Mainstream poetry appears to derive from an unbroken, respectable, well-anthologised tradition going back through the centuries (Anne Stevenson - Hardy - Keats - Milton - Sidney .... that sort of lineage). ....Horace, Catullus.... Also, does the anomaly idea apply not just to poets whose work we dislike and don't read but also to poets who I suspect you might agree with me in admiring: Elisabeth Bletsoe? Penelope Shuttle? Kathleen Jamie even... ?

I'm writing this not to be argumentative but because I'm eager to hear the other side of it. Maybe you've already elaborated on the idea somewhere.


[Tim's reply connected the anomaly with his own particular response: " my instinctive negativity to the poetry that began to flood the mainstream channels, both high and low, from the 80's onwards ". That generated a lot of replies and the conversation became more general. My own reply was delayed:

24th May

Sorry for the delayed response - I feel like an owl in daylight. I left the discussion at Tim's interesting and honest response to my questioning of his suggestion that UK mainstream poetry was in some way an anomaly.


My response has become rambling and I’m having to throw it ashore before another long interruption. I haven’t had time to tidy it. I apologise in advance for repetitions, slipshod expression, incoherence, tedium, and any inadvertent annoyance it may cause.

And Geraldine's suggestion of the term "exploratory" for the kind of writing that I've been calling experimental. "Exploratory" seems entirely accurate as description of the praxis of such an author as Lisa Samuels (my exemplar earlier in the conversation). My only hesitation is because "exploring" has become such a cliche of reviewers and critics to account in the vaguest possible way for what some or other artist is doing. “both books explore the relationship between public and private…”, “[Ang Lee] explored the relationships and conflicts between tradition and modernity, Eastern and Western..” Or, to come down a bit more to brass tacks, “Their poetry often has a neo-romantic character and trajectory that thrives on the natural world in order to explore human nature, especially concepts of social order, love and relationships.”, … (I sometimes think the term must have originated with educationalists talking about the developing child. And maybe in a larger sphere it exemplifies the neoteny that is said to typify advanced human cultures. Maybe the issues that Tim and I have with some contemporary poetry is a debate about problematic meaning of adulthood.... anyway, I'm going way off track here... )

But back to the anomaly idea. Most of what I might have had to say about this has been subsequently voiced by Tim himself, by Jamie and by Peter. The only thing I can really add is autobiography. I came to contemporary UK poetry very late, after many years delving in the past, as a mediavalist and enthusiast of everything up to about…. Say, 1870!. Something in the first year of uni had given me a thorough distaste and contempt , ignorant of course, for everything from Auden onwards. The only modern poetry I knew and cared about was in translation, Penguin Modern Poets from mainly Europe and Latin America. Belatedly, at the end of the 1980s, I felt provoked into seeking out the poetry of my own time and place. At first, like any High Street browser of the time, I thought Faber and Oxford was the place to look. Oliver Reynolds, Craig Raine, Christopher Reid, Douglas Dunn, Heaney, Mahon, Hughes, …. I struggled to like this writing, though I had hardly any sense of what I might like better.

Funny how that era has all gone now. No poetry world is static. You don’t find Raine and Reynolds in Faber any more. They’re reduced to Raine’s own Arete magazine, the natural heir of Ian Hamilton’s New Review, with Ian McEwan replacing Julian Barnes and John Updike. (Class and ideology do come into these things.) [ TLS readers are currently re-reading… Waugh, Powell, Proust (this is the current TLS blog)…] Alan Jenkins isn’t in Chatto any more, but Enitharmon. Douglas Dunn (who I don’t wish to suggest has any but a left-wing ideology) hasn’t published a book since 2000. But you will find Timothy Thornton in Penguin!

My overall view is that the feeling of distaste and hostility reported by Tim and to an extent experienced by myself is a proximity effect. Readers are thin-skinned at home, where they’re acutely sensitive to unexpressed meanings, but thick-skinned abroad, blithely unaware of possible causes of offence.

