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Poets in landscapes
(and vice versa)
An Ordinary Dog,
Gregory Woods (134pp, £9.95, Carcanet Press)
The Body is a Little Gilded Cage,
Kristina Marie Darling (60pp, $12.95, Gold Wake Press)
Sweet Torture of Breathing,
Lorna Thorpe (88pp, £8.99, Arc Publications)
The Bond,
Maitreyabandhu (32pp, £5, Smith/Doorstop Books)
Love's Loose Ends,
David Tait (28pp, £5, Smith/Doorstep Books)
bedbound, David
Pollard (24pp, £4.95, Perdika)
The colour of love,
Jonathan Steffen (32pp, £3.50, Acumen Publications)
Bardo, Roselle
Angwin (90pp, £8.95, Shearsman Books)
Cadastral map, Jill
Magi (112pp, £8.95, Shearsman Books)
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The Protean nature of Gregory Woods'
poetic gifts is well displayed here in An Ordinary Dog, with its variety of forms and voices. A
formidably accomplished formalist when he wants to be, Woods will use humour
to make profoundly serious points, and use flashes of wit to leaven (and slip
home) the serious. One of the most memorable poems takes issue with a
somewhat dismissive review in London Magazine (urging Woods to take a holiday from
gay and lesbian themes in favour of a few poems about trees or fly-fishing);
soon these recommended sylvan settings are a backdrop to erotic mayhem and
the squelch of a critical evisceration. Other works include sonnets and
rhyming tours-de-force (including two pieces built on homophonic couplets):
The
shell-shocked soldier, home from war (once bitten
Twice shy)
can't stand the booming of the bittern.
(from 'Echo's echoes')
This may not work in Scotland - and several deconstruct/reconstruct the
themes of the great French men of letters with exhilarating acuity:
Whatever I'm
waiting for,
it's
definitely nothing
mundane or
ordinary.
(from 'Scenes from Gautier')
I could go on indefinitely if space allowed - there's variety, depth and wit
in abundance, and Woods surely merits the wider readership that publication
by Carcanet brings. The sheer inventiveness and the linguistic
resourcefulness are a joy. Dogs - it's a bit of a red herring... except that,
like the dog in the poem referred to, a book of poems wilfully trots off to
make its own way in the world. This one deserves to thrive.
'Now the night has been opened like a box of exotic blue canaries & I'm
brushing feathers from my long dark sleeves'. Kristina Marie Darling's The
Body is a Little Gilded Cage is
assembled from elements that are hardly unfamiliar in Postmodernist (or
indeed post-Postmodernist) writing - the prose poem chunks, the notes to
absent texts, the poetry scattered sparsely over a page. The prose poems are
however vignettes of nocturnal metropolitan dream-life that 'take liberties'
with the correspondence of the Imagist poet HD; the notes and footnotes refer
elliptically to these and to other, shadowy, histories and esoteric
knowledge-domains; the correspondence and the fragments break all these up
gradually into effects like the after-images of fireworks. The whole
assemblage is, I found, rather dazzling, combining wit, sensuality, precision
and an wry acceptance of the elusivess of meaning, above all the meaning of
self.
Lorna Thorpe's poetry has a facility for the clinching final line, the
stylish dismount which might pall as a manoueuvre were it any less
accomplished in practice. The collection moves from mental to physical
illness, then to the mental and physical engagements (and tribulations) of
love. Expressed with a tough, sometimes sardonic directness, the collection
describes a trajectory from darkness to light which inevitably has less powerful
things to say about the brighter end of the spectrum, if only because fire
and meltdown tend to have the best tunes:
Last to go is
the halo
which she
carries hooped
like a bag
over her arm
as dented and
bruised
as the wheel
of a stock car.
(from 'Fallen angel')
Smith/Doorstep pamphlets have a distinctive format - the single colour
wrapper cover, the unemphatic font - which (in the examples I've seen) sets
the scene for an unflashy, accessible content. This is a kind of writing that
can drift into the banal or unexceptional, that can make you wonder what the
pressure was to write it in the first place, but the editors of this imprint
have by and large avoided these pitfalls. In The Bond, Maitreyabhandu shows a quiet scrupulosity
in building an atmosphere and a sense of the waverings of memory through an
accumulation of finely-observed detail. The verse forms favoured (typically
employing a long, conversational line) eschew innovation in favour of a timelessness that works well in an
absorbing treatment of childhood recollected and adulthood experienced.
