Some Books That Came Out This Year (Or So) Which I Enjoyed For A Variety Of Reasons And To Varying Degrees

2016 has been shit. On individual terms a number wonderful things have happened, but it’s hard to look back with any fondness on a stretch where so much evil has been visited upon so many. A lot of illusions have been broken forever, a lot of hard truths have emerged about the kind of fight we’re in for. We’ve been challenged to put our hearts, minds, bodies on the line for the kind of world we’ve told ourselves we believe in. It’s going to be shit! Rule of thumb number one though; there are a lot of people who’ve been fighting these fights most of their lives, and if we haven’t been listening to them before (we evidently haven’t), there’s no time like the present. I’m here, you’re here, let’s make things better, let’s be better, one day at a time.

Right so I do poetry and things so here are some poetry books I liked this year.

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Vahni Capildeo – Measures of Expatriation

If I did an end of year awards thing this would be my winner. It’s extraordinary in the most basic sense, and it’s hard to remember a book by a poet in these islands that so thoroughly questioned our understanding of what a book of lyric poetry looks like, or what it can do. It’s a book I’ll turn back to for years to come. For what it’s worth, it’s also hard to think of another book that managed to carry such heavy subject matter while transmitting so much humanity, warmth and wit, or made these things such a core aspect of its enterprise. Suffice to say I want you to read Measures of Expatriation and then talk to me about it.

Denise Riley – Say Something Back

The sustained intensity of this book’s opening sequence, in elegy for Riley’s son, is unlike anything I’ve ever read; the emotional situation the reader is permitted to share in is often brutal. Riley spares herself very little, and in criticising the elegiac impulse, or what might appear to be a very natural grieving process, creates poems that cut deeply. Like MoE, it’s painful, it pulls no punches, it is generous beyond understanding. As above, read it and tell me about it.

Alice Oswald – Falling Awake

This is the first of Oswald’s collections I’ve really sat down with, and more fool me for leaving it so long. Falling Awake is the best nature poetry I’ve read in years, capturing a heartfelt love of the living world without quite romanticising it, keeping a healthy realism about the effect of an observing consciousness on what’s being observed. The book also has an attitude to time and mortality, the long distance and the big picture, that I find deeply heartening, if only for a moment or two. Falling Awake’s near-complete non-engagement with contemporary poetic trends is also very calming, if only, again, for a moment or two.

Melissa Lee-Houghton – Sunshine

I first read Sunshine in one sitting, in Glasgow, on a rainy day trip where I had too much caffeine and felt basically inconsolable for days after. I’m not well-versed on confessional poetry (if that’s the best way of thinking about Sunshine, and I’m not convinced it is), so I feel a bit underqualified to talk about it, not least in experiential terms. What’s clear is that the concentrated urgency of the work is damn near unrivalled, there’s zero fluff, cover to cover. I know several readers who find Lee-Houghton’s work deeply empowering in its clear-eyed discussion of mental illness, the basic message that this is something that happens to humans, that it can be survived. I’d just as readily give fair warning that it’s emotionally taxing; while it absolutely needs to be read, it needs to be approached with respect. Hope to write something a bit more substantial in the near future, but for now this is an exceptional book, one that’ll be on my mind for a long time.

Kate Tempest – Let Them Eat Chaos

If poetry!facebook is anything to go by, many people have pretty firm opinions about Tempest. I’d bet that Let Them Eat Chaos is unlikely to radically change those stances. It is, partly, an explicit condemnation of the country’s dominant political narratives, but it’s worth noting that the poem has seven speaking parts (eight if you include the narrator), and the outspoken doomsayer is only one of them. Even if we presume this particular character to be closest to our readerly understanding of Tempest Prime (there are strong textual arguments for it, after all), they remain a fictional construct as much as the rest of the cast, and are probably best read in that light. The fact I’m pre-empting criticism here, mind, is probably indicative of what I assume the general response is/will be. But aiming the most common critiques at the book (preaching to choir/simplistic ideology/general ubiquity) would miss the trees for the wood. Let Them Eat Chaos is occasionally stunning, not least for the realisation that no other poet published by one of the big houses is saying these things so plainly. There are vital questions to be asked of poetry’s political efficacy, now more than ever, but suffice, for now, to say my year of reading would be much poorer without this book.

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Some Other Rad Books That Would Reward The Time You Spent With Them, With Briefer Notes Than Those Above, In The Order I Found Them On My Desk

Chloe Stopa-Hunt – White Hills

The pamphlet from clinic is weirdly beautiful, with its old-timey wallpaper design, and the lack of page numbers leaving the words on the page as the only focus. The poems are tiny, airy curiosities with disconcerting undercurrents. One of the purest lyric works I’ve read in ages, one that keeps unfolding and unfolding each time I pick it up.