[Why did Adorno loathe Strauss’ Alpine Symphony so much? He’s unable to explain, and when we listen to the magnificent music now we can’t see it. But I don’t doubt that the offence was there for Adorno, he heard it as clearly as anyone who hears a tone and knows they’ve been insulted by it. (And sometimes, we get this wrong.) You can appreciate that, for Adorno, there was a lot at stake. ]

 As Tim rightly said (if I understood him right), the thing that offends is mostly not something said or meant personally by the poet in question, but something as it were encoded in his medium of expression. In fact the knee-jerk reaction may, if I can speak autobiographically, be more about an unconscious stylistic, a manner, than anything that the poet consciously put into the poem. That’s why it only takes three or four lines to identify. I’m thinking of identifying markers such as the particular use of the present tense. (http://intercapillaryspace.blogspot.co.uk/2006/02/first-person-present-tense.html)

Though I am calling it a proximity effect I don’t mean that the reaction is not a real insight. I don’t think the mainstream poetry of today is really an anomaly (or if it is, that’s rather a compliment – I’m all for anomalous poetry) ; but it certainly is unique.

For example in its extraordinarily heavy usage of the word “He’d”. (Also” I’d”, “She’d”. But I did my Google searches on “He’d”.) Anyhow, the elided past continuous (short for “he would” or “he had”, both are equally characteristic).

A word that’s vanishingly rare in linguistically-innovative, exploratory, experimental etc… (Prove me wrong!) . It’s obvious that there’s some quasi-sociolinguistic lining-up here.

A word with a great deal encoded in it. As briefly as possible, you might say it means being persuaded that poetry can be made by rehearsing narratives of the habitual past in an informal manner. Of course that’s a reductive and prejudicial way of putting it. But a prejudice is what we are talking about. I frankly admit that it gets in the way of comprehending the specificity of the poems in front of me.

I’m not sure if this particular usage would be one of the things Tim dislikes, probably not, but I instance it as demonstration that what is reacted to is not merely imaginary, there is some demonstrable objectivity in the recognition of difference.

Manny Blacksher:

When he hastened
    back from lunch at one each day, his heart
    brim-full of blameless industry, he'd stop
    to buy cigars and chew the toothsome fat
    with Mister Stein, who'd bought the lobby shop
    with money found inside a fresh latrine
    in a dun field outside Dachau where he'd sat
    and seen a shadow snake like pain in sunshine.

Michael Donaghy:

He needed a perfect cathedral in his head,
he’d whisper, so that by careful scrutiny
the mind inside the cathedral inside the mind
could find the secret order of the world
and remember every drop on every face
in every summer thunderstorm.

David Wheatley (translating SEÁN Ó RÍORDÁIN)

You could see that he understood, and his fellow-feeling
for the pain in the horse’s eyes;

and that dwelling on it so long he’d finally stolen
into the innermost space

Simon Armitage (“Hitcher”)

We were the same age, give or take a week.
He'd said he liked the breeze

to run its fingers
through his hair. It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.

Carol Ann Duffy (“Eurydice”)

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back
or turn round,
but walk steadily upwards,
myself right behind him,
out of the Underworld
into the upper air that for me was the past.
He’d been warned
that one look would lose me
for ever and ever.

[The lineage:
Thomas Hardy (“The Man He Killed”)

            "I shot him dead because —
            Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
            That's clear enough; although

            "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
            Off-hand like — just as I —
Was out of work — had sold his traps —
            No other reason why.

Wordsworth (The Ruined Cottage)
Five tedious years
She lingered in unquiet widowhood,
A wife and widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend,
That in that broken arbour she would sit
The idle length of half a sabbath day—
There, where you see the toadstool’s lazy head—
And when a dog passed by she still would quit
The shade and look abroad.
]


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Friday, September 25, 2015

Surrealism and the English Channel

Paul Nash, painting of Dymchurch sea-wall

[Image source: from Cathy Lomax's pretty wonderful blog: http://cathylomax.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/paul-nash-and-dymchurch.html]



Lee’s poems had about them a remarkable tone. They were ‘quiet’ compared to the work of the Americans I was reading, but they were also surreal. It was a surrealism of everyday things. I often felt that surrealism arrived in Britain as flotsam; objects that floated across the Channel and sat displaced on a beach in southern England. It’s something you can see in the paintings of Paul Nash.


