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Monthly Archives: June 2018

The Distal Point by Fiona Moore (HappenStance Press)

The Distal Point by Fiona Moore (HappenStance Press)

Reading the title poem of this debut collection I am tempted to think of Yeats’s gyres, those cones which he imagined as interpenetrating and whirling around inside one another.

“We stand at the point of greatest change—
the distal point, a shingle spit
at the end of the longshore drift.
Here the waves curve
and spill, lacing each other,
forming a landscape that moves
leached of colour.”

There is an eerie sense of threat in that last line with “leached” bringing to mind a world of infertility after so many chemical substances have been removed through intensive farming. The eye may be focussed upon the sea but the use of the word “landscape” suggests more than just a visual note about wave movement: poetic image is merged with futuristic nightmare and we are presented with a world that echoes the closing images of H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine:

“The sea stretched away to the southwest, to rise into a sharp bright horizon against the wan sky. There were no breakers and no waves, for not a breath of wind was stirring. Only a slight oily swell rose and fell like a gentle breathing, and showed that the eternal sea was still moving and living.”

The second stanza of Fiona Moore’s poem opens with mystery:

“No-one who stands here
can see down the length
of the wind’s fetch
and only the gulls measure
the shape of the swell
as they swing high
on the full, low in the swale”

A feeling of isolation is brought to mind by the opening word and then strengthened in the second line by the eye’s movement “down the length” before finding further desolation with the open sound of “wind’s fetch”. The steady build-up of menace is then emphasised by placing the word “only” in relation to the gulls measuring that mathematical distance and we are confronted with a glimpse of what their birds’ eye view might hold: “the shape of the swell”. The concluding stanza confirms us in the feeling of isolation:

“and no-one has stood here before
where each accretion of ground
becomes an erosion
from the diagonal swash
and straight backwash,
the waves’ refraction and landfall.
No-one will stand here again.”

The negative of “no-one” takes on a positive presence with that opening line and if there is any hope to be preserved at this distal point it is that another “No-one will stand here again.”
Fiona Moore’s convincing understanding of the power of immediacy can be felt in both ‘Taking Visitors to Auschwitz’ and ‘After Five Years’. In the former she opens with a clarity of statement which seems to offer superficial realisation but which acts as a mask for much deeper moral understanding:

“It’s here
except it’s not.
This could be anywhere or on the edges of.
That car’s parked askew
and sparrows forage on the tarmac
while people pose each other at the entrance.”

We are in the world of course of Auden’s ‘Musee des Beaux Arts’ or ‘The Shield of Achilles’: suffering takes place “While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking / dully along”. Auden wrote of the ordinariness of torture and the infliction of pain:

“Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot”

In Moore’s world “Coaches drop off groups / and pick them up again”; but she moves one step further on than Auden. Whereas the earlier poet had offered us that mundanity of pain she concludes with a prompting nudge of responsibility:

“This could be anywhere or on the edges of

except it’s not,
it’s here.”

And this is one of the most powerful things about this remarkably confident first volume of poems: its understanding of the present. In ‘After Five Years’ Moore creates for us a returnee:

“You’ll carry in strange dust on your feet
if you come back now: from as far away
as this thought, out of the first twilight
long enough to feel like spring.

Orbiter of legend and distant stars…”

This is no space voyager returning to earth but a personally-known traveller whose absence has been felt. The returned traveller will be compelled to recognise what has changed in those five years of absence and will become “dazed” by both what is new and what has stayed the same. There will be a “perfection of circumstance”.
This is a debut volume of poems which stops the reader in their tracks: buy it, read it, and then read it again.

Ian Brinton 30th June 2018

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Melancholy Occurrence by John Seed (Shearsman Books)

Melancholy Occurrence by John Seed (Shearsman Books)

“body partly on the
pavement partly on the road blood
streaming from the back of his head

Cornelius Grinnell of New York
owner of the steam yacht Hawk
lodging at the Royal Victoria Yacht Club

on Pier Street in Ryde
returning to his rooms after midnight
drew up the Venetian blinds

opened the window and stepped out
onto a balcony that wasn’t there
and disappeared”

John Seed opens his new book of poetic vignettes, his windows into another world, with the clear assertion that they are appropriated from mostly nineteenth-century English newspapers or inquest reports and rewritten. As Julian Barnes reminded us some years ago History isn’t what happened it’s what historians tell us happened and when contemplating the enormous canvas of Gericault’s ‘Le Radeau de la Méduse’ in the Louvre he enquired “How do you turn catastrophe into art?” John Seed’s “rewritten” transforms these pieces of news into what could be the frame for the nouveau roman or, more closely perhaps, le nouveau conte. The margin between historical reconstruction and the world of fiction was tested in 1979 by Milan Kundera in the opening four paragraphs of The Book of Laughter and Forgetting:

