Vital Signs by Deborah P. Kolodji (Cuttlefish Books)

Vital Signs by Deborah P. Kolodji (Cuttlefish Books)

Deborah P. Kolodji’s Vital Signs is possibly one of the most moving collections of haiku I have ever read. I love the way haiku moves, how it sees the world through slices, through moments between moments. I like the way that it acknowledges that life is both beautiful and temporary as it looks at seasonal markers that are temporary in a cycle of the earth that is also temporary but often seems permanent to us through our imperfect lenses. Kolodji’s haiku do all of these things, but add another layer, that of her own mortality and temporality as she deals with cancer. Kolodji just recently passed away from this cancer, but she was able to use the experience to give herself a different way to see and understand the universe. The poems in this collection mark time and the small moments that are both human and normal but odd in a way that one might not see unless they had the vision that comes with such an event. 

     Perhaps, in this collection, Kolodji’s appreciation and understanding of nature extends beyond the world to larger parts of the universe. It is as though her awareness of the here and now is filtered through a universal consciousness. My favorite is this one:

unresolved issues

the black hole in the center

of our galaxy (52).

She is making connections that extend far and wide, seeing connections that must be informed by a perspective that is seeing the universal. In another, she writes: “CT scan journey to Mars” (31). Later, she writes: “wheelchairs those Martian rovers” (39). Little moments come within the context of something larger than most of us see.

     Where the collection truly shines, however, is in the discussion of the moments when she is dealing with her illness. She must be frustrated and afraid. That would only be normal. However, she is also compassionate and grateful. Haiku like:

            fluid infusion

            at the day hospital

            the garden outside (27)

and 

            ice chips

            by my bedside

            another thick book (22)

deal with the long moments of dealing with the illness in the hospital. These are moments that she notes and understands, but without being maudlin. She even finds ways to appreciate where she is. There might be some regret here, but there is also the garden and the book. There are the good things. What she truly expresses gratitude for, however, are the people with her who help her and are just there for her.

embarrassing moment

the nurse acts as if

he’s seen it before (33)

alone

the nurse covers me

with a warmed blanket (20).

These small moments of kindness and compassion show the humanity that exists around her and show how much she appreciates the people who are there for her. There are many such moments in her collection, and the result for me was that I left feeling hope rather than dread, which I almost expected given the subject matter.

     Deborah P. Kolodji’s Vital Signs is exceptional, and I cannot recommend it more. I never like sitting around talking about illness with others even when it’s mine. Doing so quickly becomes morbid and uninteresting. Kolodji’s focus, however, is not on pain but on hope. She shows us what dignity is and gives us a path for facing this kind of pain, which is in all of our futures.

John Brantingham 4th September 2024

House on the A34 by Philip Hancock (CB Editions)

House on the A34 by Philip Hancock (CB Editions)

The setting is the Potteries: Tunstall, Stoke, Hanley. The era is the 80s/90s: Ind Coope, Chevette, Vauxhall Viva, suede blouson. And the speaker is a painter – but not the sort that commonly appears in poems. He’s a blue-collar employee doing public-sector contracts: he’s painting council house doors, play area equipment, a police station and schools. He’s indoors six floors up, outdoors ‘crouched before miles of park railings’, in the paint-shop with a ‘throat-seizing reek of turps,/ linseed and propane’, planning the works do, waiting for the rain to stop and, after knocking-off time, ‘prancing through town’ in a ‘peach shirt’.  

He describes the workmates, gaffers and clients of this world with its hierarchies, micro-aggressions and destructive playtime (chucking bricks at old TV screens); its pride in doing a job well and defensiveness about how it’s undervalued. The men in it can be fussy, grumpy, kind, anti-social, pettily dictatorial, and sometimes really sad. But as much attention is spent on things (the epigraph, notably, is from Francis Ponge): the de-icer, stir stick, lump hammer, paint kettle, downspout, spindle, tenon saw, stales, cleat hooks, galvanised conduits, gimlets, awls, swivel pegs, stringboards, cable-pins… There are whole poems about things like a garden gate, a bench, an offcut, a ceiling crack, and an unfaded oblong of paint where a sign’s been removed, all detailed with an artisan’s precision and practicality (‘that panel pin/ waggled loose in the beading strip’, ‘the leaves of a hinge/ coupled by a pintle’), and enriched with vernacular and vocational words: mung, clagged, cross-bracing, chamfered… Here’s a complete poem (‘Lid’):

            The job’s to lever it open,
            get straight on with what’s in the tin.

