RSS Feed

Monthly Archives: December 2023

The Inventor: A Poet’s Transcolonial Autobiography by Eileen R. Tabios (Marsh Hawk Press 2023)

The Inventor: A Poet’s Transcolonial Autobiography by Eileen R. Tabios (Marsh Hawk Press 2023)

I first got to read Eileen R Tabios’ work through John Bloomberg-Rissman’s 1000 Views of ‘Girl Singing’ project which used Tabios’ version of a Jose Garcia Villa poem as a prompt. I still use this as part of my remix & writing back module and have been able to send Tabios my students’ work now that Bloomberg-Rissman has terminated the project and his blog.

On the book’s back cover, Grace Talusan suggests that The Inventor is Tabios throwing ‘open the doors and windows of her poet’s house, inviting both long-time fans and new visitors to the writing behind the writing’, a description I find far more welcoming than the word ‘autobiography’. Truth be told, I don’t feel any need to know what is ‘behind the writing’, nor how an author lives or lived and how that informs the work; the poem is the text or a reading of it, experienced by the reader. On this last point, it seems we agree: in Chapter 2, Tabios states that ‘[w]ithout a respondent, (my) poetry doesn’t exist’. Of course, there’s an argument to be had about unread words on a page, but I can’t be bothered to go there right now.

Tabios, however, is unfailingly optimistic and idealistic. She suggests that poetry ‘can open you up to new modes of thinking/feeling/viewing . . . and hopefully then a newly better way of living’, despite understanding that ‘[t]his element about poetry—effecting positive change—is […] not based on the words that make up a poem. It’s not based on the visible, e.g. text.’ Some of this optimism is based on Tabios’ understand of and belief in Kapwa, a Filipino humanist philosophy which recognises a shared identity, an inner self, shared with others; or what Tabios calls the interconnectedness of things.

This puts a certain slant on things. Tabios seems more interested in the possible results and responses to writing and reading than the text itself. Where I see process poems or poetic forms, she sees affirmations and communities. Her invented form the Hay(na)ku is an interesting small poem form that subverts the haiku and also avoids the Westernised misunderstanding of them as syllabic forms but it is still, or only, just a poetic form; her Murder Death Resurrection project is a list poem generator that enables the creation of texts from a finite resource of lines. Many contemporary authors use similar structures as workshop exercises with groups, few attach such importance to them as Tabios does here.

It’s interesting to see work framed in this way, but it does seem to want poetry, or at least the effect it has, to be confessional rather than linguistic, political rather than individual. In the final chapter Tabios writes about how she has ‘long preferred the term “transcolonial” because I considered “postcolonial” insufficient for reflecting my desire to transcend being contextualized simply by my colonized history.’ She links this to wanting to ‘trans-cend into other concerns or interests not instigated by colonialism’ and says that in the end she ‘came to something more basic and fundamental: ethics.’

This is uncomfortable ground for me. Can poetry be ethical? Aren’t ethics to do with individuals and philosophy, society and sociology? She quotes the poet Paul le Couer, who says that ‘Being a poet is not writing a poem but finding a new way to live.’ This, says Tabios, means that ‘I’d like my poetry to make me a better person who helps lighten the world’s burdens with more good deeds from the planet’s most powerful species: humans.’ Are we really the ‘most powerful species’ or have we as a race simply colonized planet Earth? It’s quite a human-centric statement and the cynic in me has to ask if poems are the best way to change anything? 

I have tried to read this book as a poetics, but it is positioned so far from my understanding of language and text that I have struggled. I’m aware all writers and writing is embedded within networks of influences, friends, colleagues, pre-existing texts, readings and of course experience, and that all this informs what is written, but at best poetry is to understand and interrogate all of that, not to produce better people or ‘a new way to live’. Tabios seems to want a readership who somehow find a way to experientially make her poems their own and let them affect their behaviour. Me? I’m sticking with the notion of linguistic plasticity and the poet as someone who plays with language before simply offering their writing to readers.

Rupert Loydell 17th December 2023


All The Eyes That I Have Opened by Franca Mancinelli translated by John Taylor (Black Square Editions)

All The Eyes That I Have Opened by Franca Mancinelli translated by John  Taylor (Black Square Editions)

There is a wonderful three-line poem at the start of Franca Mancinelli’s new book, an epigraph which acts as a possible explanation or prompt to the reader:

      cannot scatter itself
     puts itself back together at every turn
     like a flock flying onwards


This not only suggests that poetry is alive and in constant motion, but that even when poems and poem sequences appear fragmented or individual – like an individual bird within a group flying – the whole is what counts, is the sum of its parts. Mancinelli’s sequences of poems are murmurations of language, wheeling in constant flux across the sky/page; each word and line and page contributing to the whole.

In the past I have sometimes criticised Mancinelli’s work as too abstract, but the opening sequence here, ‘Jungle’, could not be more down-to-earth. The first half consists of diary-like entries from a refugee’s journey, then moves from raw prose-poetry to imagistic aphorisms:

     deaths are time’s beads
     we go through them like a string.