“In February 1948, Communist leader Klement Gottwald stepped out on the balcony of a Baroque palace in Prague to address the hundreds of thousands of his fellow citizens packed into Old Town Square. It was a crucial moment in Czech history—a fateful moment of the kind that occurs once or twice in a millennium.
Gottwald was flanked by his comrades, with Clementis standing next to him. There were snow flurries, it was cold, and Gottwald was bareheaded. The solicitious Clementis took off his own fur cap and set it on Gottwald’s head.
The Party propaganda section put out hundreds of thousands of copies of a photograph of that balcony with Gottwald, a fur cap on his head and comrades at his side, speaking to the nation. On that balcony the history of Communist Czechoslovakia was born. Every child knew the photograph from posters, schoolbooks, and museums.
Four years later Clementis was charged with treason and hanged. The propaganda section immediately airbrushed him out of history and, obviously, out of all the photographs as well. Ever since, Gottwald has stood on that balcony alone. Where Clementis once stood, there is only bare palace wall. All that remains of Clementis is the cap on Gottwald’s head.”

The famous photograph was taken on February 21st 1948 and when Vladimir Clementis was executed in 1952 he was indeed erased from the photograph. But it acts as the opening scene for a novel which Salman Rushdie referred to as being full of angels, terror, ostriches and love!
John Seed’s glimpses and glimmerings taken from those nineteenth-century newspapers raise the curtain upon a moment of dramatic intensity. In the poem I quoted at the beginning we are confronted with a conclusion: a body, partly on the road and partly on the pavement. The opening word offers us no description but its bald assertion makes it clear that this is a dead person and the most immediate cause of death may well be the blood that is “streaming” from the head. We are then taken back in time to discover the name of the dead person, his place of origin, his possession of a steam yacht and the place at which he was residing. The deft artistic quality of this little picture is then caught in the last stanza as we are invited into the room from which he fell. We are caught between the historical fact of him stepping out of the window and the immediate awareness of the moment of realisation that is followed by the fall to his death: historical information has taken on a moment of individual and personal vividness. This is very powerful writing indeed.
On the back cover of this remarkable collection of poems there is a quotation from Empire of Signs by Roland Barthes:

“The haiku’s task is to achieve exemption from meaning within a perfectly readerly discourse (a contradiction denied to Western art, which can contest meaning only by rendering its discourse incomprehensible”.

Haiku resists interpretation: it is intelligible and means nothing. Robert Duncan was haunted by this sense of what lurks behind meaning, what he referred to as a “ground of man’s imaginations”, and recalled sitting with his sister, “my mother between us”, looking at pictures as he was read to. The picture that stayed with him was of three young men sleeping on a mat one of whom was Bashō, the seventeenth-century Japanese writer of Haiku who had just woken up: the seventeen syllables of a frog jumping into an ancient pond reverberates down the years. It doesn’t mean anything but it is! And so, on Sunday 26th December 1820 in “French-alley Goswell-street” a watchman going his rounds and calling out the hour of one

“discovered a new-born infant
lying in a corner entirely naked
a few old rags around his head”

Ian Brinton 24th June 2018

The No Breath by John Goodby, Distances by Ian Seed (The Red Ceilings Press)

The No Breath by John Goodby, Distances by Ian Seed (The Red Ceilings Press)

On the back cover of John Goodby’s little volume of poems Lyndon Davies tells us why these little poems are favourites of his:

“It’s like being in a calm dark room with little slots and windowlets opening just briefly onto brilliantly lit spaces out there and all over and then closing again before you can get a really good look.”

There is of course something of Alice’s glimpses of the garden through the little door at the bottom of the rabbit-hole in this analogy but it also reminds me of the wonderful 1970 prose book by Philippe Jaccottet, Paysages avec figures absentes. Early in that short book the poet of Grignan refers to “ouvertures”, openings, like rents in the world through which one can gaze for a moment:

“And so, without desiring or seeking it, what I discovered at times was a homeland, and perhaps the most rightful one: a place which opened up to me the magical depths of Time.”

In his own words, “ces ouvertures proposées au regard intérieur apparaissaient ainsi convergentes, tels les rayons d’une sphère; ells désignaient par intermittences, mais avec obstination, un noyau comme immobile.” That glimpse of a still centre, the far perceived from the near, can be felt in Goodby’s ‘Teller’:

“Plump fingers on the keys, clumsy prey,
From all corners of the house
Opened to hear better
The same dress, with blue roses.

Just a few could have been stairwells,
Thinking of himself as he was
Matted with night and the casement,
The pointed roofs, the largeness of snow.

What opens with a title suggestive of either counting money or votes moves, with the opening words of “plump fingers” on keys, to hint at the telling of beads as well as the playing of a piano: that patient counting of meditation complements the focus upon musical notes to suggest a concentration upon the moment. The third line announces an opening which allows the pianist’s playing to be heard more widely and a touch of vision, a dress with blue roses (Hardy’s “air-blue gown?”), appears before the eye’s glimpse. The moving radii of Jaccottet’s thought lead to possible stairwells, awareness of what lies beneath the surface, and the poet rests for a moment “Matted with night”. What lies woven beneath one’s feet finds its counterpart in “pointed roofs” and an endless whiteness. It is a moment caught! A slot, a windowlet, a suggestive sense of something lying beyond the immediate.