            But what clings to its underside
            needs to be scraped off and added,

            could make the difference.

On the one hand, there’s the credible, matter-of-fact, demotic voice. The spareness. The hint of allegory. The hint of Robert Frost. And the strong possibility that there’s never before been, in all of literary history, a poem entirely about removing a paint lid. On the other hand, you can imagine the blokes within this book going, ‘You get all those Arts Council grants for that?’ 

Philip Hancock’s style is the familiar one that we might call Mainstream Workshop: the present historic, the pronoun-drop, the asyndeton, the understatement, the judicious excision of adverbs, of opinion, of conspicuous audio-effect, of flash. In his hands, it’s good writing that suits both the craftsmanship of its speaker and the emotional reticence of its social milieu, but Mainstream Workshop has been ubiquitous since the nineties and it’s getting hard to make it exciting. This poet’s distinctiveness lies rather in his major subject-matter, and his success says a lot about who poets and poetry readers still are. Which is? Well, they do have backgrounds of increasing diversity, but they continue to grow up to be teachers, lecturers, creative-writing tutors, librarians, publishers – or at the least have graduate-, university- or artistic-type jobs. As individuals, that’s great. But big-picture-wise, it means that whole occupational continents remain poetically unexplored. I guess, besides Philip Hancock, there are Fred Voss’ poems about his lifetime as a machinist, and Paul Tanner’s from his as a supermarket worker. Any others? 

It should be said, incidentally, that the work poems here aren’t the full picture. There are also fine pieces about childhood and, later in the book, about DIY. But it’s always the work poems that (we) critics go on about because they’re the most unique and valuable. For what it’s worth, I was engaged, entertained, impressed and learnt a lot about painting and decorating. And now… I’ll get back to my university job.

Guy Russell 29th August 2024

The Warfield Poems by Patrick B. Osada (Privately published)

The Warfield Poems by Patrick B. Osada (Privately published)

There are contrasts in this collection as the pastoral shifts slowly into blight. Two poems that could be seen as examples of ‘before and after’, illustrate this. An earlier poem ‘On Cabbage Hill’ is subtitled ‘Watching Deer’. Primroses, kingfishers and ‘rippled ripening corn’ share the scene as the observer is attentive to deer ‘inching through the wheat.’ The last poem in the collection is called ‘On Cabbage Hill Again’ and there are no more ‘secret deer’ but instead a landscape of ‘scaffold poles’, ‘tarmac paths’ and ‘estate houses in neat rows’. ‘This is now,’ says the narrator.

Introductory notes explain that Warfield was originally a Saxon settlement, rural in character for centuries until, in the twentieth century it became subject to overspill from nearby Bracknell. Constant threats from developers and planners have led to ongoing opposition from those who regret changes in the name of progress at the expense of flora and fauna. ‘There is still much to be found that is wonderful and inspiring (in Warfield)’ writes Patrick Osada, ‘yet sadly major changes to the environment and, consequently, to our wildlife becomes more pronounced as the house building extends.’

Transformation feels too exalted a word to use for the alterations in atmosphere and appearance from rural to suburban, but changes are still happening and transformation, in spite of some attempts at re-wilding, is almost total. Poems mark the process. ‘Frost Epiphany’ offers a fine example of the pastoral mood. Lyrical and spiritual in tone ‘Everything just gleams:/the pastures glittering, /each twig and grass blade/frosted – so complete.’ This is a scene where ‘a robin stopped to sing for me/and all the robin world.’ (‘January Sunday’). As winter turns to Spring the landscape is rich in ‘daffodil with bluebell/sallow, hazel, primrose, cowslip/anemone and celandine.’(‘Unseasonal’).

Place names, and their loss of meaning, are important in The Warfield Poems, recalling history, nature and folklore: Quelm Lane, Lark’s Hill, Hazlewood, Battle Bridge, the pub ‘The Yellow Rose’. At Owlswood Park the narrator comes across a notice shouting ‘CONSTRUCTION SITE, KEEP OUT.’ Here, in this ‘world of brick all birds have flown’ and, in time, ‘the new estate will be unveiled/with streets named after heritage we share-/ but not one creature, tree or plant remains/to prove this place was once more than their names.’