(From Laurie Duggan's post about the late Lee Harwood:

http://graveneymarsh.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/remembering-lee-harwood.html)


I wonder if Tim Allen (who grew up on the Isle of Portland) would recognize that particular psychogeographical configuration?

Thinking back to my Hastings days, maybe even (in early childhood)  my Eastbourne days, I'd say that I always had a vague sense of it.

A sense confirmed when, much later, I discovered Montale's poem "Eastbourne" (not that Montale was a Surrealist, but...) , and by the Channel-Islander Jeremy Reed's translations of Montale in The Coastguard's House, generously and rightly praised by Michael Hoffman in the LRB;  still surely one of Reed's most stunning achievements.

Maybe it's something about any town that sharply abuts the sea. The sudden, enormous sea-blankness always intrudes a kind of questioning commentary, a kind of provisionality, into the life of the land.

But maybe, too,  it's particularly something unique about the English Channel. Already when I was quite young, the experience here was not just of enormous sea-blankness but of a pressing awareness that, not very far beyond the blankness, though invisible to us, lay a populous, clamorous and totally different world; different languages, different history, different art, different thinking.

Plus it was a fact that continental visitors, like Montale, were a lot more likely to show up in South Coast towns than in, say, Derbyshire.

It always seemed to me quite natural that my own grandmother, an Eastbourne resident long estranged from her husband, should have nourished her imaginative and emotional life with visits to Paris and Austria. She even made me call her by a German name (Mutti). I never really thought of her as English.

Though I couldn't see across the English Channel myself, it was obvious that Mutti could.





[I've been here before.

In an essay I wrote in 2010 about Elizabeth Bletsoe's collection Landscape from a Dream (named after a Paul Nash painting), I felt concerned that taking an interest in Nash's South Coast localities might mean "an unsurrealization of Surrealism". I'm still not sure if it's true or not.]


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Friday, January 23, 2015

magical moments in literature

[This post consists of raw notes towards an essay on Andrea Brady's poetry. The finished essay (eight months later) incorporated some of this, but not much.]


 *



 OK, it's my mission to dash something off for Intercapillary Space, but what about? Let's check out what's in my backpack.

Edward Thomas, Werner Aspenström, William Shakespeare... hmm, it's not quite what I'm looking for.

Try another pocket. Tim Allen's Default Soul. Well that's more like it, but people are going to be fed up with me writing about Tim Allen. Anyhow, that's where we'll begin.

*

Default Soul (Red Ceilings Press, 2014) contains 44 poems that are all in the same format (three four-line stanzas). "Stanzas" is quite a misleading term here, but at least you'll understand what the poems look like.

The end-paper says that it's the first of a trilogy of such books, and I hope that turns out to be true, because of all the various Tim Allen books I've read I think this is the most imaginatively intense.

It's a small pamphlet and a very good thing to carry around in a pocket because you don't need to read much to get a hit off it. Each poem consists of 12 sort-of-jokes. They interact in a mainly subliminal way.  If I claimed that I'd laughed out loud a few times, you'd think that I'm lying, but anyway I've definitely chuckled. I think one of the lines was

chilly on the terrace even in the cubby hole


When something's a limited edition of 35 copies it seems ridiculous to call it popular poetry, but it kind of is. If you can imagine one of those comic compilations of amusing or wacky newspaper headlines, then that's not too far away from what you've got here,

physicist's life is in ruins he insists



Or, "Tutankhamun's beard glued back on, say Egyptian museum conservators". Oh no, that one's real. But back to Tim's physicist. It starts as a joke, but it doesn't end there, because this is poetry. After the chuckle, the analysis: Why is this funny? Something about the unfettered emotionalism of "my life is in ruins" in absurd contrast to the way we expect a physicist to talk. And what does that expectation say about science, and about us?

