Personal Blogs

‘Poetry, like music, is to be heard…Prose exists to convey meaning, and no meaning such as prose conveys can be expressed as well in poetry. That is not poetry’s business.’ – Basil Bunting* –

The ‘Today’ programme on Radio 4 has, every morning this week, been featuring readings (by the poets) of the poems which have been shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot prize.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_9361000/9361532.stm

I’ve been enjoying these, but I find it infuriating to hear a poem then and not be able to read it. I need to see poetry written down to feel I’ve experienced it and can more fully understand it. I don’t deny the importance of the sounds, the rhythm and so on, and often do read poetry out loud to myself – but to only hear it seems too fleeting, like catching a glimpse of something you can’t then lay your hands on.

It seems true to me that the meaning which is expressed in a poem is different to the meaning of a piece of prose. If prose is a flower, then poetry is the essential oil which has been distilled from the petals: concentrated and potent. A good poem is an experience, it impresses itself on us – it is what it is and it can’t be reduced or summarised without detracting from its meaning and effect. Perhaps this is what Archibald MacLeish* means when he says:

‘A poem should not mean

But be.’

It is meaning and form combined which make the irreducible poem, but, in my opinion at least, it is still meaning, and meaning – or at the very least conveying - is very much a part of poetry even if the meaning is something that cannot be fully articulated, only felt.

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*quoted in the Introduction to Staying Alive: real poems for unreal times ed. Neil Astley

* source as above

Thank you. I think you're the first man who has spoken to me on public transport who hasn't turned out to be either deranged, drunk, a flasher or a would-be molester. It felt slightly strange to be complemented on my colour coordination and complexion, on my first day back to work from after the christmas break, when I'd left the house without barely glancing in the mirror. But not entirely unpleasant. It was even more decidedly peculiar to find myself discussing Marquez, the differences between male and female writing, and literary translations of European literature with an attractive stranger on the way to work. So thank you. And I did notice the way you were looking at me, and yes I was flattered. But I'm most definitely, 100% taken. As good as married. I've got a friend though, she's ever so lovely - can't I arrange for you to speak to her?

So, I’ve discovered I can write poems. Sort of. They may not be great but I can write them. The problem is, I only seem to be able to write poems that are very personal to me. Trying to write from an outside stimulus - for example an exercise in the BRB - I can only come up with utter dross. So why are my more meaningful poems all about me? It makes me feel self-obsessed to be so introspective. I have things I want to write about which aren’t aspects of explorations of myself, so why – particularly with poems – does it all seem to come out as me, me, me? I found a quote from Vicki Feaver the other day, that said:

‘in a good poem the poet disappears. That's what the struggle with language is all about. The point is that in the finished poem you don't lay yourself bare. You create a strongbox of words.’

I don’t feel a have a strongbox of words; I have something more akin to a semi-transparent veil.

I borrowed the majority of Brixton and the Carnegie libraries stock of modern poetry yesterday. I then spent the majority of the day leafing through a poetry anthology Emergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times (thanks for the recommendation WT-G, if you ever read this). In it I reread poets I knew I admired (Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Wallace Stevens, Adrienne Rich, Carol Ann Duffy) and discovered new ones. In particular, based just on what I’ve read in this collection, Sharon Olds, John Ash, Charles Boyle and Peter Porter.

Edited to add: the interview with Vicki Feaver the quote is taken from is published here:

http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=3900

I've been planning to write posts about why I love Sylvia Plath's poetry so much, and how Philip Larkin really seems too much of his time for me to strongly relate to ... but that's just going to have to wait. This is much more amusing.

You need to know Larkin's This Be the Verse. It's the one that starts 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad'. If you don't know it, you should. Look it up. Anyway, Adrian Mitchell wrote this poem, apparently after hearing that some pure spirit thought Larkin had written 'They tuck you up, your mum and dad'.

This Be the Worst

They tuck you up, your mum and dad,

They read you Peter Rabbit, too.

They give you all the treats they had

And add some extra, just for you.

They were tucked up when they were small,

(Pink perfume, blue tobacco-smoke),

By those whose kiss healed any fall,

Whose laughter doubled any joke.

Man hands on happiness to man,

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

So love your parents all you can

And have some cheerful kids yourself.

The introduction to Larkin's Collected Poems mentions how Larkin meticulously dated the drafts of his poems in his notepad. Sometimes several years would elapse between drafts, three and a half years between first draft and final version of 'Love Songs in Age', for example. Other times the gap may not be so broad but the number of reworkings give pause for thought: 21 pages of drafts for 'Church Going', a total of 31 for 'The Whitsun Weddings'.

And then I think of my own efforts. Two, maybe three drafts at the most, in quick succession, sometimes one straight after the other. Span of time between triggering thought/phrase/image and initial draft? The shortest an hour, the most three days. And then I wonder why my poems are crap!

1st draft - needs some reworking

Tightrope

Flawless eyes fixed

Perfect poise attained

Beauty: isolate in time

Eyes on the jewels

Dazzled into desire

Hunters: eye their prey

No ground beneath

She won’t look down

A breath: now she moves

Graceful balance

Sprinkling gems

To earth: fall like dust

The lyrics to Dylan's Love minus zero / no limits. Just because.

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My love she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence
She doesn’t have to say she’s faithful
Yet she’s true, like ice, like fire
People carry roses
Make promises by the hours
My love she laughs like the flowers
Valentines can’t buy her

In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there’s no success like failure
And that failure’s no success at all

The cloak and dagger dangles
Madams light the candles
In ceremonies of the horsemen
Even the pawn must hold a grudge
Statues made of matchsticks
Crumble into one another
My love winks, she does not bother
She knows too much to argue or to judge

The bridge at midnight trembles
The country doctor rambles
Bankers’ nieces seek perfection
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring
The wind howls like a hammer
The night blows cold and rainy
My love she’s like some raven
At my window with a broken wing

Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music

crimson threads unfurl

ruby ribbons catch and knot

spreading bloom of blood

More from the rambling unstructured w-i-p...