The disappearance of local wildlife in Warfield is slow but insistent. In ‘Swallows’ the narrator records how ‘this year’ he hasn’t seen any of the birds:

            From the rise above the house, I look across these empty skies;

            swallows’ demise match changes to this place – 

            horses, meadows, paddocks now are gone

            like acres of crops, hedgerows lost … farmland to developers.

            So, with our changing rural scene, swallows visits ceased.

A poem I find particularly interesting in ‘The Warfield Poems’ is the anti-pastoral theme of ‘Not an Ode to Autumn’ – a response to John Keats’ Ode. Here the wind is cold, there are only crab apples on the trees and ‘late Autumn mists’ hide ‘all vestige of sun, moon and tide’. In the air is ‘a chill of death.’

More signs erected by developers illustrate a dilemma not only confined to Warfield. Building Communities for Everyone neglects to say ‘But not for hawthorn, fox, orchid or deer –/those residents have gone, their fields stripped bare.’ (‘Sunflower’). A Government Consultation paper has an idyllic tone with its Planning for the right homes in the right places but the result is also a ‘Countryside no more, landscape changed for ever …’  (‘The New Estate’). 

Development versus destruction, growth as opposed to loss … poems in this collection combine in a tone of regret. ‘The Warfield Poems’ become an elegy.

Mandy Pannett 28th August 2024

Tears in the Fence 80 is out!

Tears in the Fence 80 is out!

Tears in the Fence 80 is now available at http://tearsinthefence.com/pay-it-forward and features poetry, prose poetry, translations and fiction by Joanna Nissel, Claire HM, Morag Kiziewicz, Geraldine Clarkson, Mary Michaels, Hanne Bramness translated by Anna Reckin, Jill Jones, John Freeman, Peter Dent, Cindy Botha, Lucy Hamilton, Michael Farrell, Rosie Garland, Tiffany Farr, Biljana Scott, Peter Larkin, Jane Wheeler, Robert Vas Dias, Kate Firth, Norman Jope, Steve Spence, Andrew Henon, Mark Goodwin, Randolph Healy, Jennifer K Dick, Lynne Wycherley, Eliza O’Toole, Nigel Jarrett, Danielle Hubbard, Vanessa Ackerman, Caroline Maldonado, Richard Foreman, Huw Gwynn-Jones, Kathleen McPhilemy, Charles Wilkinson, Rachel Spence, Valerie Bridge, Lesley Burt, Vivienne Freeman, Jonathan Catherall, Elizabeth Cook, Susanne Lansman, Beth Davyson, Mary McCollum, Evelyn Schlag translated by Karen Leeder, Andrew Duncan, Cathra Kelliher, David Punter and Kareem Tayyar.

The critical section consists of the Editorial by David Caddy, Andrew Duncan on Jeremy Reed, Jack Martell on Jack Martell on Laura Oldfield Ford, David Annwn on Randolph Healey, David Caddy on Emily Dickinson’s Letters and Natural Magic, Gemma Garcia on Beatriz Hausner, Steve Spence on Ian Seed, Mandy Pannett on Séan Street, Norman Jope on Sicilian Poetry, Rosa Parker-Cochran on Ken Edwards, Joanna Nissel on Elvire Roberts, Rachel Spence, Steve Spence on Alasdair Paterson, Elaine Randell on Brian Marley, Steve Spence on Fran Lock. Morag Kiziewicz’s Electric Blue 15 and Notes on Contributors.

This year’s annual Tears in the Fence Festival at the Stourpaine Village Hall, Stourpaine is on 20th to 22nd September in celebration of our fortieth anniversary and eighty issues. It is also a fundraiser for the journal. More details at https://tearsinthefence.com/2024-festival/

David Caddy 15th August 2024

Avoiding the Rapture by Karen Weyant (Riot In Your Throat)

Avoiding the Rapture by Karen Weyant (Riot In Your Throat)

     Karen Weyant’s Avoiding the Rapture explores life growing up and living in the rust belt towns of Pennsylvania. This is a place of woods and rivers and small town conservativism. She explores what it is to be an outsider, but not a victim in such a place, what it means to choose to be an outsider because the social mores and religious beliefs do not fit her or her belief systems. Instead, her Christian background blends with a modified Wiccan approach to spirituality enhanced by the natural world around her. The result is a collection that brought me back to the kind of childhood that I and many people of my generation spent as we wondered about our place in the universe. There’s a lot going on here, but two of the most interesting aspects of Weyant’s work is her understanding of how an adolescent’s world can be seen through the lens of magic and how an environment rich with water enhances that perspective.