Padraig Regan – Delicious

Speaking of lyric, Regan’s pamphlet from new press Lifeboat is a real cracker. The poems are warm, tactile, sharp-witted, with a handful of real masterpieces. It’s a book to get you through winter, a hopeful and beautifully crafted collection.

Choman Hardi – Considering the Women

Hardi’s book was rightly recognised by the Forward Prizes, a collection that is on occasion difficult to read. Her long sequence, ‘Anfal’, marking women survivors of genocide in Kurdistan, is a massively important contribution to poetry in these islands, and deserves attention.

Ocean Vuong – Night Sky With Exit Wounds

An urgent and beautiful book. Vuong is almost impossibly candid, and his poems ask to be read with the openness and vulnerability by which they are given. One to save for a time you can run the risk of getting a bit weepy.

Modern Poets One – If I’m Scared We Can’t Win

Sometimes a book comes along that reminds you how much you still have to learn. The generous selection of Anne Carson’s was weird and unsettling; Berry and Collins both have collections out in the coming year, and this book is a brilliant taster. On a side note, the series almost unfairly exploits my completionist tendencies.

If A Leaf Falls Press – Sam Riviere

Pick one and treat yourself, they’re beautiful objects, the poets are amazing, I’m delighted they exist. This year’s highlights Kathryn Maris’ 2008 and AK Blakemore’s pro ana. (NB I lost track of this for a while and missed a few.)

Tiphanie Yanique – Wife

A powerful collection and deserved prizewinner. Yanique’s poems are like sitting down with someone who knows exactly what she’s talking about and is keen to enlighten you. Wife is angry, brilliant and completely uncompromising.

Luke Kennard – Cain

Cain asks some rudimentary questions about how readers construct the poet of their imagination, pressing back against the reader’s presumption of intimacy. I found the anagram section technically dazzling but kinda tough going, though flashbacks to Infinite Jest might be colouring my opinion. A rare blend of emotional intelligence and formal critique.

The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop – eds. Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall

This anthology covers decades of a nation-wide poetry scene (if somewhat focused on the editors’ home of Chicago) and provides the necessary context and criticism for outsider readers. It’s been a long time since I read an anthology with such a density of exciting, challenging, and various work.

Currently and Emotion: Translations – ed. Sophie Collins

I’m still only partway through this, so can really only give honourable mention to a beautifully laid out and thus far fascinating anthology which, like BreakBeat, gives a generous welcome to the uninitiated.

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Hope this has been enlightening! There’s been a hell of a lot of great poetry published this year, so if I’ve missed something obvious I apologise. I also apologise for being less productive than I’d like this year; there’s been times when other work commitments have made writing here difficult, times when writing anything felt simultaneously superfluous and nowhere near enough. I intend to be on here far more often in 2017.

I hope you’re well, I hope you have good people around you. Thanks for reading.

Padraig Regan – Delicious

Full Disclosure: Have met Padraig a couple of times. Stephen Connolly, one of the Lifeboat editors along with Manuela Moser, is a pal.

Review: Padraig Regan’s pamphlet Delicious opens with ‘10 Game Fowls after Juan Sánchez Cotán’s ‘Still Life with Game Fowl, Vegetables and Fruits’’. Almost all the titles in Delicious follow painterly conventions – ‘Love Poem with Sandwiches’, ‘Red Interior with Savoy Cabbage’, ‘Vanity with a Breakfast of Apples’ – and all are arranged in a neat justified block down the centre of the page. There is tension between the poems’ formal and dramatic artfulness, their luxuriant vocabularies and exquisite syntactical angles, and their homeliness, their close-focus/high-stakes tableaux.

’10 Game Fowls’ embodies this tension, its single sentence divided across two stanzas. The first is a verbal exploration of Cotán’s painting, drawing out the still-life’s lines of action, reconstructing the painting’s directions for its own reader/viewer:

‘Five of the six sparrows tied
to a pole have turned their
heads to where a bundle of
orange carrots bruised with
purple, or purple carrots
blushing, underline a few
inches of black space &
describe a trajectory to the
base of a white cardoon
whose architectural sweep
curves towards a pair of
partridges displaying the
tincture of their azure chests
& putting to shame a pair of
finches which intersect
between the partridges &
the apples suspended on
individual strings which
twist together like a maypole
adjacent to where the black
background snags on a twig
with three radiant lemons &’

I think it’s worth trying to read this aloud, figuring out where breath falls in such a dynamic, multifaceted sentence, its ostensibly arbitrary breaks in the poem’s short lines keeping the eye and ear moving too fast to fully process how much strangeness is going on. The poem is precise to the point of pernicketude, as each straight-faced detail – splitting the difference between bruised orange carrots or healthy purple carrots – builds a scene of either unbearable richness or unparseable confusion. What seems clear is that the poem cares deeply about not just the painting’s cast of characters but their relationships, investing the birds with partly comic, partly grim agency in their turned heads, displays and shames.

