Ryan Van Winkle – The Good Dark

Full Disclosure: Ryan is a close friend, one of the first poets I met in Edinburgh and a ceaseless source of care and encouragement. I also did a little editing work with him on this manuscript a couple years back, and I’m in the acknowledgements. So get ready for hella objectivity is what I’m saying.

Review: The Good Dark builds on the work done in Van Winkle’s first collection, Tomorrow, We Will Live Here, in its gestures of gift-giving, its intermingling of past trauma with present crisis, its blend of intimate address and a kind of Galway Kinnell-ish emotional proximity to nature. It’s probably useful to think of the book as a kind of stock-taking, an out-of-love letter, an attempt to triangulate the speaker’s life with those closest to him. Unlike a great many broets, however, the poetry of loss in The Good Dark, particularly loss of love, is not bitter or recriminatory, but a kind of analysis, a recognition of one’s own failure, even a manner of apology. The book’s opening poem, ‘The Duke in Pines’, inhabits a time significantly after the initial parting, in a kind of workaday breathing space between loss and closure, which finds its punctum in a dress left behind by the speaker’s partner:

‘sometimes I would open the door and look
at the lichen thing, wonder why it had to hang
like an unwatered fern, wonder if it ever wanted you
the way I sometimes wanted you. And, of course,
it was just a dress and it could not say. And I
was just a young man and I could not say,
even about a dress that did nothing but hang.’

A great many poems would take such an opportunity to embark on a Cavafy-style conflation of lover and lover’s signifier, but ‘The Duke in Pines’ is a quieter, more thoughtful creature, more concerned about telling the truth of its wordlessness than a more dramatic fiction. If there’s an abiding tone in The Good Dark, it’s this kind of stoic sadness, a recognition that other people’s lives are complex, that their interaction with our own more complicated still, that the ways we hurt each other are rarely intentional. And yet through all that Van Winkle’s poetry is primarily, I think, one of gift giving, a faith in the consolatory and conciliatory power of creative gestures, their ability to give us the strength to continue. Take ‘I Do Not Want Rain for Rain’, a poem that looks back from the wet summers in Edinburgh to his childhood in the states; the poem comes in little, five line stanzas shaped like, well, rain:

‘in good dreams
my grandfather takes
my hand, says I am forgiven
for getting to his hospital late,
for the way I speak

to my mother,
for living while he is dead.
And I say thank you and he says to enjoy the rain
while I can. And because he says it, I try.’

This is a silly idea. It would get ummed and ahhed out of most workshops. But Van Winkle makes it work, and it’s difficult to put a finger on why. There’s a sincerity to the poem, an earnestness and an openness about childhood, memory, being a dick to one’s siblings (and ultimately forgiving and being forgiven), and it’s all tied up in this dumb formal trick, its organising metaphors of ice-cream and rain, its little stay against mortality. I love it. Van Winkle specialises in brief, unatomisable lyrics, and in ‘Untitled (Lincoln)’, links Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, starfish, and an extended moment in which the speaker implores the beloved not to run so fast to catch a train. The setup is simple, the execution complex; it opens with a deft piece of deflating irony, maybe even self-parody:

‘Time is nothingness
and this should allow
me to take any transport

I want.’

But in just a few stanzas the poem becomes something caring, sincere, almost painfully vulnerable:

‘And my arms and time
are nothingness and that

should allow you to take
them in your own time,
deliberately, like boarding

a train you know you want’

Sure, it’s a set-piece, it’s a bit of poetic trickery, it gives the emotional investigations of other poems a breather, but it’s difficult not to get a little swept away by its everyday metaphysics, its emotional immediacy.

3 JP

In ‘Gerontocracy’ (government by and for old men, useful word!), this attempt to understand or explain the speaker’s family is explicitly linked to collapsing relationship in the poem’s present:

‘Maybe you and I needed bills
like old boys on Capitol Hill; maybe
we needed debate, gavel-bangs, and lashings
of whips. But I couldn’t call that government
to order because all I’d ever learned
of government was from Father’s hard hand
and all I ever learned of talking
was from the TV; so loud
it spun out everything honest
so I could not tell what was puppet
and what was shadow.’

Silence begets silence and alcohol, the relationship fails, ‘and we are left with nothing / but noise and the cold majority / of silence below noise’. The extended metaphor picks up the poem’s feeling of entrapment in executive orders whose authority still resonates. It’s an angry poem, and the lines ‘when my mother / finally took to the lawn and threw her eyes / at her own home I think I understood / the single government of my father’ provide a defiant, comprehending gesture, perhaps one the speaker wishes to emulate. At its core, ‘Gerontocracy’ is the record of sabotaged relationships: the speaker’s parents by violence and the his own by an unwillingness to do likewise; even if that’s what the relationship ‘needs’, it is too high a price. When the speaker ‘wished / my own government wasn’t owned / by the same old ghosts of old men’ it’s a recognition of a flaw being managed; the ghosts may have harmed him, but they won’t harm anyone else.

In Tomorrow, We Will Live Here, one of my favourite poems was ‘And Table, You Are Made of Wood’, in which Van Winkle kinda goes, ‘welp, guess it’s just you and me, table’, I imagine in a bar or restaurant somewhere far from home. It has a spiritual successor in ‘One Year the Door Will Open’, in which the poet once again finds solidarity in a stalwart household fixture. Once again, the ostensible silliness of the setup is offset by, or perhaps permits, the seriousness of the poem’s substance; it moves from the blue of childhood and seasides to ‘argument red, family yellow, divorce brown’, ‘been locked and pushed / shut, hung on frames and forced to gaze / through creaking day and slamming night’. Ultimately, however, both door and poet survive, even look with some hope toward the future:

‘Door, I too have stared
at my own brass, have become wood
and squeaked with need. Weathered, pale,
but still here. So we can peer through gloam
and into each other, honest as hinge
and nail, can open and call this home.’

Home is at the heart Van Winkle’s work, a point his poems continually set out in search of and/or find their way back to. It is often a disturbed and unsettling place, as in ‘Untitled (Lynch)’ (‘It doesn’t matter what you know of other places if you’re still trapped in the building’), and the distinctly Lynchian long poem that concludes the collection, ‘Untitled (Snoopy)’. As an aside, the book’s title is partly drawn from Snoopy’s epigraph, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’; it’s a neat bit of ironic undercutting of a title that at first appearances felt portentous, a slightly heavy nod to the Robert Frost-ish New England backdrops of Van Winkle’s ‘nature’ poems. The poem itself is a kind of rangy, free-associative dream quest, alighting on some of the images and scenes from earlier in the book; in many places it expands on the book’s themes of loss of innocence or intimacy, the fear of being caged and the fear of the passage of time, the poem’s formal unrestrictiveness permitting some striking passages:

‘I counted letters
I should have written on the hill,
the butterfly I might have chased,
locked in a jar, carried home.
For, when the night turned stormy,
I could have said, “I have done
something. I have run
for beauty. I have begun.”’

‘But she
began to call me Moon as if
I was far away. Hey Moon, are you
hungry? C’mere Moon, give us a kiss.

Later, I became Mr. Moon. Mr. Moon,
this is serious. We must call a meeting.

It also permits maybe a little too much, and the stronger passages get a little lost in the meandering. But maybe the concision and thoughtfulness elsewhere in the collection have earned a bit of relaxation, a little breathing space. The Good Dark takes a kind of emotional failure as its point of departure, as a key element of its understanding of the world, and makes from that first shortcoming something beautiful.

Tl;dr: Hey, guess what, I really liked Ryan’s book. Hopefully I have not been blinded by this strange human emotion called friendship.

Karen McCarthy Woolf (ed.) – Ten: The New Wave

Full Disclosure: Have seen both Bernard and Ellams perform live, will be on a panel with Howe at the upcoming Saboteur Awards. Review copy provided by Bloodaxe.

Review: As often, Fiona Moore’s gathering of data is an invaluable resource when it comes to talking about ingrained prejudices in poetry. Talking about this very publication, Moore lays out as starkly as possible the discrepancies between the demographics of the general populace and those who become published poets; in 2005 black and minority ethnic poets made up just 1% of the big presses’ publications, a figure now standing at 8%, though far behind the 14% that would be an accurate reflection of Britain’s demographics – though even this is at best an arbitrary quota, potentially a bluff to refuse further restructuring of power (and a recent post by The Bookseller suggests the problem is by no means restricted to poetry).