Ian Seed’s prose vignettes reflect upon the individual in relation to others: twenty-nine little prose poems introduce us to a world of Europe and a world of domestic reminiscence. The intensity of the moment is caught rather like the way the writer finds himself standing in front of a huge bookshop that he had never seen before. As he says “The city looked different this morning”.

“The streets and squares were bathed in a beautiful, yet somehow ominous golden glow, which had so distracted me that I was now lost.”

The pressures of time mount as he realises that not only is he going to be late at the school in Turin “where I taught English as a foreign language” but that as the shop’s door is being opened by a “hunched old man with rimless spectacles” he should already, as a teacher, “been with my pupils”. The shopkeeper seems to offer an invitation to the teacher to enter this new world where books in different languages “lay on shelves that seemed to stretch into the distance”. Caught within the dreamlike moment, a world which seems to diminish the mundanity of what lies outside the shop, the writer discovers a book titled The Unseen Everyday and is compelled to recognise that here is a text “which would finally illuminate my understanding of the life beyond life”. The general vagueness of such a thought is then immediately qualified by the realisation that such an illumination belongs “within the life itself that I led, although it would never enable me to find my way around the city arrive on time.

These two little books from The Red Ceilings Press are published in limited editions of 60 and 70 copies and I suggest that you get hold of them fast before the window shuts and that glimpse of a tantalising and refreshing world disappears.

Ian Brinton, 17th June 2018

http://www.theredceilingspress.co.uk

Grabbing Pussy by Karen Finley (OR Books)

Grabbing Pussy by Karen Finley (OR Books)

Performance Artist and poet, Karen Finley, creates for an adult audience and speaks up for those that are silenced or victimised. Her latest book, Grabbing Pussy, based on a performance piece, Unicorn Gratitude Mystery, combines Language and Beat poetry in a bravura display employing the deeply limited and limiting sexual vocabulary of recent American political discourse.

She begins with Donald Trump’s riposte to Senator Rubio’s implied link between his small hands and his penis: ‘if they’re small something else must be small.’

Of pussy grabbing the lack of penis backpack
The ability to men u strate
Takes-over-the-consciousness-of-everything-else state.

Grabbing Pussy focusses upon the psychosexual obsessions during the 2016 US Presidential election and before the MeToo campaign. Her poems, full of feminist humour and outrage, elevate and insinuate by manipulating found material around the language of philandering politicians and celebrities, centring on the misogyny of Donald Trump and his deliberate use of demeaning language and alternative facts for political advantage. Finley’s poems explore the sickness of this denigrating language and squeezes a series of nuances around what was said in a searing dissection of its sexual politics. This is framed within the wider perspective of an ideology that powerful men can do anything without being brought to justice and of an inadequate masculinity that leads to the assumption that a woman’s body is not her own.

I’m automatically attracted to beautiful [women] – I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wat. And when you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything …”

Finley’s ‘Pussy Power’ poem is a rant at the white rich triumphant ego
turning the language back into itself with repeated phrases such as, ‘My time is spent grabbing pussy’, ‘Let me man up’, based upon the ‘I You We’
communication skills around ownership and leadership. She cleverly links this to sublimated desire and thus elevates the rant to art. ‘Let me grab some pussy / Bite off man’s naughty bits / and feel my small manhood, my small hands’.

Finley’s use of juxtaposition, repetition and disjunctive language is borne from writing more for performance than the page, and it is gloriously effective and literary, as in ‘She He’:

She He
She She She
Constantly referred to as the She
He said She She She
As if Hillary doesn’t have a name
The only She on the stage
The She Devil She Wolf
She did that
She didn’t do that
She needs to be stopped

Finley’s response to Trump’s verbal abuse of women in general as ‘fat pigs, dogs, slobs and disgusting animals’ deconstructs his words exposing his insouciance and belief that women should be punished for having an abortion, if made illegal, and is emphatic in its assertion of a woman’s right to own her own body. This is linked to his portrayal of Hillary Clinton as a cold, distant and crooked woman, his contradictory thoughts on migrants and support for statues commemorating idols of enslavement. She takes this a stage further by mixing the hate and misogynistic speeches and sexual politics into a montage of confused and contradictory direct speech with social and cultural asides implicating more discursive material. It is in the cut-ups, emphasising obsessions with hair and bodily functions, that the poetry moves beyond Beat rant to a more elevated and disjunctive place.

My kinky fetish
My kind of girl
That is why I have to be such a pig, for I really am a pussy
My head is my pussy
My sprayed wiglet, my merkin
I really want to be a Barbie
I want to be Ivana

There are memorable lines, such as ‘You pray at Trump Tower / Trump Tower is my Flower Power’, ‘Grab me some pussy / Let me woman up’, ‘I am Doris Day with Rock Hudson’, and so on that pepper the sequence with humour.

This is an impressive collection, with a trenchant reading of power that enables and legitimises attacks on women’s rights to their own bodies, becoming subtler and more nuanced with repeated reading.

David Caddy 15th June 2018

http://www.orbooks.com/catalog/grabbing-pussy-by-karen-finley/

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