Another thing that often comes to mind is the clues in a cryptic crossword. It's to do with the lack of articles and the replacement of names by categories.

young man blinks as old writer decomposes
or

bird in highest tree is singing the lowest note
or

church porch quite possible without a church

Next time round he should supply the grid.

Then there are fragments.

the handrail is a Letraset bird of prey

That makes perfect sense if you assume that it's a fragment, and is missing the opening word "On". So why miss it out, then? I don't really know, but it isn't just to create a gratuitous difficulty. Compare this by Andrea Brady:

the sheep's skull must have cracked
when it plunged onto the strand from the pasture.  (from "Table Talk")

That's a neat way of telling us that a sheep fell off a cliff but without mentioning the cliff. Again, not gratuitous difficulty. Somehow the process of working this out produces a kind of delight that isn't separable from the enhanced vividness that comes from perceiving something that you haven't simply been told.

This sort of delight is not what Brady's poems usually do. Highlighting it might be a false beginning. I guess I'll leave it hanging there.

Back to Allen. Put together these one-liners into quatrains and you end up with something a good deal more complicated:

audience of monsters and proud star gazers
judge retires to a convent to shave
cannibals in the attire of anyone called Rousseau
devastating poverty blights your first day
seabirds potter in their pyjamas
beach debris desert boy makes premier soaps
glyptic holy girl calculating grotto's dimensions
summer hols summary has a cold conviction

I can't resist laying this side to side with another teasing quatrain poem, J.H. Prynne's STREAK~~~WILLING~~~ENTOURAGE  ARTESIAN (Barque, 2009):

Cursive slow dropper forbear manipulated order to
save them allusive eat till suited, offering help
them single them fairly wit tackle. Into wicket
fainting team alloy white iron bait, aril did them
Claimant at first. Getting them out to margin few
to allow by pair iridescence gain the hold step,
strim loose panic back go slant copy as broken out
for them this counter waveform, less same fusion

I don't want to pre-empt what conclusions you might want to draw from this juxtaposition. But, in a general way, the difference strikes me this way. Allen's poetical challenge is the world-as-experienced; how to get it in to poetry, which is always resisting it.  That's the challenge in itself, and it's challenge enough. But I conceive Prynne's poetry as more sceptical about the coherence of  the world-as-experienced; he aspires to get beneath that illusion and to tinker with the workings. In that respect I see Prynne's enterprise as grandly romantic in a way that Allen's is not.



*


Robert Potts: "One yearns for a reading – academic or otherwise – that would start to explain Her Weasels Wild Returning(1994) or the impenetrable STREAK~~~WILLING~~~ENTOURAGE~~~ARTESIAN (2009)".


Streak Willing is an easy text in some ways. Most people will agree that the six stanzas on each page represent a discrete poem, a supposition confirmed by each sixth stanza ending in a full stop, which none of the others do. And it's quite easy to identify themes within each poem, so we can give the twelve poems working titles, like this.

1. closed box
2. broken / fragment
3. water / margin
4. hunger
5. enamel / bitten
6. would / eye / wood cut
7. them
8. front
9. rapid / soon
10. rest.
11. At for was.
12. some / same /ours