What can be done to meaningfully change such structural biases? Perhaps by changing the means by which poetry is identified as ‘excellent’ or otherwise worthy of attention: in the past ten years, only four of the thirty TS Eliot judges were non-white, and only seven of fifty Forward judges; Moore’s research has not yet extended to editors of the UK and Ireland’s poetry magazines and presses, though I doubt it would make encouraging reading. For a case study on gender rather than race, VIDA’s figures on the LRB and TLS’s terrible track record of publishing women was met with derision and attempts to discredit the figures instead of practical engagement with a clear problem. Breaking these systemic barriers would require those with cultural power to give up some of that power, and resistance is perhaps not surprising. Ailish Hopper’s thoughtful essay in the Boston Review examines the collusion between prevailing aesthetic norms and whiteness, a prejudice unreconstructed since the time of Yeats’ (seldom fully quoted) exhortation to his ‘proper’ inheritors in ‘Under Ben Bulben’:

Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.

One needn’t look particularly far in contemporary British poetry to see this principle alive and well, that Yeats’ criteria for ‘whatever is well made’ (and, crucially, who gets to sing it) remains unexamined.


The Complete Works have now published two ten-poet anthologies of new work from BAME poets, with an introduction from each poet’s mentor and around ten pages’ worth of poems apiece. It’s enough space to show multiple aspects of their work, to set up something more involving that a greatest hits or a technical highlight reel. TCW director Nathalie Teitler frames the book’s ambitions:

‘There will of course be those who ask ‘Yes, but why does diversity in poetry matter?’ To them I would say that poetry has the potential to hold up a mirror to society; at its best, it has the ability to show what a society may become.’

With that in mind there is, of course, a limit to the value of yet another white opinion on these poems. In some cases I was acutely aware that my set of critical tools simply weren’t up to the job. Perhaps against better judgement I want to at least draw attention to some important work collected here, work that seems a result of a complicated working-out of the poet’s relationship to a dominant, exclusive and restrictive culture, a recognition of and statement against their marginalisation. There is much to recommend from each poet in the collection, and it’s only for the sake of brevity that I’m not writing about them all.

Warsan Shire

Warsan Shire’s first collection is near completion, according to this pretty awesome interview. Shire is introduced in The New Wave by Pascale Petit, who identifies some shared practices in the former’s ability to work an extended metaphor, particularly as a way of understanding or owning trauma. In ‘The House’, Shire employs ‘body-as-house’ to render in physical terms a series of painful past relationships, as a way of incorporating the genuinely comic aspects of romantic failure, as in the miniature masterpiece of gradual revelation: ‘Are you going to eat that? I say to my mother, pointing to my father who is lying on the dining-room table, his mouth stuffed with a red apple’, and the starkly, almost unspeakably appalling, ‘I said Stop, I said No and he did not listen’. In the linked interview, Shire speaks about being a survivor, about how her trauma became deeply psychologically rooted, and describes becoming able to form positive relationships as an extremely demanding process of learning and unlearning. ‘The House’ disrupts notions of safety in what are traditionally our two safest, most integral spaces, the body and the home; Shire does not shy away from the complications involved in reclaiming those spaces, or how such an act is ultimately compromised. That she does so with such a sharp, generous sense of humour (listen to the audience in the video above) is a wonder to behold.

Elsewhere, metaphor fades into the background of an already-meaningful act of presentation. ‘Men in Cars’ is four short pieces on sexual disappointment, estrangement and abuse, and Shire’s ability to lend the poems’ male characters humanity, the individuality of their failures, is itself an extraordinary gesture. Though they do monstrous things, they are not monsters, and again, Shire’s grim touches of humour (‘The car was filled with weed smoke, I would emerge from it like a contestant on a singing show’) makes the poem bold, clear-eyed. ‘Midnight in the Foreign Food Aisle’ depicts the cultural estrangement of the speaker’s uncle, the sense of being inside and outside the British idea of ‘home’:

‘Love is not haram but after years of fucking
women who cannot pronounce your name,
you find yourself in the foreign food aisle,
pressing your face into the ground, praying
in a language you haven’t used in years.’

Shire is a hugely talented poet, insightful, perceptive and visionary. You can find more on her blog and twitter.

Kayo Chingonyi

Chingonyi’s selection starts with two excellent short lyrics, ‘How to Cry’ and the wonderful ‘The Room’, a short metaphysical exploration of the ethics of sampling other people’s music, with the epigraph ‘‘when you sample you’re not just picking up that sound, you’re picking up the room it was recorded in’ – Oddisee’. The poem moves from the mundane circumstances of the original recording (‘the few moments’ grace // before the store-clerk, thin voiced, announces closing time’) to the point of transformation (‘the room / fetching itself from itself in hiccups and spools’), to the poem’s sonnet-like turn, its recognition of the need for skill and study, but also respect for the origins of the work, the poem concluding at its point of departure:

‘mere completists never learn a good song’s secret;
air displaced in that room – the breath of acetate.’

The poem’s syntactic grace and balance are integral to its weighing of two scenarios, two artists working with one artefact. The poem’s two sentences give more time and space to the creator than the sampler; the poem’s formal message matches the semantic. Christ I love a bit of formal shenanigans. But maybe that’s too much nerdiness and the poem stands wholeheartedly as an achieved piece of imaginative and musical play: in either case the closing rhymes of ‘remix/secret’ and ‘day/acetate’ are worth savouring.

The remainder of Chingonyi’s selection is a series entitled ‘calling a spade a spade’, again with a epigraph, this time from Thomas Sayers Ellis:

I no longer write
white writing
yet white writing
won’t stop writing me

The poem consists of nine eleven-line stanzas, exploring the attempts of white society to make the speaker conform to race-based preconceptions, whether in the worlds of literature, pop culture, even cricket and a nativity play. The poem’s first lines illuminate this problem beautifully, in a section titled ‘The N Word’:

‘You sly devil. Lounging in a Pinter script
or pitched from a Transit van’s rolled-down window;
my shadow on this un-lit road, though you’ve been
smuggled from polite conversation.’

Chingonyi here quite rightly implicates the sophisticated artistic culture that still sees fit to appropriate words to which it has no claim, in the name of, perhaps, ‘realism’ or, as in a later section on ‘An all-white production of for coloured girls. / I expect my lecturer to get the joke / but he smiles, the thought of theatrical risk’, a kind of aspirational ‘edginess’. In the poem, of course, the play becomes a reality, praised for its ‘authenticity’. Later Chingonyi examines his own acting career, the tension between ‘never say no to good money […] rent’s due’ and ‘My agent says I have to use my street voice. / Though my talent is for rakes and fops’. These are challenging and beautifully crafted poems, asking the reader to see the incongruity of a (polite) society that claims ‘our post-race moment’ and the poet consistently trapped in a limited number of ill-fitting roles. Chingonyi is currently working on his own manuscript, ‘Kumukanda’ (a Zambian word for initiation rites which he discusses in this interview), more info on his blog and twitter.

Jay Bernard

Once again, I found it enlightening to read Bernard’s interview with Poetry School; here she gives some valuable insight into the mythic elements of her work and Weldon Kees’ turning the tables ‘on those who think that the power of ‘personal’ poems lies in autobiographical truth’. It also gives some impression of the poet’s creative restlessness and curiosity, the desire to challenge her own assumptions and treat her work as more than appeasement of that looming spectre, ‘The Rent’. Bernard’s selection here shows an astounding range of registers, from the weird medieval-gothic ‘Song of the Strike’ to the frank, direct, almost scientific observations about family violence and sexuality in ‘Fake Beach’; that she writes with such assurance in each is wonderfully disorienting, the awareness that at any moment the game might irrevocably change. I can’t think of another poet with such faith in the reader’s capacity to keep up with the poet’s vision.

That vision is to the fore in ‘Song of the Strike’, part of a series of poems in which dismembered heads talk to each other. In this one, the head is itself an audience to a Bosch-like parade of ‘elephants, without tusks’, ‘hawks circling on one-wing flight’:

‘Below I saw a breath of bats swarm towards me,
swarming up towards me; below I saw their tiny bitter faces,
I heard through the still-tender pipes of my throat wing-hum,
clammy joints a-hum – coming up and through me –

And like starlings they veered right like thieves’ eyes’

The poem’s quasi-scriptural repetitions prepare the way for a struggle between god the employer and his team of demons protesting their ill-treatment:

‘Do you know – (God: ‘I do.’)
How difficult it is to saw a boy in half? […]
Why us? If demons punish the wicked
we know better than angels do what is good –
and angels, clad in silk, would be devils
if they set foot on earth, so blinkered in their knowledge.’

