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THE ONES THAT DIDN'T GET AWAY
One of the worst things about being a reviews editor and running Stride magazine is putting books you want to read and
keep on the bookshelf into padded envelopes to mail out to other writers for
them to review. With some titles it simply can't be done - all the books
mentioned here deserve more than the quick round-up this is likely to be, but
simply the fact that they are still here you should take as high
recommendation indeed.
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I was looking foreard to Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge's I Love
Artists. New and Selected Poems
(University of California Press) a lot, but it wasn't what I expected, and
I was put off by a rather fey interview she gave (I think to Bomb magazine) where the interviewer suggests that
'poetry is an engagement beyond emotion, not made'. This is of course, at
odds with Berssenbrugge's own sense of construction. In 'Nest', for example,
she states 'My origin is a linguistic surface like a decorated wall, no
little houses at dusk, yellow lights coming on, physical, mute.' These poems
are lyrical, long-lined explorations of emotion rooted in language. They
proudly present indecision and confusion alongside observation and lyricism,
as something to explore and (re-)present to the reader. What I first took as
vague and ethereal, over time has become rich and ordered, a physical musical
wordscape; a private, magical world that engrosses and delights.
Andy Brown has also defied expectations over the last few years, with his
move away from overt experimentation to a studied lyricism, to poems of
observation and epiphany. Presumably the Breughel painting on the cover,
which gives the book its name, is a coy reference to Brown's poetic
relocation? The selected works in Fall of the Rebel Angels. Poems
1996-2006 (Salt) are quiet and playful,
any experiment pretty much hidden away in their making (Brown has said he
still uses various processes as he writes his poems). Here are invented
birds, fictional travellers and their tales of distant lands, lists of
apples' names, celebrations of birth and childhood, and a challenge 'To All
You Squabbling Poets' where Brown's apparent move toward the mainstream is
explained: 'We are bored with all your ballyhoo & noise!' Honesty
confesses me to say I miss the ballyhoo & noise of Brown's earlier poems,
which are represented here only by 'Three Poems after OuLiPo', and wish more
of the poems were obviously experimental in their observation and approach.
Whilst I may not miss arguments between the poetry cliques and mafias, I do miss the sense of debate and exploration that
Brown previously brought to his work and writing. It will be interesting to
see what another decade brings for Brown and his writing: angel or devil?
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In his time, Andrew Jordan has played both devil's
advocate and chief shitstirrer within the poetry world, as well as eco-saint
and eco-warrior in battles surrounding road development and the destruction
of ancient landscapes. Ha Ha
(Shearsman) brings all these strands together, and is a long overdue
collection. The title itself clearly flags up the punning and playful
language Jordan uses in his exploration of place and our relationship to it:
a ha ha is both physical object and forced laugh, a device designed to create
an uninterrupted view, but also to facilitate possession and ownership of
land. For Jordan, landscape is what has happened and what happens still in
particular places; in his poems he offers a personal, felt, obsessive,
magical response. Jordan loses himself along ancient trackways, following
real or imaginary markers, vague directions from strangers, and personal
inclinations, toward epiphany and linguistic resolution. These poems are
neither spiritual nor physical maps; they cleverly manage to avoid any new
age mumbo-jumbo in favour of political and social immersion and
contextualisation. Jordan's hard-edged poems are both a clarion call urging
us to reconsider our own place, and a celebration of lost tribes and
landscapes.
The Sorrow Psalms. a book of twentieth century elegy (ed. Lynn Strongin, University of Iowa Press) also
remembers and celebrates the lost. This is a wonderful anthology, which
considers personal and communal mourning, conjuring up specific loved ones
and also offering philosophical conjecture of how and why we live.
Lamentations, memorials, abstracts, utterances, songs and theological
ponderings are all here, by both famous and unknown authors. Evocations of
invidual's relatives and others we will never know are juxtaposed with poems
that grapple with the atroticies of Auschwitz, the notion of an afterlife, of
memory and transcendence.
Instead of lyric, S.A. Stepanek tackles spirituality head-on, charging at it
like a bull running at a matador in a bullring. His book-length poem Three,
Breathing (Wave Books) is a breathless,
noisy, declamatory and self-indulgent work that insists on taking you along
with it. Throughout it's 89 non-stop pages Stepanek builds up relentless
short-lines to build a house of questions and observations which he finally
dismisses and knocks down, bowled over by confusion:
and yet, in
the great church
the stars are at the
periphery
and we are gone
Whilst there is something engrossing and captivating about this confused and
confusing invocation of doubt, delight and despair, in the end it's too raw,
unfocussed and personal, too much like a list, too much of a rant, to hold my
complete attention, although it has kept me intrigued for several months.