     The narrator does not reject conservative religious belief, but she rejects the implications of it. One of the most powerful poems is ‘Tips for Young Girls Hoping to Avoid the Rapture’. In it, she sees the rapture as a profoundly positive thing because so many people are going to be taken away leaving her alone and ‘When everyone disappears, everything you see will be yours’ (9). So, she gives tips on ways to avoid being raptured: 

            Skip Sunday School lessons to skinny-dip in Tom Stetson’s Pond.

            Then, lie about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing

            Practice swearing, use God’s name in vain. Ignore

            your parents (9).

This is funny, but it’s more than just that. It gets to a way that so many of us got through our youths in religious spaces that didn’t make sense to us. It was humor and subversion. It was seeing the world through alternative points of view. This alternative way of seeing and interacting with the world pervades her work even when it is not so overtly stated. In one poem, for example, she talks to insects in the half belief that she is able to communicate with them. This feeling follows her through her life:

            Even now, when you are old enough to know better,

            you walk by a vacant lot where a single katydid calls for winter.

            Its mantra, Kate, Kate, Kate is so insistent,

            you have come to believe that is your name (62).

It is a feeling that she is at one with nature and that becomes its own kind of religious belief system.

     This religious perspective is enhanced by all aspects of nature. Pennsylvania is a place of rivers and water figures large in the consciousness of the poet and her characters, whom are often obsessed by water and wading in it:

            During dry spells, you will become desperate, looking for puddles 

            at the local car wash or parking lots, where water

            is often speckled with tar or shining with car oil.

            Just watch. If you wade long enough, you will see

            permanent stains on your skin, a thin waterline tattooed

            above your ankle, or midcalf, or reaching just below your knee (24).

The character is becoming one with nature through water, and it seems to be a process that begins before she is born. In another poem, she describes her pregnant mother walking through water and suggests that doing so has primed the narrator to being close to the earth. Weyant writes, 

            Now, you smell flood waters before the waves swell:

            faint sulfur mixed with the moist dirt of a new garden.

            You hear the water before it spills, before it rushes 

towards West Main, lifting up swings at the park (19).

The magic of nature is another way that her characters survive and understand the worlds they have been thrust into. They gain a closeness to understand their place, almost as a replacement to the religiousness that they were supposed to feel.

     Avoiding the Rapture brought me back to my own childhood and adolescence, and I think it will for many of her readers, especially those of us who grew up in the seventies and eighties. It captures the way so many of us were affected by the zeitgeist of the time. It might have been a result of popular culture or something else, but it feels so familiar to me. It is the way I too perceived the world and to some extent still do.

John Brantingham 12th August 2024

Le Double Rimbaud by Victor Segalen Translated by Blandine Longre and Paul Stubbs (Black Herald Press)

Le Double Rimbaud by Victor Segalen Translated by Blandine Longre and Paul Stubbs (Black Herald Press)

Victor Segalen’s essay on Rimbaud, translated here for the first time into English, appeared in 1906 in the influential literary review Mercure de France. Segalen was an admirer of Rimbaud’s poetry and, like many others, perplexed by the poet’s abandonment of literature. In the essay he attempts to reconcile the poet Rimbaud with the trader/adventurer Rimbaud, taking issue as he does so with various theories being expounded at the time.

Segalen begins with an appreciation of Rimbaud’s verse. He’s dismissive of the early poems like ‘The Orphan’s New Year Gifts’, but praises the ‘beautiful pagan breath’ of ‘Sun and Flesh’ and the visionary qualities of ‘The Drunken Boat’, in which he says Rimbaud ‘foresees his future turmoil, his endless walks, his struggles…’ In the final line of ‘The Drunken Boat’ Segalen says ‘a frisson of the unknown is truly encompassed.’ This is, he believes, the mark of great poet, and many such lines, he asserts, can be harvested from Rimbaud’s work, ‘sparse as it is’. 

The more obscure prose poetry of Les Illuminations appeals less to Segalen, who notes that Rimbaud may never have intended these fragments for publication. He feels the images and references are too private, hence inaccessible to the reader beyond a general sense of beauty and harmony, with sudden shifts of imagery, which ‘shivers with sensitivity’. 