The poem manages to hold its premise steady, staying just on the mythic side of allegory, allowing its broader implications room to breathe. ‘Song of the Strike’ is just as aware of abusive power structures as any of Bernard’s other poems, is a memorable rendering of god-as-neoliberal, zero-hours labour as demonic punishment.

The last poem in this selection is ‘The Basics’, another remarkable set piece that follows its conceit to a surprising and enlightening end. Its three-line stanzas are tiny tableaux of school- and home-life, jumping from one to the next in an ostensibly simultaneous moment:

‘In at least one staff toilet
someone is looking into the cistern
where the small pool of water –

and in at least one student toilet
someone is bunking a lesson,
trying to rub –

and upstairs in an empty classroom
a teacher begins to wonder
why it matters that – ’

It’s a brilliant effect, each exploring the interior lives of the children and adults of the unnamed school, giving (however briefly) space and importance to the (however incompletely understood) moments of loneliness and failure of the poem’s cast, before making an incredible final gesture of hope (maybe), of putting ‘the day’s lesson / to the test’. The poem’s close is too good to spoil. More of Bernard’s work is on her blog and Twitter.

Tl;dr: Ten: The New Wave is an exciting book, and I defy any reader to come away without hope for the future of poetry in these islands. It’s currently on offer (£7.63!) on Hive.co.uk.

Sam Riviere – Kim Kardashian’s Marriage

‘I think I need to not live in a fairytale like that. I think I maybe need to just snap out of it and be a little more realistic. What I want isn’t possible.’ – Kim Kardashian, 2012.

fellow kids

Full Disclosure: Haven’t met Riviere. Thought 81 Austerities had both its moments and its flaws. Review copy provided by Ben Wilkinson.

Review: Between September 2011 and December 2012, Riviere wrote 54 of the 72 short poems (accoring to this post) that were published on a password-protected blog in 2013 over the course of 72 days, mirroring the 72-day-long marriage between Kim Kardashian and journeyman basketball player Kris Humphries, and which in February 2015 has been published as a full-length collection. There has been much discussion of the project online (Charles Whalley and Frith Taylor have provided valuable insight), and an appearance on Radio 4 as part of a conversation on language and the internet.

The decision to publish these pieces now seems strange. In the meantime Kardashian has re-married – a reader unfamiliar with the project’s history might assume the book referred to her relationship with Kanye West – and its appearance in print drastically alters its significance. As Whalley points out, the project revolved around its formal transience; as ‘a sequel to 81 Austerities’ Riviere may be lampooning the very idea of a follow-up collection, the difficult second album, and yet here it is, from the hallowed halls of Faber & Faber. Which for Riviere might be part of the joke being played on poetry at large, or maybe just a useful circumstance; there’s good reason to glom on to a famous master of SEO (a Telegraph review was RTed by @KimKardashNews_), while occasioning precisely the kind of amused disdain that seems to fuel BBC programming on cultural marginality. Faber is not Tumblr any more than Steve Buscemi is a tween.

The politics at work in making a metaphor of Kardashian – who is, among other things, a highly successful businesswoman of colour – are fraught to say the least. Taylor says it best in her review, which is incidentally also the best analysis of the book as a book of poems that I’ve read:

‘Kim Kardashian is fair game because she courts publicity, because she is regarded as trivial, because she is staggeringly wealthy. It is difficult to see what is gained by using poetry to make simple criticisms already so well covered by gossip columnists. […] There is also the gender disparity in Riviere’s poetry to consider: in the majority of his poems, women are girlfriends or pornstars. Riviere is parodying a kind of male response to women in writing these poems, and they do hold an element of criticism. It is difficult not to wonder if Kim Kardashian would be made to seem quite so ridiculous if she were male. To put it another way, what are we laughing at when we laugh at Kim Kardashian? ’

Here, Taylor raises the question at the heart of the collection. Riviere is absolutely right in the BBC interview to describe Kardashian as ‘an emblematic figure whose private life is a commodity’, but there is a difference between the symbiotic (read: mutually profitable) relationship between Kardashian and celebrity magazines and Riviere’s (Faber’s?) appropriation of her as a recognisable marketing device. Does this not make Faber absolutely complicit in that commodification, and without paying the usual fee for use of her – however text-based – image? Though neither poet nor publisher have, of course, a fraction of her cultural heft, not that much is needed in the low-return realm of UK poetry.



The poems are divided into eight sections, each headed by a step in a make-up routine. Some of these seem to play on a connection between art and fashion: a ‘Primer’ is also an introduction, a ‘Gloss’ is a list of difficult words or concepts (or the elision of the same). Considering the book’s attitude to its own regularly inane content, however, it is difficult not to read these headings as participating in a pervasive trope regarding make-up as vain, dishonest or superficial. Again, the play between the respectability of a poetry volume and the triviality of a beauty regime seems to highlight their differences more than their similarities, with poetry on the side of the angels.


The book was written by googling the title of each poem and rearranging (or ‘curating’) the results. The general effect is an authorless or multi-authored semi-randomness, which makes the moments of declarative speech somewhat disorienting, such as in the opening ‘spooky berries’:

‘my little lens wasn’t cutting it.
So I popped on my big lens
and got it all.’

The stanza seems to harness the freudian language of capitalist image-creation to Riviere’s own practice. If the little lens of personal experience isn’t enough, maybe the big lens of internet searches will be. The persona’s confidence in telling the whole story, or even considering ‘the whole story’ legitimately achievable, feels aggressively misplaced.


The issue of locating the ‘true speaker’ in the collection is fascinating if ultimately unsolvable; by ‘true speaker’ I mean a voice that might reasonably be assigned to an early 30s white male British poet, allowing for a certain amount of ironic distance. Hence the problem. But there are genuine moments in Kim Kardashian’s Marriage when such a voice seems to appear. The central conflict in the book, far as I can tell, has little to do with Kardashian, America, or even the internet; as in 81 Austerities, the most emotionally charged moments come when the poet asks how – maybe why – the important things of life might be differentiated from the overwhelming dross. (Questions about the nature of that dross are part of the book’s less admirable aspects, tending as they do to be located in objectified women, in the ‘Hey guys! Keryn and I went swimming!’ insignificance of young women’s speech, or in the consumption of these tropes by the book’s male figures: ‘I spied on my sister / and her girlfriend tanning // after running / last summer. / HOLY MOLY.’ As Taylor says, there’s an element of criticism here, but the lines’ depiction of harassment and cutesy swearing let the scene off the hook, almost participates in its ‘boys will be boys’ narrative. Again, these are threads that were to the fore in 81 Austerities, and have not gained nuance here.)

There are moments, however, where the cut-up and hide-the-author techniques permit a certain degree of Romantic lyricism, in the right light if you squint a little. This latent lyrical tendency might be a motivating force behind the collection, the lamentable absence of meaning that implies a need for meaning (for ‘meaning’ perhaps read ‘god’: the book’s interaction with scripture is fascinating). There are occasional lines where this shines through: ‘I don’t wanna feel the emptiness’ (‘grave sunsets’), ‘God does not force anyone to heaven’ (‘american heaven’). A couple of poems could even be read as committed critiques or self-critiques:

‘a salesperson
lacking new ideas
unpleasant and sometimes rude

who used to delve
into this unique entertainment industry
by paying homage
to strange and frightening experiences’ (‘spooky sincerity’)

‘When will disreputable nihilism become boring?
Hopefully never. They flatter with their tongue.

What explanation can you offer to me for pretending
in matters of importance style is the vital thing?’ (‘grave sincerity’)

I don’t think it’s an accident that both pieces concern, however obliquely, the question of sincerity, perhaps integrity. In Riviere’s essay ‘Unlike’, the poet says this about tradition and style:

‘If we can say that in poetry the genuine tradition is anti-tradition, and that continual overthrowing of entrenched styles is desirable, then it is worth looking at exactly what form of interruption this new strand of poetry proliferating on the internet takes, and how valid it is in it positing itself as alternative writing.’