Other minutiae to ponder: 1. Each stanza begins with a capital letter which, except for the first in each poem, is purely metrical.  2. The poems contain few articles, but each has at least one (in Poem 10, "the" arrives only in the last line; Poem 11 has only "a"s).  3. The lines get gradually longer, so poem 1 averages about 12 syllables a line, but poem 12 averages about 16.  4. The poems are lyrical. The most basic lyrical word of all - "oh" - appears in poems 1,2,3,6,8 and 11. The word "how" is also prominent and I think usually ejaculatory. Besides a surprising amount of emotive, even anguished, language.  5. "At" is a basic word in Prynne's poems and is prominent here. 6. But the key word here is "same", which appears multiple times in every poem, and with special emphasis in the last.  It seems to be linked to both "some" and "shame",  also to the first syllables of "summary", "summons", "summer" "salmon", "simulate", "simper" etc.) 7. Following on from that observation, it's clear that the sound of words, or the sound of bits of words, may be a decisive factor in the patterning. Consider the "-ic" suffix that shows up in Poem 1 as "civic.. Tantric.. Galvanic.." Poem 9 plays a game with "-ic" and "x": "relics", "pernix", "proximal", "exit", "phalanx", "ethic", "ferric", "synthetic", "Suffix", "metric", "traffic". The closer you read, the more of such games you'll see. 8. The word "graven" appears in Poems 3 and 4, "limit" in 7 and 9, "livid" in 1 and 5, "defect" in 4 and 11, "metric" in 5 and 9.

John Armstrong has written numerous posts on the sequence. His key contention is that it refers to The Troubles and more specifically the blanket protest and hunger strike at the Maze Prison in 1980-81. This contention mainly took shape in these two early posts.

https://bebrowed.wordpress.com/2010/02/08/reading-prynne-very-very-closely/

https://bebrowed.wordpress.com/2010/03/14/reading-prynne-closely-a-vindication/

As an idea I think it has quite a lot to be said for it. Armstrong has pointed to the significant debate in leftist circles around the time of the split between the official IRA and the provos in 1969 - did violence between the working classes only aid the cause of capital?

But ultimately my view is that associating Prynne's poem with a single historical locus isn't right. To put it crudely, the striking differentness of Prynne's approach (so demanding to write, and so demanding to read) couldn't really be excused if all that lies behind it is merely an engagement with a single piece of history. My belief is that Streak Willing is a polysemous poem; it isn't about Long Kesh and Bobby Sands in the same sort of way that Richard Hamilton's The citizen and Steve McQueen's Hunger are. Prynne's text can interconnect many things.

For example, Poem 4, the "hunger" poem, uses the word "trucial". Now this can certainly be interpreted in a Northern-Irish context, since truces with the British government  (hypothetical or actual) are a major part of the history of the struggle.

But the Arabian context ("Trucial States", as they were before 1971 - subsequently the UAE) ought to be followed up for its own sake, too. For this single word directs us to the astonishing transformation of life in the southern Arabian peninsula that came with the discovery of oil; the auto-destruction of the Bedu way of life; the uncorrupt hungers and thirsts of the desert, as poignantly hymned by Wilfred Thesiger in Arabian Sands, inevitably replaced by the desalinated water and green villas of Abu Dhabi.

Is a willed hunger, in this context too, the appropriate protest to an oil-propelled globe and to the independent commercial zones of Dubai, the Middle East's London?

But I wouldn't want to argue that this, either, is the true hidden theme of Prynne's poem. I believe the text is a honeycomb of larger ideas that permits a searching meditation on the basic roots of our capitalist civilization, and it partly does what it does by glancing at multiple loci. But it's only a working hypothesis, and there's a greater element of faith in it than I'd wish.

A year after Streak Willing was published, Andrea Brady said: " I have profound misgivings about the political methods of Prynne’s late poetry". I'm taking that out of its context, which certainly wasn't the right moment to expand on that remark. Still, it was an interesting one. "Political methods" ... Not "political views". Not "poetical methods". Where is that going?

 *




OK. Andrea Brady, Cut From The Rushes (Reality Street Editions,2013).

"The Rushes", I think, is a sort of collective name for Brady's occasional poems: speedy here-and-now one-off poems which don't belong to a larger project such as the extended verse-essay Wildfire (Krupskaya 2010). What's cut from the rushes here, then, are two swathes: Embrace (previously published separately in 2005), and Presenting, which consists of more recent poems. The implication, maybe, is that there's a whole marshland of other uncollected poems out there. Which is quite an impressive thought, because Cut from the Rushes is an exhausting reading experience. Not for the number of poems , but for the demands made by each one.

