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THINGS
SAID, UNSAID AND HALF WORTH SAYING
THINGS UNSAID: NEW & SELECTED POEMS 1960 - 2005
by Tony Connor [336pp, £15, Anvil]
THE WELL IN THE RAIN: NEW & SELECTED POEMS
by Tony Curtis [202pp, £10.99, Arc]
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The fact that Things Unsaid isn't a Collected Poems suggests that Tony Connor, though now in his
seventy-sixth year, is not quite ready to become a monument; it also
obviously implies that the poems in it ('the author's own choice,' in words
from the back cover, '...from a writing career that spans nearly half a
century') are ones he's prepared to stand by, that is leaving out four
sequences named in his Preface
he is 'unwilling to print in part.'
This is his second New & Selected, the first being published in 1982.
Some poets my age and background (I was born in the back streets of Bootle
six years later than Connor), and especially Northern ones, see Tony Connor
(and in some ways Norman Nicholson too) as a prototype. His first collection
appeared in 1962. Here was poetry being brought to and being made out of
working-class Northern streets, poetry shifting attention away from the
metropolis to the provinces, to industrial cityscapes and working-class
lives. New territory was opened up. This was the time commentators told us
that the Modernists were being nudged aside to make way for the renewal of a
tradition kept alive in Hardy. It was the time of Kitchen Sink drama, the
revival of the provincial novel, and, in art, the paintings of John Bratby,
Jack Smith, Derrick Greaves and Edward Middleditch, a time when, as Frances
Spalding in British Art Since 1900
tells us, Bratby 'painted dustbins, milk bottles, beer bottles, cornflake
packets, the clutter and debris of ordinary domestic life.' Edward
Lucie-Smith says in his Penguin anthology British Poetry Since 1945 that Connor is 'one of the best of the
naturalistic 'domestic' poets who have abounded in England since the war'.
My earliest memories of Connor are of two poems that have become classics:
'Elegy for Alfred Hubbard' and 'Child's Bouncing Song', first encountered in
anthologies for children. It is good to be reminded of them and meet them
again here in a context that puts on records a writing career of over fifty
years. And for the over three hundred pages of poems we have here we should
be grateful.
It is a known fact that Tony Connor left school at fourteen to spend some
twenty-six years as a textile designer in Manchester; he was later to become
a professor of English at Wesleyan University in America, where he moved in
1971. Ironically he has done what many of the Modernists did - go into
voluntary exile and exploit the perspective this affords. Though there are a
good number of poems here that tell us about (generally uncomfortable) life
in modern America, Connor is predominantly a poet of memory. It is as if he
constantly poring over a family photograph album, haunted by ghosts - of
those killed in the Great War (something we find too in the early poems of
Ted Hughes), of relatives, lodgers, neighbours:
Many people
who are dead
Address me
within my head
[from 'The
Crowd at My Door']
It is also as if Connor's imagination is constantly primed to engage with
poetry: he is always conscious of being a poet, confident in his ability to
make at least a half-decent poem even out of seemingly slight events. In
recreating the world in which he had, as we say in Liverpool, his
broughtin's-up, there are few can match him:
One winter
morning, half in a dream,
the young boy
lurched from his heaped bed
before the
sky hinted at light.
The window,
encrusted with frosty flowers,
concealed the
tangle of whispering streets
knotted
together around the graveyard.
All night
long he had dreamed of the graveyardÉ
[from 'The
Graveyard']
or
A needle
eased the world away.
She did not
see the window's curdled shine
grow fronds
which multiplied
all night
despite that thrusting, fiery breath.
At dawn
winter went on without her,
while by her
bed he sister stood and cried.
[from 'A
Woman Dying']
He is a autobiographical poet, musing on everyday experience, the emotions
evoked and the thoughts each event or memory provoke - not just of a
childhood in Manchester but of the problems of marital/sexual relations and
of adjusting to life in a new place, growing old. His writing mostly engages
us with an apparent simplicity but the pondering mind behind this is complex
and subtle. There is often humour at work. Eliot has said that old men should
be explorers: this can be readily said of Tony Connor and his journey through
poetry.
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When asked if I'd like to write
something on Tony Curtis, I immediately started to look forward to receiving
and reading a book by the Welsh Tony Curtis. That disappointment may have coloured
my first reading of what turned out to be a book by the Irish Tony Curtis
(born 1955). I wondered what the fuss was about: the poems didn't make much
of an impact. Some fell flat, some felt a tad glib. There were oddnesses of
phrasing when words seemed to have come too easily (things that would have
cried out for comment at a decent workshop); times when sentiment confuses
itself with feeling; where references to Beckett, Akhmatova, Lucien Freud,
Robert Frost, Li Po etc. seemed like coat-tailing; there were 'found' poems
like chopped-up prose, haiku that failed to hit the spot, clerihews that
merely sounded flip, and a set of pleasant-enough poems about Tibet that
contained much less wisdom than they pretended to.
I see that three years ago Stride reviewed
Curtis's What Darkness Covers.
There Thomas White complained of the way Curtis makes some of his characters
speak in a contrived way, 'never allowed to speak for themselves - so the
voices all sound the same.' There is something to this. Characters who speak
do so in their author's voice not their own. White sees this as Curtis being
so much in control that 'he leaves little room for the reader.' I would say
that he is often not in enough
control of his poems, is too easily satisfied, with the result that he risks
blandness. I know people who have heard him perform at readings and have
enjoyed what they heard. Maybe this is a classic case of poems made effective
at readings with the author's introductions and seductive tone of voice (the
old Irish blarney) being less effective on the page.
A second reading was a mellower one. I recognised a certain talent at work
but still felt it a flawed one. There were moments I could feel something of
the burden of Irish history Curtis takes on board, the bleakness of some of
his landscapes. I just wish he'd mined his real subjects more deeply, brought out richer ore and
wasted less energy on things that matter less than I think he imagines they
do.
© Matt Simpson 2006
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