Segalen was a naval doctor, traveller, linguist, archaeologist, and poet, his interests and experience therefore overlapping with many of Rimbaud’s own preoccupations. He spent some time in Djibouti, allowing him the opportunity to interview local people who had known Rimbaud. The figure which emerges from these conversations is of ‘a tall, thin man’, ‘an amazing walker’ and ‘a man of astounding conversation’. But he finds no evidence of Rimbaud ever having discussed poetry, and the only writings these traders are aware of are Rimbaud’s submissions to the French Geographical Society. But the prospect of finding evidence of a continuing poetic interest among ‘men of business, caravaneers, consuls, etc.’ was always going to be a challenge, Segalen reflects. 

Rimbaud’s letters from Africa to his family and a few friends (published in 1899) are no more explicit, being full of practical matters, and complaints about the vicissitudes of daily life. The letters, Segalen says, give ‘no indication that Rimbaud still occupied himself with his prodigious childish games’ (jeux d’enfant in the original, ‘childhood games’ is perhaps a less judgmental way of rendering this). 

Had he wished to, the adult Rimbaud had opportunities to reconnect with his literary past. In February 1888 a former classmate , Paul Bourde, who was writing for Le Temps, alerted Rimbaud to the existence of a small circle of admirers in Paris who eagerly awaited his return. Rimbaud did not respond to this news. As Segalen says: ‘No hint that he might have taken into consideration the impact of his early writings has been found.’

Segalen reviews various theories, including the psychological notion of ‘split personality’, in an attempt to explain this divide between the poet and the trader/explorer. He dismisses pathological explanations as not fitting Rimbaud’s case. He turns instead to the concept of ‘Bovarysme’ (Bovarysm) developed by the philosopher and essayist Jules de Gautier. The idea derives from Flaubert’s novel and describes someone who values an aspect of their activity which is inferior at the expense of a more significant area of achievement. Gautier gives the example of the painter Ingres who considered his virtuosity as a musician to be more important than his painting. 

Segalen sees Rimbaud as an example of Bovarysm. Poetry came easily to the adolescent Rimbaud, he argues, and as a result he never fully appreciated the value of what he had produced. Later his energies became dissipated in a series of struggles with ‘the implacability of life’ in which the gains and setbacks of the trader seemed more real than his youthful poetic dreams. 

The final question Segalen considers is whether or not Rimbaud might one day have returned to poetry. Rimbaud’s first biographer, Paterne Berrichon (who married Rimbaud’s sister Isabelle after the poet’s death), believed that ‘poetry was part of his [Rimbaud’s] nature’ and that he could not possibly have ‘imposed silence on his voice’ indefinitely. Segalen rejects this ‘optimistic hypothesis’ and argues that to the end Rimbaud ‘persisted in despising his essential being’ and smothered his ‘poetical inspiration’. 

It is interesting to see Segalen, who was Rimbaud’s junior by 24 years, wrestling with questions which have occupied critics and biographers ever since. Rimbaud’s youthful poetic achievements involved much more work and dedication than Segalen was perhaps aware of. But Segalen’s acceptance of the fact of Rimbaud’s abandonment of poetry, writing only 15 years after the poet’s death, is honest and an important counter to the mythologising already begun by Berrichon and others. Segalen’s essay has not been available before in English and this parallel text edition will be of much interest to Rimbaud devotees. 

A final word on the translation. In the opening paragraph of the essay Segalen talks about the ‘two Rimbauds’ and their apparent irreconcilability. The last sentence of this paragraph reads: ‘Cela reste inquiétant de duplicité’, and in a later passage he refers to ‘la duplicité de son existence’. In both instances Longre and Stubbs translate ‘duplicité’ as ‘duplicily’. This is certainly one meaning of the French word, but another meaning is ‘doubleness’ and that I think is the sense intended here. Nowhere in the essay is Segalen suggesting any deceit or hypocrisy on the part of Rimbaud. So the first phrase should be translated as something like ‘There remains a disturbing sense of doubleness’, and the second ‘the doubleness of his existence’. 

Simon Collings 7th August 2024

Your Nearness by Forrest Gander (Arc Publications)

Your Nearness by Forrest Gander (Arc Publications)

This unique collection deserves, and requires, many readings so that its profundity and beauty may be fully absorbed and appreciated.

The ideology of Sangam literature underpins the whole of Your Nearness. Sangam – which translates as ‘gathering’, ‘meeting’, ‘fraternity’- strives to transcend boundaries of time and space and involves a gathering of individuals united in spirit, sharing a common vision and seeking meaning and purpose in a state of togetherness. If there are differences, they only enhance the spirit of Sangam.