The title might mean a bit more. At any rate, "cut" is a word that turns up very frequently in Brady's texts (as it does, also, in Prynne's). In one word it concentrates the grand themes of physical violence and cultural manipulation; public opinion is manufactured;  - as Brady noted in her Quid essay about post 9/11 grief.

[Actually "rushes" is a film-making term, but it was another eight years before I discovered this!

Rushes (AKA daily rushes or dailies) is a film production term used in some countries to describe the raw footage from a day's shooting. The "rush" refers to the speed with with the footage must be prepared — this was more of an issue in earlier days of movie-making when film footage needed to be processed before viewing.

]

You might entertain the hope that the occasions of the poems would be obvious, and in some cases this is true. E.g the much-discussed "Saw Fit" (Lynndie England, Abu Ghraib) or "The Gloucester, The Illustrious" (Operation Highbrow, evacuation of British citizens from Beirut in 2006) or  "Vision in Neutrals" (sub-titled A Coalition Pastoral). Reading the reviews, which naturally favour what the reviewer can talk about, you sometimes get the impression that the poems are all like this. But they're not. Most of the poems are highly oblique about their occasions. Most often the poem-titles are riddling puns ("Sight Unseen") or just riddles ("In Album Men") or personal notes ("To Castellina").

A poem like "In Album Men" has an occasion, all right, but not really a public occasion: more about holidaying in Turkey. The locations include Uçhisar in Cappadocia, Olympos in Lycia, and maybe the Lydian aqueducts.

 Mevsimlik sailors cut the Eurovision frigate in to hove 

See, I told you the word "cut" was a regular. "Mevsimlik" is Turkish for Etesian - the summer northerly of the Aegean, considered "a good steady sailing wind preferred by many leisure sailors" (Wikipedia). There's a sneer lurking here, about the leisure sailors. In the poem the sneer (and the leisure) becomes applied to the cultural tourists who file through Turkey like Xenophon's mercenaries. I.e Brady herself. While Mutability was very specifically domestic in its concerns, this was nothing new. Brady has always uncaringly done things that are supposed to typify mainstream poets: for example, writing about herself, family, relationships, the domestic and quotidian, and holidays. Of course the way she does it is distinctive. But the point is, she doesn't need to demonstrate where she stands in the poetry world.

This is surely a strength. After all, there are reasons why these subjects are so popular among the poets and audiences of today. They are itches we need to scratch. They are politically sensitive and much-cut-up battlegrounds. They are the place where we play out a dialogue of feeling and forgetting our complicity. They are where the money gets spent. They are the site of desire and of such values, visions and ideals as still remain to us.

In some other respects, too, Brady stands out from the mass of post-avant writing.

Much post-avant writing disdains the similes and metaphors that mainstream authors cherish. Brady is willing and able to deploy brilliant similes.

                                       Flock of friendly parables catch
the air like whiffle balls. Hard to loft, they are harder to gather.   

(Paradise Gardens 1 and 2)

(This reminds me that Brady is an American poet as well as a London-based poet. Precinct comes easier when the word is interpreted in a US way.)


will you recognize the innumerable frosted branches, the field used like a scratch-card, as your park?


(Mutability, p. 109)

smoke unbundled like measuring tape

(Hymn On The Nativity)

                                               hand
grenades, built to appeal to the hand
like an American football

("Thrown Fire", in Wildfire)


Most post-avant poems avoid a resonant ending: not open-field enough: they cultivate a muted fade. But many of Brady's poems end with a knockout.

                   so gorgeous
a hush falls down
the fault of language.
(To Be Continued)


Or this, a clincher that is also a brilliant simile.

Because you are righteous you open your
head every day, joy cut-in like a kite mark. 

(Commercial In Confidence)


Nevertheless, the poems are difficult. They never resolve into simple or single meanings. And yet the urgency of the poem challenges us to find meaning, and not just any meaning either.