How revolutionary can a change of ‘style’ be, and what is meant by the word? ‘Style’ in the sense of fashionable, insubstantial surface seems to be what the collection parodies; ‘style’ meaning the manner in which a poem is formed/created, on the other hand, might be closer to his intent. I’d argue that overthrowing entrenched prejudices and oppressions would be more desirable than altering the manner in which those prejudices are communicated, though I may well have misunderstood Riviere’s terms.


However convoluted the provenance of Kim Kardashian’s Marriage, I still want to credit Riviere’s unwillingness to play the game of poetry careers, to make things easy for the blurbs of the national dailies – even if this book seems to have been printed with an eye to just such an audience – and I do genuinely believe his work reflects the faith in satire noted by David Wheatley in his review of 81 Austerities, even if Riviere tends towards the pessimistic end of the scale noted in Wheatley’s essay on the topic from last year. On the other hand:

‘His wife’s graveside service
was just barely finished,
when there was a massive
clap of thunder, followed
by a tremendous bolt of
lightning, accompanied by
a sunflower’s pollination.’ (‘grave weather’)

Is Kim Kardashian’s Marriage really an embittered jeremiad? Is the poem’s echoes of ‘What the Thunder Said’, of the renewal of natural cycles, really so unlikely? Moments like this are few and far between, but arresting nonetheless. The quote at the top of this review comes from the same Daily M**l interview as the collection’s epigraph (‘I want that forever love’). In context, Kardashian’s words acknowledge the impossibility of such a thing, a need for sustainable pragmatism. True, this would appear to have played out in terms of a more effective business plan, but in terms of the collection, I can’t imagine the quote’s broader significance is accidental. What is poetry’s ‘forever love’? Does Riviere suggest poetry’s pretensions to authority are phony as a ten-week marriage? I think part of the book’s joke is that such possibilities are there to be read, but are also potentially indefensible; the absence of an authorial voice ensures its intentions are finally elusive. And yet look at ‘beautiful dust’:

‘Yes, the Lord giveth but he
has come a long way since then.
Reserved, faithful, melancholy,
to dust I shall return. I have.

Which is not something you get
to say every day to those
that prefer to use their disguise.
Believer, enjoy this amazing dust.’

On a personal note, I’m a lapsed presbyterian, and this kind of wry, embattled, semi-ironic belief does chime for me. But here it is, a call to faith in the middle of one of the most resigned collections of poems I can remember. Or maybe it’s not and the joke’s on me. Fine. Everything about Kim Kardashian’s Marriage is a kind of provocation, and that’s where my reading ends up; dust, yes, but amazing anyway.

Tl;dr: If it’s possible to dislike a book and be fascinated by it regardless, this is the one. Doing a bunch of stuff I can’t stand and still itching away at something inscrutable. I still suspect marketing shenanigans are at the heart of bringing these poems to paper and ink, but that hardly makes it unique. No doubt I’ve already egg on my face, but if that’s the price of effective satire, I’ll happily cough up.

Stephen Sexton – Oils

Full Disclosure: Was recommended this pamphlet by Stephen Connolly, colleague of Sexton’s at Queen’s University; have not met Sexton. Review copy provided by Emma Press, along with Best Friends Forever: Poems on Female Friendship and Captain Love and the Five Joaquins by John Clegg.

Review: Preamble: This pamphlet has its own introduction, which is unusual. It’s a bit like a built-in Guardian review, complete with ‘These are poems to read and reread. This is a poet to get excited about’. Happily, it’s more or less accurate! Go figure.

If it wasn’t for Frances Leviston’s Disinformation last month, it would’ve been a long time since I’d read poems that rewarded both a careful and painstaking unspooling of thought and a quick skim over a brilliant surface. Sexton here uses an apparently straightforward (nay, breezy) narrative register to cover for a deep investigation into the nature of life, death and our ability to perceive their intermingling. Alongside the explicit references to Peter Doig and Anne Sexton, there seems to be a kinship with Don Paterson and Sinéad Morrissey, sharing those poets’ ability to communicate darkness lightly, at an enlightening angle. While these poets’ work appears to have been an empowering force in Sexton’s work, the book is absolutely its own unique, strange, but approachable creature. As an aside, its brevity only affords its short lyrics a kind of intensified significance; there is plenty of evidence here to support considering the pamphlet a complete collection in its own right. It’s difficult to imagine Oils being more powerful as a 50-plus-page book.

Oils’ centrepiece is ‘The Deaths of Orpheus’, a three-part poem on the post-mortem passage of the myth, each section written in light of a painting, namely: ‘Thracian Girl Carrying the Head of Orpheus on His Lyre’, ‘Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus’ and ‘The Death of Orpheus’. Google em. Sexton seems unafraid to engage in such traditionally poemy pursuits, and makes hay out of negotiating their generic conventions; the voice of Orpheus talks about getting ‘out of that wine / fucking dark sea’, and when the narrator asserts the power of his lyre: ‘And – I should settle this – three strings, / though I could have made you weep with one’, he brings to mind Michael Donaghy’s nervous, bombastic, self-deprecating personae. If your cup of earl grey is intricate syntactical weaving, ‘Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus’ is pure, artisan, be-fucking-spoke loose leaf. 24 lines in a sentence, it runs a gamut of mythical stock phrase:

‘Always becoming, always becoming, instar
to instar, the salmon-pink sky runs
a jealous parallel along the mountaintops,
the mountaintops envy the scum of the sky’

taking in a submerged pun on ‘instar’ (which google tells me is ‘a developmental stage of insects’) to put this reader in mind of ‘instep’ and ‘star’, which comes back in that twilight sky, the tender part of the foot, and the insects apostrophised in the closing line. The poem runs through elements from its source painting – ‘waterlilies and peonies / and aconite’, ‘this fresh pool’, ‘its algal / green flotage’ – in the mere fact of their vegetable life considered more powerful, more real, than the floating head of Orpheus delivering the poem, whose appearance is deferred (as it is in the painting) to the foot of the piece:

‘me half-drowned at the bottom and jealous,
O insects, jealous is what death is.’

The conjunction of the line’s pause for breath and the cumulative rhetorical force of the ‘instar’ insects is something special. The poem builds its vivaciousness through its unrelenting syntax (like MacNeice’s ‘Mayfly’), and positions death at its crucial point; the slightly absurd conceit of the dismembered and bitter poet is a perfect undercurrent against the high register and frantic changes of focus.

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A similarly complex weaving is ‘Long Reach’, the poet’s rendering of his namesake Anne Sexton’s rendering of ‘The Starry Night’ by Van Gogh. The poem’s framing is, again, a well-earned and delicately handled necessity: the poem puts the lives of both Sextons through the wringer through the single appearance of Van Gogh, who contends: “Sometimes, young woman, / it’s both expensive and impossible to change.”’ The painter’s patronage to his addressee, who is partly Anne struggling to keep going in a socially asphyxiating small town, plays against our knowledge of both artists’ suicides and the narrator’s desire to make (or restore) a life in a semi-fictional ideal place: ‘the long reach / back into the small French town where we could live.’ The poem’s doomed request, ‘Live, then show me what I got wrong’ is heartbreaking, the conflict between the sestina’s fatalistic repetition of end-words and the variousness in between a reflection of the tension at the poem’s core. The question implicit here – what was the connection between these artists’ lives and their deaths? Might it have been otherwise? – is kindly and gently delivered, and offers no easy redress.

The collection features several such thumbnail nightmares, explicitly or implicitly haunted. Another beautiful set piece is ‘The Death of Horses’ (Sexton is also unafraid of putting the subject matter front and centre, all the better to look it in the eye). Here, the dead animal – usually in contemporary poetry a sort of fetish for the luxuriating poet to prove their (his) unflinchingness – is itself an empowered, terrifying agent, between the lands of the living and the dead:

‘The bones of the horses keep arranged

largely in their living shape. A rib
or thighbone missing here, carrion
clumped around a hoof as though death
was elsewhere overthrown: a skeleton

growing back its flesh – the pastern,
gaskin, stifle, loin.’

That last list. Jings. The poem comes to rest, without prior warning, in the home of a farmer trying to calm ‘his son’s shivering bones’, that key word drawing together the boy and his fears. The poem’s close – ‘The river curses TV static. / It’s too dark and not dark enough.’ – leaves the piece not in an extravagant posture of man-versus-death, but a far quieter, sadder acknowledgement of the power of fear. As Sexton notes, ‘the mind haunts itself’; knowledge of our mortality is no stay against it, and (noting Donaghy’s recurring connection between white noise and messages from the beyond) the poem’s only consolation is giving voice and body to those fears, permitting their explicit transmission.

