I’ve come across Luke Emmett’s poetry on the internet in small doses. This larger ‘small dose’ made up of 20 minimalist poems is an intriguing read. Each poem is discrete, puzzling, sonorous and yet demanding of an explanation which is (obviously) not forthcoming. Which is not to say that they are unsuccessful as poems because this is clearly not the case yet even with material which plays with obscurity and difficulty the reader (this reader in any cases) puzzles away at interpretation because the temptation is unavoidable. Now, to a few of the poems, not necessarily in chronological order:
That Hobgoblin,
he’s a real card isn’t he?
What does he say?
NOTHING IS FOREVER
This is in fact the final poem in the book and probably one of the most ‘coherent.’ The title runs into the following line and prompted me to check the meaning of ‘hobgoblin’ as I realised I wasn’t entirely sure of the derivation! Ah! Puck from a Midsummer Night’s Dream, of course and references to mischief and shape shifting are useful pointers. We could go into a history of folklore and pagan conflicts with Christianity here but best not. The point being that the intelligence being transmitted in these four short limes is of an ‘outsider’ nature and points towards serious jesting and philosophical puzzling. Which is what we seem to get in abundance with these poems where syntax and function is slightly skewed and where the sound aspect of the poetry (the way words jam up against each other) is as important as the semantic content. I find myself reading these pieces through quickly to get an overall feel then attempting to relate this ‘immediate grasp’ to a sense of conventional narrative construction. Which is completely mad, of course, but what you (I) instinctively attempt and I have to say that the process is both frustrating and very enjoyable. These poems remind me, to some extent of John Philips’ minimalist investigations. Here are a couple more to ‘get to grips with.’
Rub
Jacket on chair
still there. I will
wear it;
it creaks.
Buttons
For short thread string to
cloth, the button I’ve kept
has three holes, shines.
Continue to pick the loose
matter; I hope for visitors.
There’s a continuity here as both poems deal with items of clothing which take on a ‘life of their own’ as they are the key subjects of each piece. There’s a basic rhyme in the first piece, slightly humorous, there is a suggestion of the owner, the ‘I’ of the piece, and very little else. We may have ‘visitors’ in the second poem, a hint at isolation perhaps, a touch of melancholy, a note of ‘obsessional’ behaviour (‘pick the loose/matter’) the possibility of hope, yet each poem feels complete and somehow just right. I haven’t read any of Samuel Beckett’s poetry but I imagine it may have been a bit like this.
Nightshade Hymns
Bloody poison of milky red
berry
shade
toward sleep and move route,
spit in basin, check image,
has passion again, unfamiliar.
Here the reader can perhaps construct a narrative around the given information. We are probably talking about deadly nightshade (again I felt the need to consult google!) but this may be a diversion as the berries of the nightshade are black though they are apparently related by family to the tomato. The linking of ‘poison’ to ‘passion’ as much by sound and look as to meaning is indicative and the reference to sleep (death via shade?) again suggests something toxic and intoxicating! Yet ‘move route’ and ‘unfamiliar’ are more troubling though tempting at the same time. The point being I think, as I’ve suggested above, is that you have to take the entire poem as an entity and attempt to intuitively appreciate its whole without being bogged down with ‘meaning’ while yet being unable to completely avoid the search. I’m sure I’ve read a lot of ‘obscure’ poetry which doesn’t sing and somehow work on you and which you wish you’d never encountered but these pieces are successful though I’m not entirely sure why.
Here’s a final poem to further whet your appetite, hopefully:
Stuck
Movement; a spasm
of laughter accusing
uncared. Taste
pain to bodies, touch
on coupled scissor,
reddish, bent.
It’s the careful relation of the words to each other (accusing/uncared, for example) and the force of such minimalist phrasing which makes these pieces really shine. There’s a sense of disturbance and also isolation and of a possibly troubled mind but I don’t want to overplay this thought too much.
I could try out an overall critique based on what little I know about Luke Emmett but I’m not going to attempt that here. Suffice to say that I’m glad I encountered these short poems and was pleased to make some faltering attempts at interpretation and engagement. I enjoyed the experience.
Steve Spence 29th June 2024