The poem, like many in Delicious, is an odd creature. The care with which these elements have been arranged follows no specific logical or emotional thread that I could follow, barring documentary accuracy; all that is apparent is that painstaking care is at work. Deliberate emphasis on care: I believe Delicious is one of the finest books of comfort, of self-care, that I have read in some time. More on this later. What matters in ’10 Game Fowls’ is that pleasure is there to be taken in the arranged beauty of these dead animals, perhaps in the face of their death, in the sensuality of ‘bruised’, ‘blush’, ‘tincture’, ‘azure’, ‘radiant’, and the conclusion the poem has been building towards, the stanza-break’s formal hiatus after that last ampersand:

‘all this above the plinth
where Juan Sánchez Cotán
has faux-engraved his
signature & added the date
1602: one year before he
gave up eating the flesh of
beasts & fowls & joined the
Order of Carthusians in
Granada.’

The poem doesn’t resolve exactly; Cotán’s decision is given far less space than his lush still life, its inner dramas are far more active and involved and strange than his mere ‘gave up’. Yet the Cartuja monastery in Granada is famed for its baroque architecture, and for its view over a city itself renowned for its glamour; turning away from flesh and aristocratic patronage is not necessarily a turn from beauty. If Cotán’s choice is partly framed as an act of negation, it casts no particular judgement upon him, no more than it judges the sparrows for turning or not turning their heads towards the bundle of carrots. To be blunt, in the right hands even carrots are beautiful.

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Similarly, ‘Epithalamium with Peach Melba’ reads at first like a hymn to decadence, with its references to the dish’s creation by the Duc d’Orléans in honour of an opera singer (Nellie Melba), and a line from Wagner that translates as ‘this sweet-smelling room, decked out for love, now takes you in’. The poem embodies the gaudiness of the scene – ‘a swan / sculpted in ice with the space / between its scapulars // mounded with ice-cream & / peaches’ – the chime between ‘sculpted’ and ‘scapulars’ suggests that the poem, like the duke’s dessert table, is relishing the act. The register then shifts into a kind of aspirational housekeeping guide, advising the reader to ‘Serve it on the patio, in cut- / glass 20s bowls so your guests / can marvel at the contrast / between the orange peaches // & the deep cerise of the / raspberry sauce.’ You might not have ice-swans, but you can still dazzle the neighbours. The poem offers one last option:

‘If
nothing else it sure feels great

to slip your thumb under a
peach stone & push it out. & if
it tears & a little sticky juice
spurts from it,

remember that it is only a
prelude to the moment you bite
in. Remember that eating is
always an act of theft.’

The last line is surprising, but perhaps a logical conclusion; dressing up the peach til it’s fit for nobility does not erase its basic, survival function. Posing this kind of (perhaps) moral question in a poem that clearly enacts – and takes pleasure in enacting – material excess is a complicated business, maybe vital to the book’s aesthetic: does poetry’s formal decoration distract from its own survival function? Does Peach Melba distract from the peach? If eating is an act of theft, can it be enjoyed with a clear conscience? Yet these closing stanzas clearly move a rarefied experience into an accessible realm, the markedly casual ‘it sure feels great’ within earshot of a duke. The answer, I think, is that acknowledging basic moral compromises is not to refuse the question altogether; recognising the complexity inherent in even the most elementary acts is kind of poetry’s bag.

So, too, is there a complicated relationship between what the poet reveals and does not reveal about their own fictionalised self. Though many poems in Delicious seem to originate in a biographical sphere, the construction of a poetic self is very much secondary to the poems’ drama. ‘Love Poem with Sandwiches’ describes a plan to inscribe titles like ‘Nocturne with a Bottle of / Sparkling Wine or Aubade / with Figs & Water Glass’ on slices of bread:

‘& feed them to this guy I
was dating because the first
time I saw him naked in
daylight the hairs on his
belly reminded me of that
texture you find at the centre
of a loaf when you grip the
crusts & pull it apart.’

That ‘because’ is doing an unseemly amount of heavy lifting. The association is clear enough – downy body hair is like fibrous bread – but the justification for (comically-sinisterly) ‘feed[ing]’ the guy poem-sandwiches is absent, and the reader is left with both an intimate daydream and more questions than when the poem began; the ‘because’ is beside the point.