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There is simply too much imaginative life in Oils, however, too much embodied belief in the possibilities of the work to be overwhelmed by what seems a kind of motivational anxiety. ‘Subimago’ (‘I have been well prepared for small endings. / At eight years old, my first poem killed a mayfly.’) and ‘Elegy for Olive Oyl’ (‘I bears this image in mind’) have a vividness, a bold weirdness that is rare and heartening. Most of all, Oils has a winning sincerity, perhaps ‘faithfulness’ is a better word, that even in the face of the often cruel and arbitrary worlds of its poems, there is usually something wonderful and strange.

Tl;dr: Oils is a fantastic collection and (as is vital with pamphlets/chapbooks) Emma Press have done a great job in the production of the physical thing. At £6.50 I can’t recommend it enough.

Frances Leviston – Disinformation

Full Disclosure: Met Leviston briefly a couple of years ago. Review copy provided by Picador. This is a long essay, but there’s a wee intermission in the middle, if you’d prefer to read it in two bits.

Review: Disinformation begins with two epigraphs: a stanza from Giorgios Seferis’ Mythistorema, and a line from Adrienne Rich’s essay ‘Women and Honor: Some Notes on Lying’. It might be labouring the point to say they provide a framework for understanding the collection, but I can’t remember the last time a book’s epigraph game was so on point. Seferis’ long poem is a 24-part updated Odyssey, an investigation of how history and myth bleed into and overshadow the present; the stanza quoted, ‘I woke with this marble head in my hands […]’ comes from a section titled ‘Remember the baths where you were murdered’, Orestes’ prayer for vengeance to, and for, his murdered father, Agamemnon, in the Oresteia, an invocation for continued violence, that ‘Ares will encounter Ares’. Disinformation is explicitly concerned with an ever-encroaching past and shares Seferis’ sense that the marble head is both an inspiration and a burden.

Rich’s essay is a remarkable piece of writing from 1975, critiquing in utterly humane terms the structural restrictions on women’s ability to trust and support one another. Rich examines how gendered ideas about honour and truth-telling allow mere silence to do the same work as overt oppression: it asks how we might listen, how we might make it possible for others to break their silence. Forty years on, we have social media and its huge potential for solidarity, and along with it a whole new vocabulary to diminish those who have only just gained access to an open and engaged audience. Activism online is a powerful response to silence, and the backlash against it would barely have surprised Rich.

Returning to Disinformation, Rich’s essay too seems to provide the framework for the book’s engagement with myth, as well as a couple of its odd and striking images. ‘Octagonal Rug’, for instance, in its recursive, symbolic and interconnected imagery seems to echo Rich’s ‘The pattern of the carpet is a surface. When we look closely, or when we become weavers, we learn of the tiny multiple threads unseen in the overall pattern’. Rich also suggests:

‘We begin out of the void, out of darkness and emptiness. It is part of the cycle understood by the old pagan religions, that materialism denies. Out of death, rebirth; out of nothing, something.’

Leviston’s interest in mythic (or historic) cycles and their double bind (inspiration and burden), again appears to have an echo here. In any case, it’s a great essay, will take you half an hour. Might’ve been written yesterday.


What I hope that makes clear is that Disinformation is a book that asks you to take your time (trivia fans will note the eight year gap between this and Leviston’s debut Public Dream). The poems’ subtextual threads seem to suggest a great deal of work going on beneath the surface; each of the three sections (‘I’, ‘II’, and ‘III’, though for some reason I can’t quite read them as ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘three’) has ten poems, few enough to be held in focus at once, enough to glance off each other at extremely weird angles. ‘I’ (first-person singular?) features a series of unusually tacky or old-fashioned objects: a matryoshka snowglobe in ‘GPS’, Pyrex, cocktail sausages and balloon animals in ‘Disinformation’, a cocktail umbrella, ‘plasticky-looking’ flowers, a ‘Gothic effect’ portrait from a ‘junk shop’, the recurring colour palette of red, pink, violet, ‘Chambord-pink’, ‘gammon-pink’, ‘any flavour as long as it’s red’. The poems seem to be pushing the reader towards a 1970s aesthetic in a time of GPS, intrauterine devices and Hurricane Katrina. It’s worth noting, however, that in these poems the untasteful poetic object is often a source of strength, either imaginative or emotional.

This focus on the odd and undesirable seems to point towards Elizabeth Bishop (there is a poem in this section called ‘Bishop in Louisiana’, and though its beach-walking, bird-watching narrator shares certain concerns with their poetic namesake, the narrator’s claim that ‘There is little to accomplish here’ in their ‘post in this village’, that ‘I write cheques for the fishermen […] speak to sad newscasters’, seems to point towards the (failed, indolent) ecclesiastical. A red herring? Christ this book). ‘GPS’ is a case in point. The opening line, ‘Like a wet dream this snow-globe was a gift / to myself’, is a real cracker that immediately elevates its object, even more so for its demands to be considered seriously in its comic tone: the snow-globe is connected to the poet’s subconscious, to pleasure and self-reliance. It’s also the first of several lines in the book that got an honest-to-god laugh out of me, a rare enough feat for a book of poems. The matryoshka might indeed be the subconscious made flesh: it

‘wears an inscrutable face:

there’s no telling how many dolls deep she goes
beyond her one red peanut-shell […]

an atmosphere of cerebrospinal fluid
under the smooth glass dome’s museum’

Why, though, would a Russian doll have layers in an inaccessible snow globe? The poem concludes:

‘Her compass boggles. Lie down there in that drift,
little girl, you’re feeling strangely warm,

and something big is about to make sense
if we just keep going in the opposite direction.’

How do you ‘keep going in the opposite direction’? Who is addressing who? My compass boggles. The poem’s title seems undermined by a different kind of positioning system; I can’t help reading a sort of two-fingers to conventional critical exegesis, which is oddly reassuring.

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The flip-side of this might be the three poems featuring luxury hotels, which appear in this section as sanctuaries for the wealthy and unscrupulous, an inversion or exaggeration of the other poems’ homely tastelessness. ‘The Bridge in the Mirror’ reflects on (perhaps) the G8 summit at the five-star Lough Erne resort in Northern Ireland in 2013. The poem packs its images in tightly, blending the protestors kettled ‘against plastic shield-walls tough as double glazing’, the ‘cutesy bottles’ of the committee’s mini-bar ‘rattling in their seats when the choppers pass, / like draft dodgers’. This middle stanza is bookended by two depictions of a woman entering and exiting a bath, with its ‘air-conditioned air’, ‘melon-tinted water’. The closing lines focus on ‘That foot would fit the shoe / in the heritage museum two clicks from here’; a quick google suggests that shoe might have belonged to a woman in the Fermanagh workhouse in Enniskillen Castle, a history and heritage museum. The poem locates the world’s grandees in a historical context of imperialism and exploitation (note the military jargon ‘clicks’), a bringing home of the bishop’s self-satisfaction and concern with media coverage in the previous poem.

For once, the back cover blurb makes sense, describing these poems as ‘proofs’; there is something meticulous and eccentric going on. Is there significance to describing the ‘Iresine’ in such joyfully gaudy language – ‘something that would titivate an antechamber’, ‘whining theremin-ethereal’, ‘flinching clitoral architecture’ – between a poem on IUDs and one called ‘Parma Violet’? There’s the blindingly obvious (but too often overlooked) assertion that these are poems from a woman’s perspective, that their author takes as inspiration other women writers who have managed to forge a career outwith literature’s traditional power structure. In an essay on the Poetry Foundation blog, ‘The Red Squirrels at Coole’, Leviston aligns herself with both Bishop and Rich, as well as the novelist and academic Marina Warner, who resigned her post at the University of Essex in protest against restrictive administration and for-profit academia. Comparisons between squirrel population and political self-determination aside, it’s a valuable insight into Leviston’s practice; Cavafy’s concept of a ‘city of ideas’ is a fascinating one, its suggestion that opposing systemic exploitation requires a border-crossing sodality of the imagination. Perhaps enrolment in this city requires allegiance not to a specific time or place; perhaps that allegiance permits the book’s easy movement between the particular and the mythic. Is that movement as easy as the collection makes it look? Is ‘The Paperweight’, which resembles ‘a skull-cap’, ‘weighing as much as a pint of milk’, and is raised ‘to my forehead’ a version of Seferis’ marble skull? Is the queasy narrator’s ‘apprehension / of a difference also seamless’:

‘like a sentence
you seem to have understood but can’t make sense of,
or something being done for you
without your permission, under the flag of helpfulness,
to which you can raise no legitimate objection’

a warning against ‘helpful’ over- or mis-explication? The poem’s closing image of a hippo yawning, ‘neoprene-impregnable’ and ‘showing teeth’ are noticeably resistant and perhaps (playfully? There’s something comic about a hippo) hostile to further investigation.