An essential aspect of Sangam poetics is its focus on an inner realm. ‘Nature’ corresponds with the inner landscape of an individual and extends beyond itself to become a metaphor of the mind. Two sections of Your Nearness are called ‘Sangam Acoustics’. The scholar, N. Manu Chakravarthy, describes them as ‘the blossoming of the Sangam consciousness’ which resonates in India and in the Californian landscape through motifs of  ‘Sea, Mountain, Pastoral, Forest and Wasteland’ which reveal ‘the confluence of the interior and exterior’. 

There are environmental concerns in Your Nearness. ‘Wasteland’ depicts a futuristic scene of grimness. Man,  says Gander, has lost his ‘cadence’ and will regret his ‘petty-righteous cruelties’ revealed, for example,  when the neem tree is ‘without blossoms’. What will it be like, he asks

       If local animals make themselves nocturnal to avoid you, if swarms

                  of laughing thrushes no longer descend from the summit …

       … if this orange lichen – gossiping across borders – blackens,

                curls, and goes silent? (‘In the Mountains’)

It is lichen which provides the central and all-encompassing motif of Your Nearness – lichen which is the synergistic alliance of a fungus and algae or cyanobacteria, lichen which does not grow in polluted land, which is collaborative and transformative so that through asexual reproduction the original organisms, whose merging involves a mutual alteration, are changed utterly.

And it is through lichen, as Forrest Gander feels and describes it, that love and identity combine and embrace. In ‘Twice Alive’  the landscape of nature and the landscape of intimacy are so entwined that the entranced reader also becomes part of the ongoing metamorphosis. (The passages in italics that show the journey are my own).

 In this scene there is a combination of moss, perfume, skin, memory and lichen:

       I crush oak moss between finger and thumb

       for its sweet perfume persistent on

       your skin when I touch your throat, so slow

       to evaporate, the memory of seeing

       sunburst lichen on the sandstone cliff’

presently

       evening finds us at this woods’ edge where

       at a dead oak’s base

       shoestring-rot glimmers, its luminescent

       rhizomes reflected from the eyes

       of a foraging racoon that doesn’t yet sense us

       air ghostly and damp clings

       as we step from our woods

       to look across the field towards the first

       lane of lit houses, their dull pewter

       auras restrained by wet haze

and here we have the total merging of fungi, rain, slime, the beloved’s brown eyes and a sense of mystery and unease

       cordyceps – the brown of your  eyes softened

       with rain and remotely fluorescent – dissolve

       into slime after a few days, whatever we thought

       we were following was following us, its

       intention linked to our own

Many of the most beautiful poems about intimacy in Forrest Gander’s Your Nearness are about this mingling of cells. Here is two verses from ‘Unto Ourselves: to See What’s There’. For me they sum up all the universality, the inner and outer landscapes, the fusing and merging, the transformations:

       Across the cytoplasm of adjacent cells

       goes a signal that turns you towards me, turns

       me into you. We are coupled in quiet

       tumult, convergent arguments, an alien

       rhythm becoming familiar …

       Because excess is what it took

       for us to transform, to effulge. You cast

       your life beyond itself. Can’t you sense me

       within your ecstatic openess

       like rain mingling with red earth?

       Without you I survived and with you

       I live again in radical augmentation

       of identity because we have

       effaced our outer limits, because

       we summoned each other. In you,

       I cast my life beyond itself.

A number of Forrest Gander’s own photographs enhance this finely presented collection. But no review can do justice to the depths of language and spirituality in Your Nearness. Such insights deserve time for participation and sharing. To use the poet’s own word, everything is ‘combinatory’.

Mandy Pannett 28th July 2024

SPIRALS: a multilingual poetry and art book edited by Hari Marini & Barbara Bridger (Tears in the Fence)

SPIRALS: a multilingual poetry and art book edited by Hari Marini & Barbara Bridger (Tears in the Fence)

This interactive book, edited by Hari Marini and Barbara Bridger, and artfully designed by Westrow Cooper, celebrates a ten year project created by the Part Suspended Artist Collective, and is available from

https://tearsinthefence.com/pay-it-forward/ 

SPIRALS, a collaborative multidiscipline, multilingual project involving artists with a shared feminist perspective, spanned a decade of activity from 2013-2023. Using the symbol of a spiral as an inspiration, a series of performance rituals, artistic interventions, performance writing, audio-visual manifestations, online projects, exhibitions, and theatrical events took place in the UK, Europe and beyond.

