Oliver Comins' poems at Wild Court

Understated yet packing a subtle punch, Oliver Comins' work always lingers long in the memory, and his three new poems up at Wild Court today are no exception. You can read them here, along with a treasure trove of the best in contemporary poetry.

Poetry in Aldeburgh 2019

Poetry in Aldeburgh have just published their programme for the 2019 festival (8th-10th November), and it's exceptional (see here). Not only is it richly diverse and littered with famous names, but it also features some excellent poets who sometimes don't receive the recognition that they deserve, such as Charlotte Gann and Oliver Comins, both of whom have featured on Rogue Strands over the past few months.

I wish I could attend myself, but I'm already committed to three events later on that month in Birmingham, Oxford and London (more news in due course) and I can't manage two trips over in such quick succession. However, following last year's amazing experience in Aldeburgh, I can only recommend a visit to the festival if you're closer than I am...!

A poem by Oliver Comins

Neglected...underrated...overlooked... all three terms might be clichés, but they could justifiably be applied to Oliver Comins' poetry in general and in particular to his first full collection, Oak Fish Island, which I reviewed on Rogue Strands a few months ago (see here). 

As a consequence, I'm making an exception today and posting (with Oliver's permission) one of my favourite poems from his book. This piece was first published in the London Magazine when it was under the stewardship of Alan Ross, one of the most renowned magazine editors around in the second half of the twentieth century, though the poem still resonates today. Football fans might well notice its relevance to current events at Coventry City, but its delicate observations, surefooted music and layered juxtapositions reach far beyond sport and should appeal to many readers...

Geese above Highfield Road

One of those moments when the stadium

falls inexplicably quiet – you hear

the crowd, as one, breathe in and wait

for someone else’s voice to prompt

the noise.  Geese flying overhead

disrupt the spell and players call

the roaring back – an amphitheatre

filled with sound, cauldron of light

beneath a darkened autumn sky.

Up there a flock of geese is set

on inland lakes, days of food and warmth.

Down here goals are barely threatened

by midfield stalemate: we dream

of wingers making for a corner

then cutting back to cross behind

a scattering defence – too much

to hope for now.  Disappearing geese,

I saw them flying in for winter.

Subverted pronouns, Oliver Comins' Oak Fish Island

It’s relatively easy to identify certain very English qualities in Oliver Comins’ first full collection, Oak Fish Island (Templar Poetry, 2018), but there’s also a slippery something that makes his poetry stand out from the crowd and resist any attempts to pigeonhole him.

Twenty-five years in the writing, Oak Fish Island features restrained lyricism, quiet observation and subtle layering of detail, yet a list of these characteristics undoubtedly sells Comins’ work short. Here are snippets from four poems, all of which hint at the poet’s idiosyncratic traits:

…My heart – or was it yours? –

flying solo on the Jubilee line,

already gone for what was

beginning to seem like forever.

(from ’Day Trip to Brighton’)

It wasn’t me, as such, kissing the organist

when you slipped through the church

looking for your poem…

(from ’All Saints’)

…Someone is walking down a street

past this row of terraced cottages,

their gardens silent and still…

(from ’Old Cold’)

When I send this to you

it is a boy writing to a girl

and I am sorry it has to be

like that – knowing the tide

of your want can change…

(from ’What Sort of a Man am I?’)

These seemingly disparate poems are united by the doubt they cast on the reader’s assumptions, by the way roles are undermined, by the way pronouns stand on shaky ground.

One of Comins’ main achievements in Oak Fish Farm is the subversion of the English lyric tradition. At first sight, he seem to fit snugly into its check list, as mentioned at the beginning of this review, but that’s only until those pronouns start to unsettle us, bit by bit. We begin to wonder about the particulars of the poet’s or the speaker’s relationships, and our frustration grows as we find them difficult to discern, as if Comins were holding back on us, afraid to show his life or flesh out narratives and contexts.

Of course, as the collection progresses, it becomes clear that the exact opposite is true. Comins’ technique plays with our aesthetic and thematic expectations, enabling us to cast off facile suppositions. This approach is not an affectation, nor is it a mere device. Instead, it’s a poetic method.

Moreover, one potential problem with the reading of Oliver Comin’s work is that an individual poem, taken out of context, might appear unsatisfactory. Only in the context of his full collection can the magnitude and coherence of his vision be recognised and understood.

Oak Fish Island is not only a tremendously enjoyable book but also a terrific achievement. It reaches out beyond the specific to the universal, homing in on the key issues of life and poetry. As such, it’s one of the most significant collections I’ve encountered in recent years. I’ll be savouring Oliver Comins’ poems for a long time to come.