The poems are difficult. That's less true of Mutability, a book that many will be able to read with simple happiness. In a different way it's also less true of Wildfire, because at least you know what the poem is about.


*






I need help with reading Brady. Fortunately there's some genuinely helpful stuff around on the internet.

The most searching piece is still the one by Marianne Morris that was printed in Jacket in 2006. This deals with Embrace.

http://jacketmagazine.com/29/morris-brady.html

I just think that Morris asks questions that fall less easily into the familiar terms of debate about Brady.

The other essential piece on Embrace is by John Wilkinson ("Off the Grid: Lyric and Politics in Andrea Brady's Embrace" (Chicago Review vol 53 no 1 Spring 2007, reprinted shortly afterwards in his collection of essays The Lyric Touch  - Salt 2007). This isn't available online, which is a damn shame.

[Yes, it is now, thanks to the Free Library:

http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Off+the+grid%3a+lyric+and+politics+in+Andrea+Brady%27s+Embrace.-a0163374237

]

But it may be some consolation to know that The Lyric Touch is a fairly indispensable book. The Brady essay is typical - probably, indeed, the keystone essay - in its extraordinary flow of insights and in its marked disputability. Both book and essay pretend to prove more than they prove, are oracular on big ideas and slipshod on small ones.

Though Wilkinson characterizes Morris' piece as "wayward" and takes specific issue with her reading of "Saw Fit". both essays are in some sort of accord inasmuch as they register much faith in Brady pointing the way out of a poetic impasse.

They're also in accord in tending to approach Embrace via what each sees as characteristic imagery (encountered in multiple poems). In Morris's case it's bodies being pierced and distended and split; in Wilkinson's case it's things being fed into slots, hatches, grids and grates.

To which may be prefixed Sam Ladkin's remarks, since they touch on most of the consensual opinions about Brady's poems:

Andrea's poetry has always disclosed within its fierce political insights the sentimentalities which are the stage management techniques of the political class. Her poetry frequently operates by bringing into alignment and misalignment the machinery of varieties of economy; the spaces and rhetorics which are their constituent cogs and the locations for conflicts of value. Hence Vacation of a Lifetime registers the debt of leisure and the domestic arena in the experience of alienation, and Cold Calling a conflict of ethical and legal economies. The new work in Chicago Review I think contains Andrea's most persistent attempt to salvage different economies of experience from such abasement. The task of making space is never free and delirious from rhetorical, financial and critical intrusions (and one of their subjects is how to save experience from rhetoric) but there is a persistent hope for the dominion of friendship, pleasure, and intimacy.

This is from his chatty Chicago Review Tour Report , c. 2007.


*

In connection with the above is Sam Ladkin and Robin Purves, "An Introduction" (Chicago Review, Vol 53, No. 1, Cambridge Poetry Issue (Spring 2007), pp. 6-13

http://www.thefreelibrary.com/An+introduction.-a0163374213

The essay is partly a counter-offensive against its own failure to introduce (the four poets, Andrea Brady, Chris Goode, Peter Manson, Keston Sutherland). They say in the first paragraph: "[W]e want to avoid the kind of reassuring exposition that would seriously blunt the impact of poetry that is designed to confront and unsettle."  (Ibid, p. 6)

Why should they feel that the poetry is so weak that they could snuff out its spark with a carelessly reassuring exposition?

There seems no reason to believe that exposition, reassuring or not, blunts the impact of poetry. It doesn't seem to have done so for the most exposited texts of all, the Bible and Shakespeare.

Exposition tends to sharpen and deepen impact. Impact is not an individual but a communal endeavour. A poetic that believes that the creator-author shapes impact with a lacerating edge, and then the edge is progressively taken off when anyone talks about it, is absurdly individualistic.

But why, anyway, should the introducers feel bound to assist the poetry in doing what, in their opinion, it's designed to do? Who claims that the design is as it should be? -; poetry is not self-validating. Poetry is a design, but it cannot control its reception. To treat it as a device that must be allowed to confront and unsettle - is to treat it as exactly what it isn't, a panacea (instructions on the bottle to be followed) rather than an intervention in a much wider debate.

