It’s been a while since I read Chris Edgoose’s admirable and enticing
review for The Friday Poem, here, of Geraldine Clarkson’s second full
collection, Med...
Tuesday, 24 February 2015
Poetic truth
The truth in its literal sense isn't a destination to be found by verse but a point of departure. In fact, an obstinate quest to render certain moments or scenes in a "truthful" way often inhibits a poem. Add a few swirling drops of fiction and a more authentic, arresting and unexpected truth suddenly emerges...
Wednesday, 18 February 2015
Poetry as commemoration
A great deal of writing is an act of commemoration. It's a grabbing on to feelings, thoughts, experiences before they slip away, and poetry is no exception.
For example, I haven't dialled my childhood telephone number for over a decade. I might be struggling to remember it by now if I hadn't written the following poem from Inventing Truth, my 2011 HappenStance pamphlet:
01252 722698
You worked your way round my milk teeth,
sung umpteen times before you stuck.
Soon a chameleonic code,
you were my safeguard from a snatch,
then my duty when staying out,
and recently a thankful leap
from trade fairs and dogged insects.
My fingers refuse to leave you.
Of course, my aim in this poem is to involve the reader, implicitly asking whether they too still recall their first telephone number. Well, do you?
For example, I haven't dialled my childhood telephone number for over a decade. I might be struggling to remember it by now if I hadn't written the following poem from Inventing Truth, my 2011 HappenStance pamphlet:
01252 722698
You worked your way round my milk teeth,
sung umpteen times before you stuck.
Soon a chameleonic code,
you were my safeguard from a snatch,
then my duty when staying out,
and recently a thankful leap
from trade fairs and dogged insects.
My fingers refuse to leave you.
Of course, my aim in this poem is to involve the reader, implicitly asking whether they too still recall their first telephone number. Well, do you?
Saturday, 14 February 2015
Delicious discoveries
I've blogged previously about my love affair with second hand bookshops, in part out of fear that they could disappear in the midst of Amazon's onslaught. However, I'm becoming more and more convinced they inhabit a niche that will ensure their survival.
Here's one such example. When in Chichester, I take every chance to head down South Street to Kim's Bookshop and scan their poetry section. Back at Christmas, I spotted a copy of Conor O'Callaghan's Seatown. I was vaguely familiar with O'Callaghan's work via anthologies, but I'd never read any of his collections. £3 and two hours later, I was a firm fan, ready to seek out more of his books.
I would never have happened upon O'Callaghan on Amazon. Physical browsing brings with it the underlying thrill of expectation and hope that a discovery is waiting on the next shelf, while it also enables the shopper to pause, examine the book, maybe even have a sniff (such gorgeous aromas for an addict such as myself) and sample a couple of poems in the aisle before deciding on a purchase.
This facet of second hand bookshops can never be replaced by the internet, just like the joy of paper, the crack of a spine. But that's another post...
Here's one such example. When in Chichester, I take every chance to head down South Street to Kim's Bookshop and scan their poetry section. Back at Christmas, I spotted a copy of Conor O'Callaghan's Seatown. I was vaguely familiar with O'Callaghan's work via anthologies, but I'd never read any of his collections. £3 and two hours later, I was a firm fan, ready to seek out more of his books.
I would never have happened upon O'Callaghan on Amazon. Physical browsing brings with it the underlying thrill of expectation and hope that a discovery is waiting on the next shelf, while it also enables the shopper to pause, examine the book, maybe even have a sniff (such gorgeous aromas for an addict such as myself) and sample a couple of poems in the aisle before deciding on a purchase.
This facet of second hand bookshops can never be replaced by the internet, just like the joy of paper, the crack of a spine. But that's another post...
Friday, 6 February 2015
Signature poems
One of my best friends has long championed the need for all poets to have signature poems: strong, identifying pieces that act as hooks for readers. Singles on an album might be a decent analogy. For example, two or three poems immediately jump into my mind when certain poets are mentioned, just as specific songs are the advance party for singers.
In this respect, I was drawn to one of The Guardian's Poems of the Week in January. It was Rory Waterman's "Access Visit", taken from his exceptional first collection, Tonight the Summer's Over (Carcanet, 2014). You can read it here, together with Carol Rumens' analysis. When discussing "Access Visit", she encounters many of the qualities that can also be found elsewhere in Waterman's work, all brought together in one of his signature poems.
In this respect, I was drawn to one of The Guardian's Poems of the Week in January. It was Rory Waterman's "Access Visit", taken from his exceptional first collection, Tonight the Summer's Over (Carcanet, 2014). You can read it here, together with Carol Rumens' analysis. When discussing "Access Visit", she encounters many of the qualities that can also be found elsewhere in Waterman's work, all brought together in one of his signature poems.
Monday, 2 February 2015
Good poetry...?
When I browse repetitive threads on Facebook that jostle and strut along with varying definitions of "good poetry", I'm reminded that taste is not just fickle. It's everything. Just as Helena Nelson evoked the decline in popularity of a once-renowned poet in her blog post last weekend, so I'm drawn to compare successful and unsuccessful verse in different countries: Spain and the U.K..
Perhaps my favourite contemporary Spanish poet is Jordi Virallonga. His book, Crónicas de Usura, is jaw-droppingly good. His readings of two of the best pieces from that collection - "Los Ahorros" and "Mira Padre" - are on You Tube, yet their viewing figures barely reach double figures. And most of those views are mine!
Virallonga is not a famous poet in Spain: his poetry is not in vogue. For me, through the filter of my particular tastes, he's exceptional. What's more, his reading style heightens the concentrated intimacy of his work. Why not have a listen to "Mira Padre" (thus also brushing up on your Spanish!) and make your own mind up...?
Perhaps my favourite contemporary Spanish poet is Jordi Virallonga. His book, Crónicas de Usura, is jaw-droppingly good. His readings of two of the best pieces from that collection - "Los Ahorros" and "Mira Padre" - are on You Tube, yet their viewing figures barely reach double figures. And most of those views are mine!
Virallonga is not a famous poet in Spain: his poetry is not in vogue. For me, through the filter of my particular tastes, he's exceptional. What's more, his reading style heightens the concentrated intimacy of his work. Why not have a listen to "Mira Padre" (thus also brushing up on your Spanish!) and make your own mind up...?
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