The book is divided into three parts. The first part explores time, topos, arrival and longing. The second part considers isolation, Covid and Women’s writing, spirals, circles, galaxies, turning points and breath. The third part features the SPIRALS open archive and selected contributions to that archive from 2022. Lockdown, with its enforced period of contemplation, and the associations of spirals as a geophysical feature serve to contextualise the juxtapositions of different languages and cultures within a common humanity. The work is profoundly ethnographic, feminist, and celebrates a togetherness and unity as opposed to division and conflict at a time when populist nationalism began to widen its appeal.

Involving poets, translators, and artists from throughout Europe, SPIRALS transcends the constraints of linear time and space, spiraling in and out of temporal boundaries. It initiates conversations that traverse waking and dreaming realms, navigating through cityscapes and landscapes, and forces the reader to think and feel more laterally. The interplay between interiority and exteriority creates a tapestry that invites contemplation and engagement through time and space. As Niya B writes in the poem, ‘an end and a beginning’:

every   seed    carries its own    memory

every   skin     carries its own    history

every   body   carries its own    weight

every   step    carries its own    intention

every   soil      carries its own    dead

The anthology includes a series of QR codes enabling the reader to access videos and other documents from a tapestry of collaborative events during a tumultuous decade. SPIRALS offers a ritualistic probing of origins, naming and time through the cycles of birth, life and death, ethnographic and archival materials, appendices, editorial notes, preface, and colour artwork. It is a joy to read.

Amongst the contributors are Niya B, Suparna Banerjee, Barbara Bridger, Sarahleigh Castelyn, Sally Pomme Clayton, Noèlia Diaz-Vicedo, Georgia Kalogeropoulou, John London, Erini Margariti, Hari Marini, Simon Persighetti, Nisha Ramayya and Beatriz Viol.

David Caddy 10th July 2024

A Year of Last Things by Michael Ondaatje (Cape Poetry)

A Year of Last Things by Michael Ondaatje (Cape Poetry)

Michael Ondaatje’s poetry is rooted in memories and an attempt to make connections between them. It is a quiet, persuasive poetry with a sense of otherworldliness to it. Sometimes this is due to a fuzziness of recall, a sense of distance and time; sometimes due to geography and place (poems about going to school in Colombo, Sri Lanka); at other times a deliberate engagement with the unknown or other, be that ‘the plotless thirteen hundred / pages of a Sanskrit dictionary’ he reads in ‘Definition’ or the totally unknowable combination of veterinary treatment and animal sounds:

     THE CABBAGETOWN PET CLINIC

     For years I wrote during the day

     above a veterinarian

     The howls, the heavy breathing, the sighs

     from that faraway untranslated world

Of course, whilst neither Ondaatje or the reader can know the language of animals, what Ondaatje can do is recreate the experience of writing in solitude and hearing what is going on below. I like the fact there is no description of his room, where the clinic is, or what he is writing, just the establishment of occupation and the metaphor of what is being written as another world which he is struggling to access. Simple but complex. Four lines. Done and dusted.

Of course, very few of the poems in this book are this compact. Many tell stories, or ponder, philosophically, on the emotions or scenes being recalled. ‘Lost’ moves from the narrator ‘remember[ing] the afternoon I kept losing you / at the Evolution exhibit in Cambridge’ to a suggestion that ‘one of us became the forsaken lover / who somebody might wave from a subtitled dream’ to a more dramatic final questioning last verse:

     How did we let slip each other’s hand

     in the carboniferous era on the third floor

     before we wandered down the Triassic times.

Here are not only a couple losing each other, physically and emotionally, but also an evocation of a huge sense of time and distance, separation; perhaps of humans adrift in the vast universe.

Love and longing are frequently the subject, or one of the subjects, of poems here. ‘Leg Glance’ considers ‘The dangers of the subjunctive mood / when love affair are still all coal and smoke’, using cricket as a sustained metaphor for desire, noting that ‘not bothering to move / from the path of the dangerous ball’ is ‘how you make a song / out of someone else’s rumour’. Or perhaps it is a poem about cricket using love as a metaphor?

It is this uncertainty that I enjoy, the fact that these poems, in many ways traditional free verse narratives, can not be simply pinned down and defined. Ondaatje’s poems are slippery and complex. The six part poem ‘A Night Radio Station in Koprivshtitsa’ could be considered a travelogue (‘Crossing the mile-wide ten-mile depth / of the San Andreas fault and three time zones’), a history lesson (‘Ottoman rule prohibited the building of churches / higher than a horse and rider’), or a metaphysical or religious poem. In part 4, ‘How to Paint an Icon’, we are instructed to

     Depict new rain whenever it arrives over the hills.