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Jessica Smith has a different approach to Stepanek:
instead of fragmented thought, she scatters the very words themselves across
the white page. In most of Organic Furniture Cellars. Works on Paper
2002-2004 (Outside Voices) the reader
must assemble and order the very linguistic bones of her poetry if they want
anything more than isolated words or phrases. Smith has bravely taken the
idea of the page as a canvas for words further than many have previously
dared. The poems make us aware of the placing of the words as much as the
words themselves; since these poems subject is place and memory, fragmentation
is
an appropriate response and tool. If the occasional use of words above and
below a drawn line seems a little tired, and if the final poem,
'Archipelago''s descent into concrete poetry or visual process is an unsuccesful
experiment, the bulk of this work intrigues and convinces.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson's tug your careless body out of the careful
dusk (University of Iowa) is subtitled 'a
poem in fragments', although it's easier to read the book as seven fragmented
poems than one long fragmented piece. In no sense is this work haphazard or
unformed, yet I find it impossible to articulate the subject or subjects this
poem might be about, working around (or avoiding), or even pointing towards,
apart from the idea of thought itself. Moments of transience jostle with
epiphanies and ponderings, gnomic utteracces and snapshot images to make a
lively, compelling, bewildering book.
Brian Henry's Quarantine
(Ashanti Press) is a much more chiselled and ordered sequence or series of
poems than Wilkinson's, complete with its own appendix - another sequence
entitled 'Contagion'. The title sequence considers the narrator's
self-absorbed death as the conclusion to remembered life, a body who demands
to be somebody but 'who wants
to be spared / a memory this story'. These brief poems are syntactically flat
and delivered deadbeat, interrupted only by italicised storytelling, added to
only by 'Contagion', whose 40 poems act as a kind of gloss on the 40 poems of
'Quarantine' itself. This is intriguing if mannered work, although I felt
down by the get-out ending: '...and though I call myself dead / I have not died
the words still move across / my face everything right now in the telling'.
So that's alright then, it was just a dream, it's just a poem.
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There's more self-obsession and meditation in Catherine
Bowman's Notarikon (Four Way Books),
although these are rationalised and constructed to alphabetical, syllabicall
and stanzaic restrictions and processes. It's just the kind of thing that
enables the lyric to be contemporary, to be propelled into the 21st century,
as juxtaposition, collage, observation and encounter are pulled into use.
Bowman's '1000 lines' poem is the remarkable centrepiece of this powerful
collection, whilst Peter Larkin's Leaves of Field (Shearsman) contains a trio of long sequences
rooted in the natural world. Using his trademark juxtaposition of prose poems
and short lyric verse, informed by eco-criticism and the natural sciences as
much as cutting-edge poetries and poetics, Larkin offers the reader a radical
contemporary version of landscape poetry.
Meanwhile, Iain Sinclair and John Wilkinson's worlds and poetry remain more
urban and political, caught up in critique of and resistance to politics and
social change. Sinclair's Buried at Sea
(Worple Press) reads, it has to be said, as a bit of a hotchpotch that
teeters on self-mockery with its constant reference to a role call of usual
suspects in Sinclair's world: Patrick Keiller, Alesteir Crowley, Patrick
Hamilton, Conrad, Raworth and many others are namechecked, referenced or
quoted here in this mishmash of diaristic lyrics, occult asides and brief
critical prose fragments. Sinclair is seems, is turning autovampiric, sucking
the blood out of himself, publishing work with little or no bite. The book
isn't helped by the jokey colour picture on the cover of a toy parrot, nor
by the occasional lo-fi images inside.
John Wilkinson, meanwhile, takes us for a Lake Shore Drive (Salt) along the edge of contemporary poetry. His
work is frightening and relentless, a compelling mix of unforgiving metaphor
and allusion underpinned (underPrynned?) with political and social critique
and a harsh, minimalist music that keeps the whole thing relentlessly rolling
along. There are few writers, let alone poets, who have such a knowledgeable
grasp of sociopolitical and economic theory, such a wide frame of cultural
and scientific reference, or such a way with words. Whether singing Monk's or
Miles Davis' praises, exploring the madness of urban environments, or
deconstructing film, Wilkinson's poetry is to be savoured.
©
Rupert Loydell 2007
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