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Phil
Maillard is one of a legion of underrated and underestimated poets writing in
Wales. Prolific and consistent in character and style, his poems use the
space on the page alongside the space between the words - they're like atoms!
- to explore language and ideas, places and people. There's an obvious
relation as far as feel
of the poems is concerned to his contemporaries - Chris Torrance, Graham
Hartill, even Alan Halsey - though Maillard uses less stylistic inventiveness
and experimentation than these, relying more on description.
This single volume collection consists of three books, covering work from the
1980s, 1975-2004, and 1990-2007. It illustrates this consistency of style,
theme and use of language perfectly.
In 'Old man in the Bus Station',
a poem I first published in the magazine Frames, the poet strips back language
to its basics, describing a scene many would walk past without noticing. The
man of the title has 'A kind of / confident indifference / crossed with
innocence-/
Later, two consecutive poems give another clue as to the way words are fitted
into open spaces: in 'Sea Lock', which reminds me of both Shamus Heaney and
Ted Hughes, he describes:
a morning
haze
where we pick
early blackberries
through wire
The poem is sparse, punctuated with rich words where others might use
punctuation.
This next poem, 'An Afternoon and Evening With John Tripp' tells of a visit
made with the great man to Maillard's writing group (which I attended) in
Newport. The language is informal, a chat more than a poem. A story you might
tell to your mates in a pub. Towards the end of the poem ' Someone mentions
Samuel Beckett.' I'm sure that was me, and I remember John's rejoinder well,
which Phil obviously does too:
Have I got Beckett right? says John,
He
thinks it's all shit - is that it?
The poem is
full of warmth and friendship, capturing a brief moment in time and speaking
it, kindly.
If there is a newness to the world as seen by the poet, I think it's a moving
away from the emphasis on people and urban places to one of birds and
villages. Phil Maillard has never been a nature poet as such, but there are
poems here which surprised me for their sensitivity and eagle eye
observations. This makes me think even more of the two (English and Irish)
poets I mentioned earlier and is a pleasant surprise for me. In
'Skinningrove' the first four lines are like a written photograph:
On the cliff
above Boulby
a sparrowhawk
gliding low.
Whereas in the last verse, Maillard writes in classic Anglo-Welsh mode:
The lagoon
below
is not red,
but
the stone
banks
& the
bridge-feet
retain a
stain.
These three books in one volume are a superb insight, and a great
introduction should one be needed, to the poetry of Phil Maillard. Go for a
walk in the countryside, out of season, return home through town and sit by
the fire with a drink of your choosing. Slide this volume across the table
and treat yourself for the next couple of hours.
© John Gimblett 2009
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