But to continue.

The difficulties this poetry poses for readers are potentially daunting. Complex hierarchies of syntactical dependence have to be followed and retraced, highly condensed and thoroughly dislocated references to the social world and its myriad discursive fields have to be followed up -- and all the while readers' efforts are sabotaged by bathetic collapses, pratfalls, and aggression. It is the kind of poetry that seems to require introduction.And yet the quickness of prosody and critique refutes in advance the sure-footed preface that would measure up each poet and sing a dirge to finalize their interment. (Ibid, p. 10)

(Just who are these sure-footed prefators, these reassuring expositors?  Most modern poetry languishes for lack of any comment at all. Ladkin and Purves themselves would come nearly top of my list of people who can step with reassuring sure-footedness through this landscape. And good on them!)

We cannot circumscribe this work, principally because its most fundamental concerns circumscribe us; who am "I", who are "we", how am "I" made and, in that making, who suffers as a result? (Ibid, p. 10, continuing previous quote.) 
That's brilliantly and helpfully said, as is their characterization of the encountered difficulties. I feel here a strong sense of common ground - a recognition that we've read the same poetry and had similar experiences to contend with.,

Because contending is what it does amount to. Complicity ("who suffers as a result?") is a continuous preoccupation of Brady's poetry. As soon as you begin to take an interest in Brady's poetry it begins to turn personal: "Is this about me too?"

On that last sentence, they explain further:

... the truth that our identities, as we crouch over a laptop or eat a clementine on the subway, are dependent for their making and sustenance on the catastrophic exploitation of the unfortunate inhabitants of other places (Ibid, p. 10)

Tussling with the details of this should not be taken as implying anything but fierce agreement with its general drift. Nevertheless, it deserves thinking out a little more.  I might come back to this.

For the rest, their introduction shows strong influence from Wilkinson's "Off the Grid" essay, notably as regards its sketch of recent UK poetry history, objection to the "Cambridge" tag, Brady's supposed lack of self-regard...

The latter isn't something I disagree with, inasmuch as it importantly highlit the analytical and generalized concerns of Brady's poetry. Yet Marianne Morris (chided by Wilkinson) had seen that Brady's poems were of course highly aware of their own dazzle. And in fact since these essays were written her work has increasingly trodden a fine-line ghazal on the edges of the autobiographical mode; the distinction between personal and public is being forcibly broken down. Neither of which observations imply that Brady's poetry is self-regarding in the vaguely pejorative sense that Wilkinson or Ladkin/Purves seem to mean. Just that private virtues like "lack of self-regard" have little meaning in the complicit world we live in.
















*

http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Brady%20interview.htm

Andrew Duncan interviewing Andrea Brady, soon after the publication of Wildfire (2010).

*

And finally a more recent review of the whole of Cut From The Rushes by Andrew Spragg in HixEros (January 2014). 

In the same month, Ashleigh Lambert reviewed Mutability: Scripts For Infancy for The Rumpus.

Vicky Sparrow's review of Mutability in The Litterateur (Dec 2013)

Neither of the above three pieces really attempt anything like critical engagement, just appreciation and a little elucidation. And most likely that's all I'll manage here.

*

Brady is by birth an American poet, and there are times when her poetry reminds not of Cambridge but of Indiana. "Child Stars on Trial"  sounds like it ought to be a poem by Arielle Greenberg. At the same time no-one would call Brady a Gurlesque poet, she's too committed to a central knot of ideas and values, she'll never just spin and incandesce. There are heavy costs to that commitment.  The reader too needs to decide it's worth it.

*

Complicity

This is a theme that is often mentioned by Brady's commentators. I'm talking about social complicity of the kind that educated people, such as poets and their audiences, all feel and have to make some accord with.

It's a highly complicated topic with a vast literature.

http://democracyeducationjournal.org/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1098&context=home
























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