     No sunlight. Everything is sunlight.

This is physics, colour as reflected light, but also tied up with the notion that icons are a window to God, not a representation of the saint depicted. Part 5 expounds upon ‘the silence in icons’ and also notes the ‘deafness in icons’ and the fact that ‘Icons do not travel.’

By now the poem sequence has become a prose poem. Part 6, the longest, returns to the theme of ‘How to paint an icon’ but also considers the lives represented by icons; notions of pilgrimage, confession and veneration; offers us a part of a travel diary which includes the radio of the poem’s title; and recalls being shown ‘a photograph of three poets standing together, each half blind, so they had only the perspective and depth-of-field of three eyes among them’. They are not named or described, but it is clear as the 11 page sequence ends that it is another allusion to how we see, represent and (mis)remember what we desire or once knew. ‘”I recall what you were wearing, even now”‘, says the narrator in closing, ‘”when I did not even know of you, had not yet even desired you, and was awake all night.”‘

Whether in the realms of dreams and the imagination or the realities of ‘What can be Named in the Earth’, Ondaatje is adept at swimming in the rivers of memory he creates, enticing us into the complex currents of time. A Year of Last Things is an engaging and personal book, offering an ‘intimacy that comes with trusting a fiction, a non-personal truth, going towards what you do not yet know.’ The author is exploring too, suggesting that he ‘will not even remember writing it.’

Rupert Loydell 4th July 2024

One Step at a Time by Alice Kavounas (Shearsman Books)

One Step at a Time by Alice Kavounas (Shearsman Books)

A desire to see more clearly colours the poems in Alice Kavounas’ collection One Step at a Time as they migrate, via the Prague Spring and the Coachella Valley, from 19th Century Turkey to ‘the ancient ophiolitic ground’ of present-day CornwallKavounas is driven by an ‘obsession for observation’ and displays a very fine attention to detail. But birds remind her repeatedly of her shortsightedness, and she marvels at their more far-reaching vision. She says of the owl in particular:

            Even Athena needed an owl

            to help her see the truth.

            Why not me, here on earth?

Athena’s presence in these lines is no accident; given Kavounas’ Greek heritage, her mention of the goddess hints at her conviction that close attention to the past will reward us with wisdom. Much like the

            deep sea diver

            whose ocean floor exploratory

            has yielded ancient wrecks, glittering treasures.

A careful interest in—or rather a reverence for—the past, guides many of the journeys Kavounas makes in these poems. Her curiosity ranges from personal to political, from the microscopic to the monumental; often, it examines the interplay between the two. Of her father’s hometown Aivali, Turkey, where 150,000 ethnic Greeks were violently persecuted in the First World War, and to which, we learn, he was never to return once he had been driven out:

            Somewhere in that hinterland is more than just your farm.

            That vast expanse conceals the bodies of your parents

            left to die along with all who stumbled to their death

            their bloodline tracing forward into future generations

            extending back, and back – like all these criss-crossing lines

            on this wrinkled map.

This sense of movement (‘I’ve always been nomadic’) and, in particular, uprooting (‘Blown south by instinct, chance / and circumstance’) is pervasive. But Kavounas’ backward glance, her refusal to forget, is searching and considered. It is occasionally too personal but never nostalgic. She is aware, too, of the dangers, of the more harmful ways in which such a refusal might manifest. A friend’s mother exhumes her collection of fur coats from a refrigerator:

            The alphabetic order of it all, the idea that this roll call of the wild

            would somehow revive her, or at the very least, that these ghosts

            of creatures, trapped in the desert, could offer comfort.

            One for each day of the week, she whispered, almost to herself

What other consequences come of all this movement and contingency? For Kavounas, they raise questions of who she is and how to cross the gap between herself and other people. It is the latter she stresses most. There are desperate breakdowns in communication—with a brother, with a lover—that may or not be recovered; there is grief for a father who could never return home; and there is simple disappearance (‘utterly unforgettable people / who insist on vanishing before my waking eye’). But there is also something stoic, even hopeful, that Kavounas threads into the seams of her sentences, that remains despite all she sees in the past, and which turns our heads from yesterday to today; and also, to tomorrow. 

Samuel Bowerman 2nd July 2024