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I remember the first time Jess lied to me. I mean, that I'm aware of. Not that silly preschool stage all kids have when they're just trying stories out to see your reaction. Mind you, it seems a bit like that again now, sometimes. At that young age, well, they haven't quite cemented the difference between fantasy and reality, have they?

No. I'm thinking about the first lie once she knew full well what she was doing. When she knew she was doing wrong, was offered the chance to back out, but just carried on regardless. Did we do something wrong back then, that led to her becoming like . . . this? A problem child, isn't that what they call it? She always was a handful; I used to think that was sweet, that it showed spirit. Now I'm scared. For her. For us.

It was Mary she lied to actually. That's right. And Mary was spitting fury at it. Shouting at the child that god didn't let bad girls, girls who lie, into heaven. Little Jess was terrified, poor lamb, by the time Mary worked up to the now classic 'Just you wait till your Father gets here! Quite what she expected me to do about it I was never too sure. Back then I'd walk in to an exasperated woman and a terrified, trembling child. Now I come in to a woman who's swallowed her rage and a cocky teenager who thinks she's won. Who thinks she can do whatever she likes without there being consequences.

A work-in-progress. Will eventually need to think up a title that isn't knicked from an Undertones song!

Teenage kicks

Jess

It's all a matter of balance, you see. I've got it all under control. I work hard and my grades are fantastic; Mrs Carr has told my mother I could study English at any university I choose. So, of course, Mum's glowing with pride and dreaming of Oxford. Meanwhile, I get to do what I like. If I keep them happy I can get away with pretty much anything. The ‘rents are so naive. The other morning when I got home, around 10am, I was hoping to get straight upstairs to, ahem, study (not sleep, oh no) but got cornered by dad in the kitchen, while Mum bore silent witness. Had to make polite small talk about what me and Lou did last night. They didn't notice my dilated pupils; or if they did, can't know what they mean.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I said, well actually Dad, I was out clubbing all night. It was fucking fantastic. Us girls smuggled the pills in for everyone, because there's some places the bouncers can't touch, you know? I necked two doves in the loo. Every single nerve in my body turned electric, vibrating in pleasure. Alive and tingling with love, oh yeah! Want one, Dad? - That’d be good, actually, my parents all pilled up. What a thought!

Of course I don't say any of this; it'd be suicide. So I trot out some old crap. We met some school friends, blah, blah, blah. Went to the pub, but only for a couple. I throw in a bit of colour at this point, mentioning something about one of the lads getting a little drunk, in a dismissive tone. I round off the tale with us back to Lou's watching telly before bed - I’ve almost bored myself to sleep by this point. But my dear parents just smile at me, happy to see their little girl so mature and responsible. I tell you, my parents will believe anything.

***

Roger

I don’t know who that girl thinks she’s fooling; it’s perfectly obvious she’s had quite a night out on the town. Two drinks in the local? I don’t think so. She was as white as death when she walked in here this morning. I wonder if she’s had any sleep at all. I’m sure that tale about staying at Louise’s wasn’t true. So where? With who? No. I'll stop that thought right there. Oh Jess, Jess of the evasive eyes, you’re certainly displaying a fine aptitude for invention. I don’t want to interfere, really I don’t, I’ve always believed you’ve got to let kids lead their own lives once they get to her age. That’s what I say to Mary, and it’s true. It’d no good sheltering them too much, they’ll just go off the rails once they leave home.

But it’s a difficult situation Jess is putting me in. There she is on one side, her mother’s on the other, and me? I’m the sucker in the middle trying to hold the whole shebang together. Mary’s in denial, of that I’m certain. Perhaps it’d better just stay that way: I don’t want any unnecessary explosions. If I can just hold the peace until after Jess’s A’ levels, that must be for the best. Get her into a good college, away from home. Then we’ll all be able to breath a bit easier.

In my dream, the tree ascends proudly from the earth. Well rooted, its stolid trunk leads to gracious boughs, then to delicate branches adorned with fluttering ribbons and rags. The clootie tree. A cup cake of a tree, sprinkled with hundreds-and-thousands. I have visited it so many times in my mind; I can feel the fresh Highland breeze, purifying, forgiving. A new baby smell. I hear the tree sigh, whispering age-old country wisdom.

‘We’re on the A832, yes? Then it shouldn’t be far.’

‘I don’t really see, Annie, what the point of all this is. It’s just a silly ritual. Folklore. To be honest, it gives me the creeps.’

I watch Dave flick on the wipers, and peer out through the misty windscreen. He does not turn to see what effect his words have on me. I remain silent, caressing the ribbon in my pocket. It's as silky soft as a newborn’s skin.

This was not how it was supposed to be. I’d had it all planned. The physical presence of the tree, its history, and its significance –all these were to play their part, allowing us to finally speak, really speak. To face what we could not back home.

But the tree, when we reach it, refuses its role. The fissures and cracks of its bark do not signify wisdom, but decay. The wind drives icy rain straight into my face. Sodden, decomposing rags hang heavy; the branches sag under their weight. A carrier bag has blown up and wrapped itself around a bough. Some joker has stuck an empty Stella can on a branch end: strange fruit of a god-forsaken tree.

The ribbon remains in my pocket. My words remain unsaid. The rain continues to fall on the desolate landscape as we climb back into the car. Dave fires up the engine and I’m gone, again.

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This was my piece for tutorial 1 (unassesed). I received some great feedback from my tutor and a couple of other students - must try and make time to revise this. Need to pay particular attention to making the language fresh and not using cliches.