Right. We’re about half-way through. Here’s a wee palette-cleanser.

Okay? Okay. Section II (which by the end of the section puts me in mind of greek pillars, a propylaea which features in the poem of the same name) encounters myth and the ancient world as something crumbling and ready to be replaced, as dramatized in ‘Athenaeum’. Here, the story of Athena springing from her father’s head is rendered in terms of financial speculation and exclusive clubs. The poem’s final section, which closes the second part of the book, is a kind of prayer to Minerva, asking that she:

‘guard our sororities that know
no better; shed blessings as we pass

gossiping through the metal-detector doors
on campus’

Minerva, the Roman equivalent of Athena, is associated with hunting, wisdom and the protection of women, here figured in a university setting perhaps pre-empted by ‘sororities’, the metal-detector a reminder of the very real dangers still posed to women in education. The last line, ‘in Edgar’s Field, in Handbridge, in Chester’, brings the mythifying home, to a real-life, 2nd century shrine to Minerva, an unassuming means of access to the ancient. But simply providing access to the classical world is not, I think, the only ambition of this section of the book. On first read, it is somewhat drier, more ostensibly remote than the thoroughly personal and intimate poems elsewhere. After spending some time going over it, I can’t shake the feeling that Leviston here is absolutely engaging with the canon-making processes of british poetry, and finding them thoroughly wanting. Bear with me.

The first poem is ‘The Golden Age’, which Frost fans will see coming, but even then, the particular expression through which Leviston tears apart the gold-tintedness of nostalgia is brutally powerful. In examining a time when ‘we communed with gods’, when all acted in ‘fear of causing offence to a god’:

‘You would say yes. In the golden age,
whatever was offered, you would say yes.’

Turn this over for a while, consider what it implies about personal agency, potential for institutional oppression, even the possibility of consent; when you long for the days of yore, this is what you mean. It’s in this context that the section examines the failures of the canon (if that is what it’s doing. I can’t read it otherwise now though). In the six-part ‘Sulis’ (another goddess associated with Minerva, and also with sacred baths – compare to the sacrilegious bathing in section I), the statues are pictured enduring all, concerned with:

‘nothing beyond the pools of light
their own lamps throw […]

the boys who briefly rest in their shadows
cannot matter much to them,
as much as the veiled
flies on cows’ faces bother the cows.’

Rendering the goddesses as cows is perhaps as playful as their exaggerated self-containment, shades of Mallory Ortberg’s Art History series. But the point, as ever, should be taken seriously, and this image of self-reliance and fortitude may recall the productive (almost-)isolation of Elizabeth Bishop. It’s difficult to read the last section as anything but a direct comment on reading poems:

‘Water’s not particular, but where it passes is;
water like wisdom resists capture,
never complacent, revising itself
according to each new container it closes.’

Not only is this stanza a well-made container, note the weirdness of that last line: how does water ‘close’ its container? Doesn’t the container ‘close’ the water? Again, lending agency to something as traditionally passive as limpid pools is a strange and empowering act, particularly in context of Sulis, who carries a ‘floating parade / of people who laundered her difficult feelings / until she put them aside.’ The feelings, or the people? Either way, Sulis is left in control.


In fact, the more I get my head around the poems’ taking of the piss out of the achievements of Great Men, the more the section makes sense. ‘Emblem’ takes a bee killing itself ‘in defence of the realm’ as nothing more than ‘A honeybee pinned to my thumb!’; the whole short poem is heavy on mock and light on heroism. The potentially highfalutin ‘Propylaea’ is instantly deflated by a pun on ‘properly’ in the first line. From ‘the highest vantage point for miles’ in ‘Hill Top Fort’, the narrator finds that:

‘For an

hour, what some men take
upon themselves can seem, if not
forgivable, familiar at least.’

This passage comes directly after a close focus on the work of ants, ‘oblivious to their pleasant seat’; what is human achievement, then, but so much drone-work, and for who? This all seems particularly relevant to ‘Reconstuction after ‘The Ruin’’, in whose title that dynamic of decrepitude and revitalisation is enacted. The Ruin is an 8th century poem, of which only fragments remain, which might refer to the city of Bath (aha! another clue), though that’s not necessarily relevant to the poem (oh). What it does feature is ‘reconstruction’ in the Crimewatch sense, as the ‘fabulous blueprints’ are imaginatively rebuilt, only to be torn down once more by ‘many a man of the past, / blazing with wine, blinding in the spoils of war / bounc[ing] his gaze from treasure to treasure’. If satire is a mirror, who are we looking at here?

To take a breather, it’s worth remembering that the poetry here, the actual verbal construction, is itself a pretty fantastic monument; though the above poems find the canon wanting, there’s also an unshakeable sense that, if not a canon exactly, an accessible poetic tradition is a vital and maintainable resource. Leviston might be building new walls over the old ones. Anyway, read back any of the quoted passages: they are light-footed and turn on a sixpence, but carry along with them an intense amount of freight. They don’t open up easily, and yes, they tax the reader, but I hope, if nothing else, that this monster of a review gives you some idea of how much (I really hope) is going on, how much reward there is to engaged and imaginative reading. Course, there’s always the possibility that I’ve walked straight into a critical trap and this is all gimcrack and bunkum.


I was all ready to say that section III kinda eases up on the deep reading, until resident classics scholar Rachel McCrum pointed out that ‘Kassandra’, as well as being a seaside resort in Greece, is the name of the prophet in the Oresteia, blessed with foresight but cursed to be misunderstood. [Note also that Cassandra foresees Agamemnon’s death in the bath, cf Seferis – what exactly is it about bathing in this book?] If ever there was an apt metaphor for the poetic enterprise. The poem itself is weirdly oblique at times, drifting between images like ‘Moths drag their abdomens through the fluid sand / in eternity symbols’ and the apparently journalistic, the Bishop of ‘At the Fishhouses’:

‘Eagerly the restaurateur by the taxi rank
welcomes us, his only patron, to a blue-painted table
and disposable white paper table-cloth.’

When the poem describes the waitress, who ‘wants to talk’, as ‘from another time, with an open wound’, it could equally refer to the either of the poem’s literary or dramatic layers; knowing the connection to the prophet adds another level of understanding to the ruined town, the tourists’ intrusion on yet another locus of gradual decay.

Elsewhere, ‘Trimmings’ is a beautifully throwaway piece (or maybe not, but Christ knows I just want an easy gig at this point) about the narrator’s love of sweet liqueurs (which the reader could do with after all that heavy lifting DOUBLE-LEVEL MEANING SECURED), which riffs joyfully on the drinks’ flavours as much as the aural qualities of their names. Immediately afterwards is the beautiful ‘Caribou’, which becomes an emblem of continuity, endurance; despite being ‘apologetically small and feminine’, despite being ‘overburdened by antlers that spread like reasonable hands’:

‘Wherever they are going, those resinous eyes, resolutely unsoulful,
don’t blink or flinch. They never change at all.’

I’m giving the final section short shrift, but there’s just as much to admire here as elsewhere in the collection. Disinformation contains a lot of deep criticism of poetry, of the canon, of, yes, the disinformation surrounding a practice that gets a great many free passes because of some misbegotten notion that poetry happens in a safe, lofty space away from earthy concerns like feminism or workers’ rights. It also makes space for immediate, earthly, less exalted poetic moments like watching rabbits for two hours, seeing Doctor Who villains in a dilapidated house, balloon animals and yellow cheese. Leviston, I think, makes a case not only for the possibility of change but its necessity, and does so with a great deal of flair, wit and humanity. Implicit is that true social change (poetry being inextricably part of society) requires more than a superficial exchange of leadership, that ‘straight-talking’ is of limited value. Disinformation’s ‘difficulty’ – and it does take time and effort, and thank you so much for reading this whole thing – comes, I think, from a concerted engagement with difficult questions, a visceral encounter with intractable problems; it is not the literate obscurism that so often passes for profundity. Again, these poems are something like scientific ‘proofs’, the poet’s workings-out. I’ve no doubt that Disinformation will get a great deal of coverage: it really is ‘keenly-anticipated’, Leviston has engaged with big cultural questions before, and the book’s focus on the high-literary provides a great many critical breadcrumbs. If I’m reading it right, where those breadcrumbs ultimately lead the canon should fear to tread.

