Obsession

I’ve been reading Kingsley Amis’ Collected Poems recently – part of an over-comprehensive spurt of reading seven books by or about him in a row (with more ordered, too). This is, to put it mildly, an odd way to spend time. I’m not even a particular fan of Amis, but there’s something that’s prompted me to read his work in large draughts. Something about my interest in The Movement and a frustrated academic interest in them, perhaps. Some sort of challenge that his plain and populist writing poses (particularly having dosed myself up on Modernists for a long time).

Something about Kingsley Amis being an interesting individual, as well as an interesting writer.But there’s also something refreshing about having these odd pockets of over-thoroughness in your reading, even if the work you’re reading isn’t of itself that striking. It’s a different way of reading that encourages a more comprehensive and generous understanding. It can also give something to quarrel with. And perhaps the quarrels you get drawn to against your better judgement can be revealing in themselves...

The Broken Word

A rather bloody start to the week, reading Adam Foulds' The Broken Word on the train. It's a fast-paced and vivid account of a young man's experience of the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya in the 50's and his life after, back in England. By 'young man', I mean more particularly a young White man: the son of a settler family, who stays and performs acts of brutality out of fear and a half-hearted going-along-with his neighbours' macho desire to protect some kind of Englishness.

There's plenty missing in this long poem, despite the fact it's an entertaining read. Almost because it's an entertaining read (as much as I instinctively applaud it for that). There's a curious absence of credible motivation, of politics, of deep compassion. I heard about the book through the Poetry Book Society, in whose magazine the poet wrote:

No immediate relevance was intended. Nor was it meant to be an expression of moral outrage or a lesson of any kind. That extra-judicial killing and mass internment are bad didn't seem a point that needed making. I was simply interested in being inside the Kenyan Emergency...

Something of this positionlessness comes through, and it's unsettling. You don't have to agree with Adorno's supposed soundbite that 'to write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric' (interesting commentary about that quote here, btw) to think that writing poetry about Auschwitz that is 'just interested in being inside' the experience, without moral outrage, is at the very least, missing something important. And the same goes for this other bloody chapter in mid-century history.

What's missing in this book is obvious in comparison with Ngugi wa Thiong'o's breathtaking novel about the same uprising, A Grain of Wheat. This novel is fiercely politically engaged, but still emotionally nuanced and understanding of all sides and the complexities of engagement. And perhaps it shows a greater confidence in the immediate importance of literature than Adam Foulds' book does.

It's interesting that Adam Foulds chose to recommend Christopher Logue's War Music in the Poetry Book Society Bulletin, too. His book certainly has the flair, readability and cinematic violence of War Music (although to return to my earlier point, it's less pressing to do justice to mythologised figures like Hector and Achilles).

And speaking of justice, I want to be clear that I enjoyed this book greatly and was drawn in (as if reading a thriller, or watching The Last King of Scotland). And whilst I didn't find Tom (the central character) fully drawn, and felt the last section set back in England failed to integrate convincingly with the emotional experience that Tom had been through, there was much to admire and respect in the writing. It is indeed, as described by both Michael Longley and Craig Raine, 'a brilliant debut'. But perhaps 'brilliance' sounds a bit unengaged for this subject matter...

Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?

I greatly enjoyed Alan Gillis' Hawks and Doves, but I couldn't help noticing that the poem The Lad was based on a familiar, if amusing, idea. In the poem ,the lad describes how he leaves the pub and:

'I grip my Adam's whip,
my hazel wand, my straw-haired vagabond,
my Pirate of Penzance, my lilac love lance,
my ramrod, my wad, my schlong, my tube, my tonk' [etc - for two pages].

Anyone else remember this?:


via videosift.com

Three cheers for Miriam!

That's Miriam, the commenter on this post. The first two cheers are for recommending Leontia Flynn's Drives and Alan Gillis' Hawks and Doves (both of which I've now read - more on them later). And the third, for writing this review of Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch: far more insightful than mine on the same collection...

Salt, Carcanet, Bloodaxe and the poetry 'establishment'

The best poetry blog I've found so far is the thoughtful Surroundings by Rob Mack (see links). At the moment, there's an interesting post here, liking to another thought-provoking post here by George Szirtes.

They make a good argument against some of the infighting that seems to happen so much in poetry and a useful reminder of the ideas behind Carcanet, Salt and Bloodaxe. In the long run, it's ideas that make the difference.