This literal toughness contrasted with more philosophical lyricism continues. There is brutal pruning, death, fire, desertion, abandonment and fleeing in response to cruelty and abuse; but there is also light and resistance to the darkness, a sense of physical and mental self that roots itself to the earth, to memory, to others and to language and writing. So even the fact that ‘there is a point when life overturns / becomes Morse code’ (and presumably not easy to read or understand) is countered in the next poem by an acceptance of nature:

     at the centre of mystery, the stamen
     of time. Petals grow
     and days. There is neither vase
     nor garden. Only
     the earth. The light. The rain.

Mancinelli’s poetry is accepting and limpid, sometimes bemused: ‘how I arrived here, I don’t know’ she states in ‘Diary of a Passage’, the final sequence in this book, which again begins in prose. This sequence, too is, is about transition, transfer, migrancy, travelling; it is unclear if the narrator is helping refugees or is one themselves. Either way, ‘You cannot lose or forget on this journey’, even if you ‘don’t know why I’m here.’

Nature and travel are only parts of the mythology Mancinelli constructs for herself. In addition to light & dark, the photographic darkroom is a place of retreat and calm, of contemplation, as are trees; although these, like human bodies, can be hurt or dismembered. Photography and light are, of course about seeing, and St Lucy’s eyes, like a budded twig, are held out to the reader on the front book cover, and the Saint herself is referenced, though not named, in a sequence called ‘December 13th’, her feast day. Even with her eyes gouged out, she notes that

     all the world’s strength
     can’t shift a ray of light

Mancinelli’s poetry seems rooted in this idea of continuation, metamorphosis and change. We should, she says, 

     expect to travel
     as sacred dust.

This new book which, its translator John Taylor notes, means ‘nearly all of Mancinelli’s writing to date has become available in English’ is her best yet. It’s tough acceptance, startling imagery, and the very human stories it alludes to, allow us to believe ‘in the sky. In the broken line of the horizon. Like a simple outline, a possible form of life.’

Rupert Loydell 14th December 2023

A Handsel: New and Collected Poems by Liz Lochhead (Polygon)

A Handsel: New and Collected Poems by Liz Lochhead (Polygon)

At some point when I was at university back in the 1980s I saw Liz Lochhead read her poems. I’ve always assumed it was at college itself, but my writing lecturer, who I have recently been in touch with again, has no memory of it. Anyway, one poem that I have always remembered utilised the names of artists for paint colours. The line ‘Avoid the Van Gogh, you’ll not get it off’ was the one that stuck in my mind. Over the years I’ve tried to find a copy and failed. There’s nothing online, neither text nor performance video (Lochhead’s Scottish accent really helps the poem), and the poem was absent from both the different Selecteds I picked up over the years; and, of course, not knowing what it was called didn’t help.

Thankfully, ‘Vymura: The Shade Card Poem’ is present and correct in A Handsel, a handsome and impressive new book from Polygon. It would be unfair to claim the poem as Lochhead’s best, but it is just as funny as I remember. Here’s the third verse:

     She said, ‘Fellow next door just sanded his floor
     and rollered on Roualt and Rothko.
     His hall, och it’s Pollock an he
     did his lounge in soft Hockney
      with his corner picked out in Kokoshka.

Those near- and sometimes forced- rhymes are exquisite. 

Whilst it’s unfair to represent Lochhead’s work with such a lighthearted performance piece, however cleverly written, it does highlight the down-to-earth and accessible nature of the poetry here. There are poems about friendship, relationships and the everyday; poems for friends, sometimes famous ones (Edwin Morgan, Carol Ann Duffy and Jackie Kay); as well as poems for occasions such as weddings, birthdays and anniversaries.

She is also good at capturing moments, in strong simple phrases and images. Here is the fifth poem, of nine, in a sequence about the construction of a new library at St. Andrews:

     Listen,
     chilly birdsong,
     sprinkling icewater
     over the garden, a tap
     turning on and off again.
     Library silence.

I’m less enamoured with the dialect poems in this volume, and the versions from The Grimm Sisters, which seem very much of their time: the 1980s when feminist retellings were de rigeur. The title poem from Dreaming Frankenstein is much better, a triptych that not only allows the creature to speak but turns into a lustful declaration in ‘Smirnoff for Karloff’:

     Sure, you can smoke in bed.
     It’s a free country.
     Let me pour you a stiff drink.
     You’re shivering.
     Well, you know, what they say, if you
     can’t take the cold then get outta 
     the icebox. What’s that?
     Smirnoff?
     Well, you know, Mr Karloff,
     I used to think an aphrodisiac was some
     kinda confused Tibetan mountain goat
     with a freak-out hair-do until I
     met my monster and my monster
     met his maker.
     Oh yeah.

     That’s who been sleeping in my bed.
     Some old surprise. Oh goody.
     Long time no see.
     Ain’t going to let nothing come between
     My monster and me.

This made me laugh out loud. Feistiness is a common factor throughout the book, Lochhead is upfront about sex, lust, love and society, and how she feels about it all. But not everything is slapstick or fun & games, there are gentle, inquisitive and romantic poems here, political diatribes, human observation and comment.

