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Big Notes,
Small Changes
Hedge Fund & Other Living Margins, Helen Moore (90pp, £8.95,
Shearsman)
Book of Changes,
Paul Naylor (88pp, £8.95, Shearsman)
No School Tie,
Peter Phillips (80pp, £8.99, Ward Wood)
Tikki Tikki Man,
Caroline
Carver (64pp, £8.99, Ward Wood)
Nocturnes,
Will Kemp (64pp, £7.99, Cinnamon Press)
Scan,
John Fraser Williams (62pp, £7.99, Cinnamon Press)
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Halfway through one of Helen
Moore's engaged, multi-voiced reflections on the lethal complexities of our
relationship with the natural world, it might come back to you that the poem
you are reading is in fact called 'The Unsung Pilchard'. But the smile that
may have played about your lips initially will have gone (a pilchardist
response anyway, surely?) and your hand will no longer be reaching for the
labels po-faced
and preachy,
so often earned by ecopoetry, but for their good twins, serious and polemical. And compassionate and
angry: a compassion that extends to the fate of the fishing communities
dependent on vanishing fish-stocks, an anger whose charge is not allowed to
impede or blur the language and the argument it bears. Granted, the language
sometimes teeters just the right side of the borderline with the cliched and
the crass, but this is the risk run by such candid, open love of - and fear
for - the world.
As the title indicates, the horrific collapse of global financial markets
gives Moore a fresh batch of cross-referencing opportunities, from themes to
resonant vocabularies. Compare and contrast indeed. Moore also winds back to
the rural past and engages the spirit of John Clare in her defensive and
offensive strategies. Not flawless by any means, but in the great tradition
of visionary politics in British poetry.
Little lines of sporting wood run wild
where hands heaved stones
to enclose - drove John Clare crazy.
Today these walls left to crumble -
cracking bark, and Hawthorn
boughs once plashed,
now ancient elbows' fold
and sinew; Hazel, Ash -
all create a delicate asylum.
Money
markets usually lie
at the
core of the financial
system,
functioning quietly
(from 'Hedge Fund')
In the variety, risk-taking and sheer volume of Shearsman Book's output there
is no let-up. Tony Frazer calmly dispatches half a century to the boundary
each year, and poetry beyond the mainstream is enormously in his debt for
this. Paul Naylor's variations on the I-Ching, very much in the Shearsman
mould, take off from the personal changes brought by the deaths of parents
and the birth of a child in his own life, and fragmented moments of these
perturbations of adult life fill and play against the hexagrams of ancient
wisdom.
So far so good, but this reader found some of these short, unpunctuated forms
difficult to read. This may be deliberate, but the work done in discerning
the syntax can get in the way, at a first reading, of an appreciation of the
meaning and its expression. Sometimes, you get halfway down a poem before
discovering that the title word is actually a part of it (though usually it
isn't); sometimes you come up with attractive misreadings (apparently) like
'lyric/debris':
even as anger
eludes these words
turn like
leaves to lyric
debris becomes
spring's new
feast
('Arising')
But of course, having won through to the optimum reading, you'll probably
find subsequent re-readings less effortful and will be able to concentrate on
the understated and timeless moment of reflection each poem strives for. This
is a whole poem, hexagram and all - see what you think...
____ ____
____ ____
__________
____ ____
____ ____
__________
there is no
beyond
words
stake their claim
before
what isn't
here the act
back of
which nothing is
on its own
('Taking Action')
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Ward Wood is a relatively
new press, producing neat editions of poetry rather more grounded in the
mainstream. Peter Phillips' poetry, on first reading, seems low-key, mildly
reflective, relying as much on the shared experiences of the topics -
grandchildren, schooldays, love and loss - that readers will bring to bear as
on anything extra brought to them by the poet. A second reading obliges you
to work harder to bring the poems to life, and there are some quietly
felicitous moments, some amusing lines and some restrained melancholy, but
several poems just seem destined to remain pulseless. It's the third reading
that brings it all to life, and you notice the more complicated things,
always stated with deceptive simplicity - intimations of distant separations
inherent in the joyous everyday with children, the poignancy of the continuing
conversations you have with those you've lost, the many varieties of learning
only to be noticed in retrospect.
Two hours
dismantling errors,
squinting at
instructions
as
concentration slides
through my
fingers, building the swing.
It's ready. I
stand back
amazed, want
to climb in.
In he goes.
The motion of a first
push moves
him, his face is a blur.
A wide-angle
smile focuses.
He's away.
('Present
from Woolworths')
Caroline Carver's Tikki Tikki Man is much stronger meat; one long poem
telling via flashback, shifting landscapes, fantasy and shadowy reality a
story of the damage inflicted by child abuse. This is harrowing stuff, though
never explicit, proceeding through inference, menace and imaginative fugue
towards an ultimately redemptive conclusion. Inside it, one is apprehensive
and disoriented but at the same time beguiled, compelled to read on without
knowing what, or where, may come next. A marvellous achievement, like nothing
else I've encountered.
when you're
asleep your breath
moves more
slowly
ghosting down
mountains
like a
nightdress without a person
this breath
is like
fretted water
creeping over
crushed oyster shells
until it
catches you in nightmares
diving deep
into forbidden places
and you wake
gasping for air
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For smaller-scale mainstream
publishing, Cinnamon Press is one of the contemporary success stories.
Handsomely turned out in the company livery, well-designed and readable in
Palatino, the collections by Will Kemp and John Fraser Williams maintain the
good line and length we've come to expect.
Now Cinnamon poets don't, by and large, get themselves into a lather about
form or language, but have something to say in poems that are solid and
well-made; and what they do very consistently, while embracing many of the
values by which the great mass of contemporary verse is written, is to avoid
the risks of these - a sclerotic stiffness in mind and method, a suburban switching
from smugness to sighing regret and back again, a fast-fading impression left
by a poem that had no particular reason to be written.
Will Kemp manages to fill almost his whole volume with nocturnes, poems
written in or about night-time and its experiences - the cosmic, the
domestic, the ontological, the musical. The senses adjust to the dark and
experience the world differently; memories cluster round. This is a
collection of successful evocations and quiet illuminations, and the shorter,
sparser poems (including those put together in a sequence on the power and
associations of classical compositions) are the more effective:
Above the
night-charred branches
of bare ash
trees
a flurry of
orange clouds
as if the sky
had been switched on
or somewhere
far away
a city was
burning to the ground
('Beckwithshaw')
John Fraser Williams' first collection is written, as he says, 'to keep the
oath: not to kill amazement'. In 'Scan', the strongest sequence here, the
reality and metaphor of hospital scans carry a powerful biographical charge
and an enhanced sense of life's vulnerability. Elsewhere, his topics include
rural Wales (past and present), portraits from the edges of society (crack
addict, prophet, poacher), travel and the intimacies of personal life. On
this evidence he is a resourceful poet never short of an original phrase or
an unusual angle on the world, though the collection seems to get
increasingly bogged down in mellifluous listings and a rather over-used stylistic
feature, the piling up of verbs behind a solitary pronoun.
You like
romance, custom, legend,
but some must
change the signs,
the bays and
farms and valleys,
to names
you'll understand.
You've
settled now, corrected maps,
bequeathed your deeds and titles,
swallowed
centuries of lullabies,
weather-born,
across another sullen land.
(from 'Llyn')
© Alasdair Paterson 2012
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