I think Rob's right to argue that even the largest poetry publishers aren't The Establishment, but I'm not so sure when he says:

The 'establishment' is the dull, mediocre nonsense that fills the shop windows of bookshops - celebrity memoirs, TV chefs, populist fiction etc. It's disposable pap and is against anything that asks for a genuine human response. The pressure to embrace it and dumb down everything is greater than ever, but nothing acts against that tendency more than publishers dedicated to the production and selling of quality poetry, allowing it to be seen and heard in however modest a way. There's nothing 'establishment' about that.

Likewise, in George Szirtes' post, when he says:

People, particularly institutional and institutionally-funded people, whose chief concern is an accountably-representative ledger of bums on seats worry about the future of poetry. I have never worried... True poetry is always underground.

Both of these statements don't give enough respect, it seems to me, to the views of that majority of people who are into that 'dull, mediocre nonsense' - and rather implies that it's only a minority that are having a 'genuine human response' to what they're reading. I don't think we should assume that the views of the wider population don't matter, or that those who produce poetry shouldn't try to engage, and respond to the interests of, a broader audience. I say this in the context of having great respect for both Rob and George: I agree we should avoid in-fighting: but perhaps we should avoid out-fighting as well...

Duchesses

I've just been dragged (ok, winsomely invited) by G to see The Duchess. It was surprisingly good, considering - with a deeply unsympathetic, but not entirely inhuman portrayal of the Duke by Ralph Fiennes. It seemed an unusually steady representation of the combination of social duties and personal authority in a member of the aristocracy. His unflinching response to his wife's infidelity, with cruelty fired by underlying personal jealousy, was reminiscent of another Duke... Sure enough, as I checked when I got home, the parallels to Robert Browning's My Last Duchess were striking:

She thanked men, — good! but thanked

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together...

Another apology...

Following the link to the review of Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch, I got an email from a friend, which included the following comment:

I might also say - a challenge, so watch out - that I really didn't like your review of Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch's poems...your review told me more about you than it did about her poetry: what her strengths and weaknesses are; why they are strengths and weaknesses etc. In short, there was nothing constructive - nothing she or others could learn from - in your review. I did like your use of the Manic Street Preachers: a way of popularising poetry (which I know is one of your intentions) and critiquing Wynne-Rhydderch from an interesting angle. But primarily I thought, 'God, I don't like this reviewer.' You had an ego and an ugliness that surprised me.

Strong words, which prompted me to reread the review and think about it again. I was surprised to realise that what I'd meant as a sharp and entertaining challenge did, as he said, have 'ego and ugliness' - as well as a rather poisonous tone. Consequently, I've amended it to draw out the worst of the poison (at the kind agreement of the editor, who really shouldn't be troubled with writers suddenly realising that they had been unnecessarily unpleasant). And also, in the (what I'm assuming is the unlikely) event that the poet or publisher read this: I apologise. You deserve more respect, kindness and humility from a reviewer. I'll try to live up to that standard better in future.

Disclaimer

Something else I probably ought to say at this point is that although the post in the last review was on digyorkshire.com, which is part of the company I work for, this blog is not connected to Audiences Yorkshire in any way. All views (particularly the erratic and wrong-headed ones) are mine and mine alone (if that, sometimes: I reserve the right to be needlessly provocative) and don't reflect anyone else's individual or corporate opinions. Furthermore, no animals, children or international poetry conglomerates were harmed in the making of this blog.

Please read poetry responsibly and in moderation. Careless poetry reading can seriously harm yourself and those around you. Irregular Margins does not accept responsibility for any negative effects that you or others experience when reading poetry recommended by this blog. We're even wary about taking responsibility for any positive and euphoric effects you experience. You can't be too careful. It could all end in tears.

There: hopefully that's sufficient to avoid being fired or sued. Disagreement, pillorying or ridicule I can just about handle...

Not In These Shoes

I've not been totally idle the last few months. Here's a link to a review I've written of Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch's Not In These Shoes. I probably ought to point out that I'm not saying I'm against Welsh poetry, just the assumption that there is somethng uniquely poetical about the Welsh (or any other) soul. Ok, I'm protesting too much...

UPDATE: The link is now to a revised version of the review - I'll explain why in another post...

I know it's called Irregular Margins...

...but five months between posts is a bit much! Joking aside, this blog is going to get a whole lot more regular, as of now. After a summer recess to think through future plans and improvements (as well as go on holiday and do the day job), Irregular Margins is back. There'll be a few changes, which will become more evident over time. Please do keep reading and commenting, tell your friends and watch this space.