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Likewise, ‘Bowls, Plates & Cups in a Garden with a Shower of Rain’ actively obscures some apparently vital information. In prosaic terms, the poem describes a dropped bowl of soup rendered alien by their fall out of context, but the poem moves on all too quickly for such a mundane possibility to sink in, the single sentence running away towards its emotional, if not exactly narrative, conclusion:

‘in the hope that among
the cubes of pepper, red
onion & cucumber I might
find a few more details

to piece into the story which
I know ends with me in an
all-night self-serve restaurant
in Madrid five years ago

pale & sweaty under the
fluorescent tube-lights’

The ‘I know’ seems key, drawing a line between what the poet knows and what the poem needs the reader to know. The sudden arrival of this memory is what matters, and not the any number of narrative possibilities it might suggest. This too, I think, is contiguous with the book’s generosity: what matters is not an intricately crafted poetic self in performance, but an emotional space for the reader to encounter on their own terms.

So, the matter of care. Delicious is certainly interested in care in an explicit sense; ‘An Exhibit Illustrating the Life of Neolithic Man’ concerns a lie the narrator told ‘you’ about whether the taxidermy was real, and the fallout from this lie:

‘I’m tasting
it still when I can’t
distract myself from all
the stains of all the lies
I’ve ever told & that
I’ve listened to,
knowing that they were
lies but desperate to
accept them. & the
next time we talk
they’ll be there, taking
the shape of a ceramic
bird which neither of
us will recognise.’

Here, the poem’s surface drama is its emotional drama. Trust is broken, the damage is not only done but made into an iconic form. Yet it came partly from a place of kindness, a wish not to hurt ‘you’, or at least to avoid having to confront ‘you’ with a difficult reality. The narrator recognises that a well-intentioned lie is not necessarily more noble than the other kind, owns their faults and even takes ‘your’ position, recognising the temptation to believe a known untruth. The first impulse is not to sensationalise the whole episode but to understand its inner workings. This empathy extends to how Delicious engages with its audience, how it achieves complex and authentic emotional realities without demanding the reader experience unrewarded stress; what exactly happened in Madrid or the museum is not as relevant as how these scenes carry the poem’s deeper meaning.

‘But why should a poet refrain from telling difficult truths difficultly?’ bellow a phalanx of free-speech fundamentalists, ‘isn’t that self-censorship???’. There’s a place for that approach (and no shortage of publishing deals), and there’s certainly no stopping litbros from dispensing all manner of emotional detritus in the name of ‘bravery’ or ‘honesty’, the way it’s brave or honest to acknowledge the aspects of one’s personality that align perfectly with social expectations. There’s also a place for taking responsibility for what you ask of your reader, and what you offer in return; giving voice to your revenge fantasies might be hugely cathartic to the writer, but deeply harmful to a reader who has been subject to very real abuse. It’s also possible to bear witness to one’s own trauma in a way that provides comfort to that same reader; there’s no reason why all poetry should aspire to shock or awe. Readers are people too – if the very idea of reader-care seems alien and objectionable to you, it might be valuable to ask why that is.

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What fantasies Delicious indulges seem comforting by design; I’m thinking of the poem ‘Aoshima’ (the Japanese island where cats outnumber humans by 6 to 1):

‘I imagine you stopping
somewhere along the
infinite ribbon of white
sand & kneeling down to
give your dog one last
scratch behind the ear,
then taking off & burying
your shoes. You wade into
the water which is
decorated by the sun with
a thousand scraps of
lemon rind & warmer
than you expected. If you
can, stay true to west by
south west until once
again you feel the
feathering of kelp
between your toes, climb
out onto a new beach,
walk to a low brick wall
which marks the
boundary where grass
rubs against sand, & sit &
wait until the island’s
hundred cats introduce
themselves, individually,
to your ankles.’

The line ‘decorated by the sun with / a thousand scraps of / lemon rind’ is just perfect, the poem warm and understatedly sad. The poem is a simple gesture, but in context with all things external to the book, a hugely affecting one. Recently Harry Giles wrote an important essay on the role of shock and care in art, how in a culture traumatised by austerity’s demand for precarity and anxiety, especially in those suffering cultural marginalisation, art that gives space for audience care makes a radical statement. Delicious, in its capacity to both indulge and question that indulgence, to accept responsibility and to invite understanding, challenges the assumption that art should be inherently violent or disjunctive, or that the poet knows best what the reader can or should experience. The last line of the book’s last poem ‘almost begs for you / to take it in your hand’; it encapsulates the book’s generosity and kindness, its valorising of the body’s capacity for both pleasure and solace.

tl;dr: Delicious quietly provokes serious questions about how we read (and write) poetry. Funny, generous, and emotionally complex. My copy’s already a bit weatherbeaten, and I reckon I’ll be reading it for a long time yet. Buy Delicious here.

Further Reading: Shock and Care by Harry Giles

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