Tl;dr: This is a weird, unsettling and surprising book, and there is probably a lot that I’ve missed. Read it closely and carefully.

Rebecca Perry – Beauty/Beauty

Full Disclosure: None! New book, new poet. Happy days.

POW from Owen D. Davey on Vimeo.

Review: In an interview with Republic of Yorkshire is the rather excellent poem ‘Soup Sister’, which makes Beauty/Beauty a rare poetry collection that passes the Bechdel Test, a fact worth mulling over. It’s also a cracking poem about love and friendship over too-great distances, anchoring a discussion about female solidarity amid heartbreak and structural discrimination:

‘One of us, though I forget who, said
do you think women are treated like bowls
waiting to be filled with soup?
And the other one said, of course.’

The poem ends neatly poised between the desired reality and the imagined scene, focusing on a beloved detail which puts me (inevitably) in mind of Longley’s unanswerable questions to lost or missing friends:

‘how long do you stand
staring at the socks in your drawer
lined up neat as buns in a bakery,
losing track of time and your place in the world,
in the (custardy light of a) morning?’

Perry here deflates the potential melodrama with a descriptor that keeps the poem grounded, while also turning the complaint of the opening stanza – ‘it bothers me greatly that I can’t know / the quality of the light where you are’ – into an imaginative solution. Here, losing track is its own way of coming home, while that question mark remembers its ultimate inability to truly bridge the gap.

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The book’s recurring attempts and failures to convert artistic strategy into meaningful contact seems a key concern. ‘Sweetheart, come’ lists, in an odd, partly-centre-justified square of text, the things that will not suffice in place of the beloved (‘All the tea and buttered toast in the world is not enough’); ‘A Guide to Love in Icelandic’ makes similar hay out of its repetends in its almost obsessive attempts to find a suitable, perhaps composite, metaphor for love:

‘it’s like love
when the sun disappears for months
and when you stick cloves into an orange.

And when, in the woods, antlers fall from deer onto grass
it’s like love.
To persist into spring when you have lost
some part of the whole self.’

Take also ‘Poor Sasquatch’, (Perry’s Twitter handle), in which the mythical beast meets an altogether quotidian fate, ‘found face down on a dual carriageway’. Its body, inevitably, becomes a celebrity, a plaything of the rich and a curiosity for the public, ‘who came in droves to see this thing so long denied to them’. The last stanza has sasquatch follow the narrator into dreams, where it has both its dignity and agency restored, with an attraction to the vital surface that mirrors the poet’s:

‘peering in through the shop windows at the colourful cakes,
which he longed for.
And when I walked along a pavement
he was on the traffic side, taking the hits,
the headlights of a million cars setting him on fire.’

The poem, I think, works partly in light of another, ‘Pepo’, in which the narrator relates the movement from childhood innocence to the knowledge that her imaginary friend is just that; in both pieces the fabulous is given a kind of human dignity in the face of more animalistic humans. In ‘Pepo’, the child narrator escapes an 8th birthday party (‘her living friends screeched in the garden / like mosquitos’) to give her imaginary friend a kind of last rite by placing watermelon slices round the pond where they met, ‘then leaves them to contemplate this / new state of being, the insurmountable water’. Both poems dramatise the capacity of the imagination to provide strength or solace on one hand, to act as a psychically-rendered reminder of loss on the other.

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It may be valuable here to address an important factor in Perry’s aesthetic. I’ve sometimes been guilty myself of dismissing work that dared to prioritise a surface liveliness ahead of the weighty contemplativity that is surely poetry’s first business. Some of the worst books of recent years, however, have been those that aspire to great authority, beating you about the head and neck with their hidden depths. Don Paterson wrote recently, in the introduction to Smith: A Reader’s Guide to the Poetry of Michael Donaghy: ‘his poetry was occasionally dismissed […] by that class of critic who can only acknowledge the existence of complexity when it has announced itself in what they feel is language of appropriately commensurate difficulty’; Perry is not Donaghy, but the principle holds. In the right hands, in the right context, custard is as jarring, moving, perspective-altering as the archaic torso of Apollo, and which did you encounter more recently?

Anyway. Point being that words like ‘quirky’, as Eva Wiseman points out, is one of many ways to undermine women’s work, that ‘in being named, you’re being rendered safe […] Water is poured on your potential to shock’. And Beauty/Beauty’s ability to use representations of (ostensible) weakness or vulnerability as powerful poetic tools should not be underestimated; it is poetry that demands the reader take its images and ideas seriously.

The first poem, ‘Pow’, makes clear this strategy while keeping a close eye on the needful/fashionable ‘pow’-ness of a modern poetry collection’s opening salvo. This poem establishes the terms on which the book will proceed, laying the boundaries between real chicken- or cow-hearts (strung up by the / side of the road in Kochin, blurry with flies, their tubes open to the sky’) and the fact that ‘chicken-hearted means easily frightened, | and has nothing to do with the heart’; Beauty/Beauty, while happy to explore the possibilities of relational metaphor, is also aware that sometimes a flower is just a flower:

‘Simplicity                    is a rainbird.                        A rainbird is a bird that can forewarn of rain.’

How simple is a precognizant bird, though? Or, maybe, how much can be achieved through ‘simplicity’? ‘Pow’, I think, makes it clear that lateral thought is necessary, that simplistic formulations will be of little use. In any event, this poem also taught me that ‘camelopard’ is an archaic word for giraffe, and I thank it for that.

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Often in Beauty/Beauty, physical objects act as a kind of punctum, a detail that draws painful emotional significance, around which several poems are arranged, such as the cherries in ‘immortelle’, or the toad in the excellent (sort of) version of Lorca, ‘Casida of the Dead Sun’:

‘blinking inside its nobbly body as it contemplates
the infinite civilisations of the world,

the disappointment of having
only ever truly known this one.’

The poetry is full of beautiful, unusual stuff, all of it greatly valued and presented to the reader in sharp focus, and Perry has a habit of elaborating a kind of mythos around or through them. ‘Alabaster Baby’, for another example, features a series of museum exhibits, ‘an oil painting of a bowl of fruit […] a mummy with hair on its feet’, culminating

‘in front of a life-size marble effigy
of a girl about my age
her hands forced into prayer
I want to lean in and kiss her cold lips’

This insistence on the presence of things seems to act as a kind of counterbalance to the absence of people; in ‘Dear Stegosaurus’ this reads something like an ars poetica:

‘Your spikes are dull and magnificent

a row of abandoned kites, rusted by a tough winter,
in a tree stripped of guts. You’re not a fighter, though

you will fight.’

This poem affords an opportunity to read the collection’s most valued qualities – stoicism, a kind of battle-ready calm – onto its subject, and Perry relishes this opportunity for a rather hard-nosed kind of creative empathy. In a similar vein are two stunningly odd and beautifully achieved poems towards the end of the book, ‘The Execution of Lady Jane Grey’ and ‘Exemplifying Grace’. The former is a dialogue between Grey and her executioner, which – unlike much of the collection – gains its strength from its economy, making the executioner’s potentially cheesy line, ‘I’m sorry about the birds’, hit with no small force. The latter concerns the painter Botticelli, and again draws out some of the fear and obsessiveness he seems to have suffered through its short lines and insistent repetitions:

‘Botticelli has specified his burial place
Botticelli dislikes shadows
Botticelli paints
Botticelli possesses linear rhythm’

Empathy, I think, is a major driving force in the collection, an impulse to hand over an impressive amount of care and attention to both the human and non-human subjects of the poetry. As ever, the book’s back cover copy sells it short in emphasising ‘adorable dogs’, ‘ghost mouths hidden inside the mouth you are kissing’, which out of its proper context is indeed unbearably twee. But Beauty/Beauty’s generosity is reinforced by the poems’ recognition of time’s ever-present threat to these beloved things and people, and a kind of emotional toughness achieved through deliberate poses of vulnerability is constant.

