Leaving aside the thornily persistent issue of whether ize or ise is the more authentic British spelling, I have to admit that U.K. poets who use American spelling really do grind my gears.
What's more, I gather from other poets that certain U.S. poetry mags require American spelling and some U.K. mags demand British spelling. Both positions seem absurd to me. In fact, they're only a short step away from asking poets to correct their use of an expression or a phrasal verb because the meaning is different on the other side of the pond. All these would be red lines for me, as my spelling and choice of syntax represent a key part of the roots of my poetry.
Mind you, before anyone starts getting twitchy about the potential politics of the above statement, it's worth underlining that this is far from being a question of nationalism or Little Britain. Bearing in mind the negative effects of Brexit on every aspect of my life, I'm never going to be heading down that cul-de-sac! No, it's more to do with how our uses of language in our poetry express our origin and identity. And we all write through both, whether we like to admit it to ourselves or not...
Sunday, 22 December 2024
Americanised (sic) spelling
Friday, 13 December 2024
If print is no longer king...
If print is no longer king, where's that defunct webzine who published a couple of my poems a few years back??!!
We're so immersed in digital worlds that we often forget just how unstable and temporary the internet is. Even fully funded websites can disappear soon after they run out of money to pay for hosting, unless they're lucky enough to be archived by the likes of the British Library. Still, at least I've still got my copies of printed mags stretching back to the 1990s...!
Wednesday, 27 November 2024
A new poem at Wild Court
I have a new poem up at Wild Court today. It might first seem about how rubbish I am at football. And it is! And I am! But it also implicitly reflects on elements of masculinity and nationhood. I hope you enjoy it...
Wednesday, 20 November 2024
On identity...
Friday, 15 November 2024
The Madrid Review podcast
I was the guest for the Madrid Review podcast last week. Grace Caplan was the interviewer with all sorts of unexpected questions, leading to discussions on belonging and estrangement, on the difficulties of translation, and on the genesis of my new poems that are in Issue Two of the mag. And I even gave a reading of them! You can have a listen to the podcast on Spotify via this link.
Tuesday, 12 November 2024
Poets for Movember at the MK Lit Fest
I'll be reading a poem tonight at this online event for the MK Lit Fest alongside a host of top-notch poets...
Friday, 8 November 2024
Unspoken exile, Graeme Richardson's Last of the Coalmine Choirboys
An
eternal dilemma when tackling a review is whether to adopt an extrinsic or
intrinsic approach, whether to consider the book purely in the context of the
text itself, or whether to bear in mind any backstory or biographical context
that the writer has preferred not to invoke explicitly. However, in the case of
Graeme Richardson’s new pamphlet, Last of
the Coalmine Choirboys (New Walk Editions, 2024), this dilemma becomes
especially significant.
How
to approach these poems without taking into account the fact that Richardson is
the Sunday Times poetry critic? How to approach these poems without registering
his day job in the archaeology department at the Max Planck Institute of
Geoanthropology? How to approach these poems without contemplating his current perspective
as a resident of Germany?
This last point is striking. Last of the Coalmine
Choirboys’ sole setting is the U.K., and a very specific location at that,
loaded with connotations of religión and industry. Brexit seems never to have
happened. The poet himself has never been displaced. Except, of course, that it
has. And he has. Which means that these poems can very much be seen as
historical documents, if we understand history as a set of partial stories.
In such a context, Richardson’s use of tenses becomes extremely interesting. One such example is ‘Those Amiable Dwellings’, which switches back and forth
between the present and past, generating unease as to the reliability of its
narrative perspective, then casting doubts on its own view of memory, shifting
from ‘I tried to remember’
to ‘I remembered
acutely’ within the space of
a few lines, undercutting any sense of nostalgia, as in the following lines...
‘…Coke-furnace sunset in Clipstone Forest.
The headstocks grazing peacefully in the distance.
Before the sponsored walk, Dad would drive us round,
marking out the route with sawdust arrows,
Sports Report on the radio.
I cried for my mum, but was told
that wouldn’t do…’
The above extract is
representative of an implicit questioning that runs through the pamphlet,
revolving around key aspects of religión, family and industry, all viewed through the lens of the individual, as in the opening stanza of ‘Unlatched and Lit’…
‘This
sanctuary of my soul
at
midnight is a seam of coal,
packed
with power but hard to break.
I mine it as I lie awake…’
These deliciously judged lines also display Richardson’s
awareness of form, rhyme and aural patterning. His poems are packed with
scrupulous turns of phrase in which no word is used without regard for its
connotations and ramifications. There’s a thorough, methodical, academically
trained mind at work here, though the poems are immediately accesible, which
means that many of the interesting notes at the end of the manuscript aren’t
actually needed when tackling the work itself.
Perhaps the most surprising inclusions are two prose poems
that feel like drum solos in the middle of a finely constructed song. Both in
terms of syntax and semantics, they jolt the reader into wondering whether they
fit in and pull their weight in the pamphlet as a whole.
Throughout Last of the
Coalmine Choirboys, there’s unspoken exile, the perspective of someone who
now returns on visits rather than inhabiting these scenes. In both temporal and
spatial terms, implied otherness runs powerfully below the surface of this
collection. Would it benefit from their explicit invocation? Or are some things
best left unsaid and to the reader’s imaginiation? Or will they represent the
next step on Graeme Richardson’s poetic journey…?

