Faber New Poets 9, Rachael Allen (17pp, Faber, £5)
Faber New Poets 10, Will Burns (15pp, Faber, £5)
Faber New Poets 11, Zaffar Kunial (17pp, Faber, £5)
Faber New Poets 12, Declan Ryan (16pp, Faber, £5)
vroom! Only twenty five and already editing Granta poetry online,
Rachael Allen cruises into a cobalt blue/bone white Faber debut riding atomic
waves of Sprite, sassiness and smut. Rachael's sex filled pamphlet offers a
joy ride through her tweenies, teens and early twenties.
Her calling card 'Science and Math' toys with Simon Armitage's phallic Bunsen
so at the same time as
fresh boys were fizzing
hair on the Bunsen burner I Was
debating what of mine
would fill the plane-sized bra on the
The lines directly reference Huddersfield's nostalgia afflicted poet:
I am very bothered when I
of the bad things I have
done in my life.
not least that time in
the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of
scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame
of the Bunsen burner;
(from 'Book of Matches')
Rachael Allen fizzes like a can of Vimto, she strides boldly into adult
themes in a lovable, Carol Ann Duffy-esque, 'lez mizz' whizz. Her poetry
resounds with the footsteps of Fiona Benson. Particularly the very first poem in the very first
pamphlet of the Faber new poet
series, 'Lares', in which Ms. Benson says a prayer 'to you, small
The strung-up dead bird in 'Lares' is an image Rachael Allen has grown
through - it has informed her poetry. However, the fundamental key to
Rachael's work is her sexuality: in other poems we find Rachael in a car with
the top down admiring tits and ass [well, she would if she were Lil Wayne].
In 'Rapidshares' she enjoys spiritual awakening through the oooh ahhhs of Gina G's D cup
Euro-vision sexcess. Rachael's is a debut pamphlet laced with erotica and
lustrous legs, it smells of hair gel and teen spirit but, inevitably, as with
all the best young writers, there are moments when the beat is lost and the
rhythm jumps overboard, leaving a few garish VPLs are left on display. Allow
me to elucidate: compare:
In my days all we did was
chief out on a quarter pound
Gone on coke, eyes are
this here shit will knock
I don't have a Mercedes
And poor Tom's a coke
Where my text from Office
of the Dead?
Which one is a Faber new poet? Which one is the leader of the three 6 mafia?
Juicy J's lines (the former) are more authentic. Rachael at her worst, comes
across as brattish and OTT. The rhyming of head with dead is lazy. My cousin
in year eight can, and will, write more fluent verse. Despite these odd
lapses, I'm convinced Rachael Allen has a shimmering chemical future awaiting.
Hers is a beautifully blue dˇbut. Congratulations to those who found her and
congratulation to her for finding herself.
In clashing colour contrast, Will Burns kicks off for the Faber team in the
tangerine colours of Blackpool Town. In the opening poem 'Country' Will
instantly zings his stardust filled poetry-ball straight into the back of the
Some call it
or lightning country.
I have heard it called
the nether country,
and thieves country
His words are champagne glass clear. Clarity, as you'll know if you read my
seminal [Hello Wembley!} review of the four Nine Arches titles- is something
I always appreciate. When 'Country' eases its eargasm into orgasm, which
filthily enough is a car boot sale in a muddy field. I get the rarest of rare
feelings, as Dylan Thomas explains: 'a good poem is a contribution to
reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it.'
This enhancement of reality is what Will Burns achieves here, albeit
Sadly the great heights he scales in the opening number are not sustained in
the poems that follow. Instead, there is a kind of Robert Lowell style ''I
can't stand the world or the walls I've built around me' mixed with manly
Charlie Bukowski posturing. In 'Stretch' Mr Burns wings it with:
Half the time I cannot
understand the words she
Any of this
These lines are so similar to the hand of Lowell that they can never truly be
Will Burns. Furthermore, I should confess a confession to the confessional
poets: I am sick to death of modern poet's dependence on Robert Lowell. His
moment of clarity- 'my mind's not right' in Skunk Hour (1959) has been ripped off by all and sundry
for over half a century. It's high time someone had the balls to be more
contrary and eccentric. Debts aside, it's a promising start from the poet in
tangerine. Next time out I would like to see him burn.
Third on the Faber's infinite conveyor belt comes Zaffar Kunial kitted out in
the green and white of the Pakistani flag. Zaffar writes a great deal about
his confused sense of place. I must admit, the land he was born is a land
previously uncharted by this gentle soul, it is a cultural backwater where
only a few coherent voices have cohered. A land of rain drenched ugliness. A
land known as Birmingham.
Whatever it is, this
talk, going back, did once have a script:
Landa, in the reign of
... So was Dad's
speech some kind of Dogri?
Zaffar's linguistic variances are lost, but is this loss interesting?
Although 'Hill Speak' is technically accomplished, beautifully written and
wise, its intellectual contents are completely predictable. The immigrant's
tale has been done to death in modern poetry. I imagine that is why 'Hill
Speak' came third and not first in the 2011 National Poetry tombola.
Much more beatific to me Midlands ears is his poem 'Placeholder', a melodious
heaven where time and place collide with words in an inspirational melting of
modern (lyrical ballads onwards) poetic history. The poem finds Zaffar deep
in thought on a frozen lake:
Those are old blades
scratched of the surface of Esthwaite
and not Windermere, as
Heaney had it
tracing the scape with a
star in 'Wordsworth's skater.
This is where truth meets beauty, it is known in mathematics as the golden
section. There can be no doubt that 'Placeholder' is a major poem, the sexy
juxtaposition of language and poetic history reach such lofty heights as of
our master, Mr. John Keats. No matter what Zaffar achieves in poetry (by all
means he should achieve a lot) he can always be proud of this poem.
Finally, in sunshine yellow, into the ring steps Faber new poet 12, Declan
Ryan. I enjoyed the blue (Rachael A) and the green corner (Zaffar K) of the
Faber stable because the brave young poets wrote from and of themselves.
Declan Ryan is not writing at the same level, this is because he is not as a)
original b) entertaining c) good. Boxing references aside, tonight's not your
New technology and new ways of communicating have led to new ways of writing.
The cream of the Facebook generation (Sam Riviere, Luke Kennard, yours truly
[Excuse me? -
editor]), have all managed to swallow this change into poetry. Declan Ryan
never seems confident of how to express the changing world as a part of
himself. Furthermore, whilst it is good that so many young people are writing
(on twitter, text, toilet seats etc.), the vast majority, including Declan
Ryan),are writing badly. Only a handful of the new poets have enough skill,
charm and charisma to make a lasting impression in the word game.
The meta-point here is that the cream of the Facebook generation (two new
names will be added by these pamphlets) are racing so hard and fast for
poetry's golden goblets and amulets that it is pointless trying to stop them.
A shimming, colourful dust is shaking all over the hills and vales of modern
British poetry. Your job - dear reader - is to listen.
Charlie Baylis 2014