3 JP

The final poem, ‘A Woman’s Bones Are Purely Ornamental’, explores a few of the larger social pressures that underwrite the book, and expands on ‘Soup Sister’ in its dissection of beauty standards and the results of the expectation that women should passively experience life:

‘One girl had cuts on her thighs,
one girl was pregnant.
People lost their virginity mostly on sofas
or in the backs of cars.
We were told to make the most of our bodies.’

That last line has a quiet anger unlike almost anything else in the book. As in much of the collection, however, the response is in empowering friendship, and the book’s final image, of the poet and a friend, ‘our words in white puffs, / what we spoke of’ is a fittingly private one.

All that said, while it has a great deal to recommend it, Beauty/Beauty is by no means perfect, and, perhaps inevitably for a book that expresses itself directly and with striking openness, some pieces cross a line into sentimentality or what might be read as self-indulgence; a piece like ‘immortelle’, however, with the lines, ‘the writer feels verbose and embarrassed / by her overwhelmingly positive experience of life’, shows a counter-balancing self-awareness. After a disappointing season in which the dull sort of authority had its day, it’s encouraging to read a collection that sees nothing weak about admitting, confronting, even celebrating, times of weakness.

Tl;dr: Beauty/Beauty is an unusual, generous and adventurous first collection that balances its impulse towards the colourful detail with a hard-earned sense of value in what is fleeting or outright lost. Well worth a read.

Pascale Petit – Fauverie

Full Disclosure: I’ve written a review of Fauverie for the next edition of Poetry Wales, who provided a review copy. Thanks to editor Nia Davies for kindly giving the go-ahead to this piece. Content warning: discussions of sexual assault.

Review: I’d encourage any potential reader of Fauverie to look first at this interview with Prac Crit, in which Petit elaborates on some of the real life contexts for the book. It is a tough read, and Petit talks openly and frankly about rape, mental illness and abandonment. Similarly, Fauverie works partly in light of her 2001 collection The Zoo Father, if at all possible I’d also recommend reading the earlier book.

Though it too has its moments of tenderness, The Zoo Father seems in its most emotionally charged moments an angry book. In the first section its imaginative strength is employed in disempowering, making safe or actively harming the father in something like acts of retribution; these poems explicitly relate what the father has done to his family, and are difficult and painful to read. It’s an important collection, one I wish I’d read sooner. Fourteen years later, Fauverie – though it too openly confronts plain facts of violence and abuse – is at heart, I think, a book about finding peace. Though the organising details – the poet visiting her father on his deathbed in Paris – are the same, it does not so much re-write the story as examine it from different angles. The third poem in the collection, ‘Portrait of My Father as a Bird Fancier’, quite explicitly questions the morality of returning to a story, or of selecting another imaginative reality:

‘The one a nightingale serenades
just because he’s in pain – that’s
the father I choose, not the man
who thrusts red-hot prongs in their eyes
so their songs will carry for miles.’

The poem ends with this certainty undermined:

‘He does not make canaries trill so loud
that the tiny branches of their lungs
burst. I am sure of this, though I am just
an ounce in the fist of his hand.’

The poem sets out the risk being taken in this re-examination; the book gives the father a voice on several occasions, and at times permits a view of him not solely as the monster of The Zoo Father, but as an old man himself confronting death; though the potential even for a dying man to commit or denote violence is, as in these lines, rarely far from the surface. It is noticeable, for example, that the father’s pleasures, like ‘Pâté de Foie Gras’ or ‘Ortolan’, require the incarceration and torture of wild animals. This tension between the conscious pursuit of healing and the acknowledgement of lived reality animates the collection; the zoo animals of the title seem to enact this dissonance in their being at once beautiful wild creatures and shut away from their natural habitats and instincts.

As the back cover blurb notes, the ‘Fauves’ were ‘primitivist’ painters – of whom Matisse was considered a member – noted for their use of vivid, undoctored colours, for depositing paint straight from the tube to the canvas. The answer to the darkness in both Fauverie and The Zoo Father is a barely-contained richness in the poems’ vocabulary and imagery, which often comes across as an insistence on the perceiver’s survival and ability to perceive beauty in the world. The ‘Fauverie’ refers to the big cat house in the Jardin des Plantes; in the Prac Crit interview Petit talks about her time spent in the Amazon rainforest, and in Fauverie there seems a deeply felt identification with the native animals in the Parisian zoo. These poems seem to act as a kind of exhalation to counter the tension in those focused on her father; see ‘Blue-and-Gold Macaw Feather’:

‘I could paint a world
with this brush, these hues.

Is this how God felt as he drew
His colours across the void?’

and ‘Black Jaguar with Goat’:

‘What is innocence?
He is devouring his meal as trained.
What is worse –

to be the too-real prey
or the predator
without instinct?’

These take their time to follow a more recognisably logical train of thought – here is the physical object, here is the question the object provokes, however obliquely – and this ordinariness comes as a kind of relief, a re-alignment of the book’s magnetic north. These poems bookend the collection, and in the middle is an almost unrelenting quest (or series of quests) into the book’s subconscious; perhaps what is remarkable is that so many poems’ imaginative transformations are ultimately benign or restorative. ‘How to Hand-Feed Sparrows (Instructions to My Father)’ figures the father as a candle, melting away in its generous gesture:

‘Keep your hand steady, support it with
your other arm, until your flesh is stiff as wax
while other messengers of darkness and fire
fly down to taste your offering. […]
Let it burn down to the soles of your feet.’

In a similar vein is the superb ‘My Father’s Mirror’, in which the eponymous furniture ‘went walking / through the streets of Paris’, until:

‘The sun carried him as far as the bridge
then he lay down and became a puddle.

The snow, when it fell, was gentle,
the flakes gathering

like a sheet drawn over his face.’

These remind me of Heaney’s ‘St Kevin and the Blackbird’ and Longley’s ‘In Memoriam’ respectively, though that might just be me. There is something Longleyan in the poet’s ability to find peace or the peaceful image in the midst of suffering, though, for example at the close of the late poem, ‘Effigy’, in which the father has become an exhibit in the Musée du quai Branly:

‘This man is my father,
he speaks with the tenderness of flowers.’

I think that here is the crux of the collection. There are some powerful individual poems in the book, particularly the controlled rage and defiance of ‘Bullet Ants’, the nightmarish economy of ‘Blackbird’ and ‘Cellar’. But the basic unit is the entire book rather than its individual parts, and I think (perhaps optimistically?) that its narrative arc hits a nadir in the childhood cellar, with the imaginative interaction of child and adult poet:

‘She has been down there
with her father for fifty years.

I call her ‘she’
because she is the cellar ‘me’. […]

And she focuses there,
sends me out and up,

gargling run!
in her recurring dream.

She is the silence.
I am the scream.

and reaches to a peak at the close of the book in that reclamation of agency, that taking back of authorial power in ‘Effigy’, and the contemplative poems from the Fauverie that follow. The closing poem, ‘Emmanuel’ (both the name of the bell in Notre Dame cathedral and the Hebrew for ‘God is with us’) seems to support that theory in its ostensible belief in the efficacy of ritual washing and prayer, ‘Let all badness / be banished when he rings’. The final line of the poem and book is ‘I proclaimed peace after bloodshed’; for Fauverie to find this redress at a cost very clearly laid out in the body of the collection, this balancing of books where The Zoo Father perhaps did not, is a rather extraordinary gesture.

There’s little doubting that Fauverie is a difficult book, and some of its high-drama registers (‘My Father’s Wardrobe’, ‘Notre-Dame Father Speaks’) are challenging but necessary, I think, to establish its emotional disruptiveness and unevenness. Part of its communication is unworldly and grotesque, and the subject matter suits, if not necessitates, such a strategy. A useful touchstone here might be the Plath of ‘Jaguar’, perhaps elements of Olds’ The Father, as several poems feature a kind of fraught or compromised shift in the characters’ power balance which is subtle enough to be overlooked.  Fauverie, however, speaks in its own idiom and embraces and makes use of its own strangeness, and after a couple of reads it began to make sense to me, if that’s the right word.

Tl;dr: Fauverie is a difficult, painful but important book, and well worth the time and effort.