None of it, however, is mannered or ‘poetic’ in the bad sense. Lochhead uses everyday language without any false metaphors or allusions. It’s down to earth, sometimes messy, poetry, although when the work seems to be too confessional, Lochhead is always ready to undermine it with a pun or self-deflating reference. The closing poem, ‘In Praise of Old Vinyl’ (one of my favourites), is a case in point, where the narrator revisits her record collection:

               Old vinyl . . . old vinyl
               Nostalgia’s everything it used to be
               When you’re half-pissed and playing that old LP

Over three-plus pages we get namechecks or quotations from ‘Dusty and Joni and Nico and Emmylou / Dylan, Van-the-man and Rhymin’ Simon too . . .’ along with Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits and Elvis Costello, not to mention glam rockers and earlier jazzers and stars from the Sixties. But as the reverie continues and spirals out of control, with the speaker turning into a bohemian hippy, she pulls the rug out from herself, misquoting Paul Simon: ‘Mama, please don’t take my Parlophone away.’

The poet, who sometimes inhabits a character called ‘The Dirty Diva’, is on full throttle throughout, roaring through 460 pages at top speed. Maybe it’s me, but she seems to have been somewhat forgotten as a poet, and she shouldn’t be. Her quirky, individual and accessible voice deserves more acclaim and attention, and I hope this wonderful volume will help.

Rupert Loydell 9th December 2023


Uneasy Pieces by Nancy Campbell (Guillemot Press)

Uneasy Pieces by Nancy Campbell (Guillemot Press)

Guillemot Press, the publisher of Uneasy Pieces, describes the work as ‘a score composed in uncanny spaces and around silence.’  I find this a perfect description of the way the pieces are orchestrated with subtle rhythms, recurring motifs and a sense of the implicit and understated conveyed in fragments, pauses and a sense of the half remembered.

The idea of a musical score is enhanced by the structure. There is a Prelude and a Coda, twelve numbered and named pieces of different lengths, and several passages which are set out with the typographical symbol denoting a paragraph but which I prefer to interpret as intervals. Some of the pieces suggest a thematic sequence, others appear non-consecutive, linear only in layout. 

The poems in Uneasy Pieces are written in the form of prose. There are small, incomplete narratives within each one – vignettes, snapshots, moments caught and held in time. What I find most compelling about the collection is the strangeness of it all – a pervading atmosphere of silence, shadows and the unknown. The Prelude sets the tone with its title ‘Somnus’ – the personification of Sleep, brother of Death and the son of Night. We are in the darkness of the Underworld where the sun can never enter. Somnus, says Ovid, had 1000 sons, the Somnia – shapes who appear in dreams mimicking many forms, human, beastlike or inanimate. Later in the collection the sons of Somnus reappear briefly, mentioned as a possible ‘shorthand for multitudes’ which ‘proliferate as meanings do in dreams.’

An uncanny, scary atmosphere. But what I think is the most mysterious element in the poems is the passage about ‘Blots’ which seem to be ‘secret signs’ inscribed by the pen, hints and suggestions open, like dreams, to countless interpretations. Then there is the concept of ‘Mise en abyme’ – an infinitely recurring sequence of mirroring. In ‘Uneasy Pieces’, the narrator says, there are ‘letters within letters with each of my messages to you folded inside the previous one until the words get so small it would be better to say nothing at all.’

Uneasy Pieces is a melodious, lyrical collection of poems, inspiring in their craft and cadences. One example that appeals to me concerns ‘the artisan of light’ whose role is ‘to bluff the passing hours, to cast doubt upon edges … to diffuse truth … the room grows dustier when dust cannot be seen, the room grows older as shadows sag into corners, for what is  a shadow if not the dirt left to us as light thins and what is filth but the torn and cast-off skin of things.’

Juxtapositions are frequently unexpected and startling. In the middle of a list of Christmas images – mulled wine and chandeliers, snow angels and mistletoe – we are suddenly presented with hares that ‘hang upside down from hooks in the butcher’s. Snowfall, which ‘sometimes looks purple, yellow, blue like the bruise upon the arm you cannot move’, reveals ‘the pale architecture of Liege’ when it’s seen ‘through dirty windows at dawn.’ The third poem ‘Michel’ concerns someone whose name ‘means red heart in another language’. This same Michel, we are told, has had ‘someone else’s heart inside him for eleven years.’

I love the whole collection of Uneasy Pieces with each individual poem perfectly crafted like a cameo. They belong together, each ‘movement’ enhancing the whole, but if I had to choose one piece as most memorable, I would select ‘Unorthodox’, the sixth poem in the sequence, for its tender depiction of gradual loss of memory. An earlier reference to two volumes of the Oxford Shorter Dictionary that the protagonist would stand on and ‘solve any problem’ that life presented, becomes extra poignant when, at the end of the poem, everything is packed away in boxes and given away as no longer useful or wanted. Included are ‘both volumes of the Shorter English’.

Uneasy Pieces by Nancy Campbell is beautifully produced by Guillemot Press. A small book but one to treasure.

Mandy Pannett 3rd December 2023