He stops for
a moment in the shadow of a tree,
catches his
breath, then hammers in a post.
It points at
something too far away to see.
(from 'Signpost')
David Tait's Love's Loose Ends
is also taken up with memories, loss and the inscrutability of people loved,
this time a retrospect from the uncertain ground beyond the end of a
relationship. The spaces in the sparse lines, lines somewhat cool in tone,
seem at first to build a kind of membrane to keep the reader out, but very
soon the effort demanded by the concision and poise pays off. A melancholy
that has nothing to do with sentimentality suffuses these poems and the
courage of confronting these moments and writing about them without obscurity
or evasion - rather with a wry tenderness - is the lasting impression.
I start to
see hearts everywhere:
the envied
wealth of playing cards, a roughly
chopped
lettuce; and once in the lakes
a boulder
stopped me dead.
We cover
these richnesses:
that flare in
our chests like Chinese lanterns,
drop as bells
through churches.
(from 'Heart')
Perdika has a well-deserved reputation as a sparing publisher of well-produced
and innovative pamphlets; David Pollard, with his nuanced, sparse and intense
testimony from the bedside of a life coming to an end, fits very well into
the series. 17 of the poems are addressed to the woman whose life is ebbing;
the 18th underscores the death by talking of her in the third person for the
first time. Pared of all punctuation, shifting subtly from one impression or
memory to another, the poems repay, and even demand, a number of re-readings:
and hope
still rises
easy as
mackerel
to the line
that drops
an
introspection
down the
waters
to the
arteries of what
you were and
now no longer
fear
(from '8')
The Colour of Love
employs a knowingly paint-by-numbers approach to the really rather well-worn
conceit that love fills the world with colours. Indeed, the exact colours are
specified: 'I shall forgive you your Rose Madder moments,/ Your Prussian Blue
moods and your Vandyke Brown studies'. As the quote shows, Jonathan Stephen
has some fun with the concept and pursues it (across nearly 30 poems) with a
light-hearted thoroughness that doesn't altogether avoid dipping the brush in
Sentimental Pink or Humdrum Magnolia. But then, they said the same about the
Mersey Poets in the late 60s - and
I can imagine a selection of the poems (whose meaning is never in doubt for a
moment and whose wit is at its best inventively agile) going down well in
performance.
Those of you already in possession of a smattering of Tibetan or the
vocabulary of transcendence will know that 'bardo' signifies a transitional
or liminal state (Latin has its uses too). Roselle Angwin's 'Zen take on
psychogeography' examines just what it is we discover in the contours of
place, how much we bring along with us, how much inner and outer landscapes
and weathers interpenetrate and rock into some kind of equilibrium. The
poems, many formally prose poems, are captivating and in places
breath-taking, calm yet displaying a palette of emotional colours, always
subtle and open to the world. Here are the connections between landscape and
memory, landscape and belief, landscape and identity - one to read and
re-read, to recalibrate the senses before getting out into the world again:
water
sutra
just a slight
thickening
of the molecules that
make up water
the seal
is almost
more wave
than matter
At the crinklier end of psychogeography, Jill Magi asks: 'is traditional
writing in nature a cadastral map?' Such maps plot ownership, a particular
superimposition of the individual shadow on the apparent neutrality of
landscape, and the metaphors of map-making and colonisation, the
appropriation of related texts, give the collection a unity and power. As
maps of possession edit out the extraneous, so (Magi contends) nature writing
narrows the focus, writing white when it comes to the lives lived in
landscapes (here, New Jersey, Kentucky and Vermont) across time, omitting
socio-political issues, economic struggles and despoilations. Sampling a
variety of texts from oral archives, diaries, big utility reports, songs and
first person impressions interspersed with photos of notebook entries, Magi
restores the hard-bitten lives, the vanished peoples and perspectives:
geography of
hope we
simply
need it even
if we never do
more than
drive to its edge
and look in
for
reassuring
America
tough as an
Indian
this is the
way to
learn the
grammar of the
wild
invisible ...
(from
'Cadastral map')
© Alasdair
Paterson 2012
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