Friday, 31 October 2014

The Rialto issue 81: poets on reading to write



The new Rialto’s out..  and now I want to mention everything it contains, so will open it at random.  On page 43: a terrific poem by Roy Marshall – one of those poems which makes such an impact at first reading that when you read it again, the shadow of that first time is still there.  It’s called ‘Carrying the Arrest Bleep’.  On page 42: John Prior’s ‘At the Level Crossing’, whose central image is so striking that level crossings may never look or feel the same again.   

Other things: Chrissy Williams on stingrays and, separately, the gift wrap of LOVE; Nick Makoha and Dan O’Brien on aspects of war; Camino-Victoria Garcia on Serco vans; and a water poem from Clare Best that reflects in more ways than you’d think possible (weirdly difficult to proofread, I hardly dare look at it).  Kjell Espmark’s graveyard voices summon a ghostly Bach, in Swedish and in Robin Fulton Macpherson’s translation; Emily Wills is on the receiving end of a complaint, but death and her mother get in the way; Michael Laskey encounters an excruciating word.   

There’s something we haven’t done before, too.  Our feature this time is about reading to write.  Here’s our introduction:

We asked over thirty Rialto contributors past and present a question: Which poet(s) do you read, in order to write?  (And why – if you have any idea why?)  For example, if you went off to a desert island for 6 months to write, and could only take a handful of books, what would you take to help the writing?  If your answer’s ‘no-one’, ‘someone different every time’, or ‘I keep my mind empty of all previous poetry in order to storm the next frontier’, that’s also interesting, so please tell us.

We wanted to know because this is rather mysterious.  Read-in-order-to-write poets aren’t necessarily the same as favourites or influences, or may be a sub-set of those.  The link between input and output, so to speak, may not be clear. 

There was a tremendous response – replies full of interest psychologically as well as poetically. They reveal a wide range of approaches, and the richness and diversity of sources people go back to.  Contributions appear roughly in the order they arrived, on time for our tight deadline despite holidays, writing retreats and work crises. 

Our respondents range from Lorraine Mariner to Pascale Petit, David Morley to Jon Stone, Liz Berry to Dan O’Brien, Nick Makoha to Fran Lock.  Many of them do read to write but each one differently, and some more deliberately than others. 

A common theme is poets at a distance – dead poets (mostly 20th century), American poets, non-English language poets.  Some names come up several times, not necessarily the ones you’d expect.  The reasons for people’s choices are fascinating. 

A few respondents describe what happens when reading turns into writing. There are stings and kicks, and Christina Dunhill gets “a physical response like a click”.  And birds: Luke Yates is a regurgitating owl, Emily Wills a magpie anxious in the presence of strange objects.  A couple of people say that reading gives them permission to write.  Some read to read, and are equally interesting about this. 

Everyone writes so well and with such enthusiasm, in our mean allowance of 100(ish) words – a fascinating cross-section of contemporary reading/writing practices.

And they were all so generous, to do this for us – and so efficient, meeting our less-than-a-fortnight deadline despite all the conflicting ones of daily life.

If you want to know who helps Hannah Lowe get into narrative vein, which foreign language poet Kim Moore has five different translations of, how Niall Campbell moves physically from writing to reading and back again, which book gets Mimi Khalvati into a dream state, who loves reading poets he’s taught, which poet likes Herodotus and Groucho Marx and which the Flora Britannica, then… you can find the new issue of The Rialto here.

Friday, 10 October 2014

Statistics, aesthetics: Black and Asian poets in the UK, and the Ten launch


Poets and audience did their best to send the Purcell Room into orbit on Monday night for the launch of the second volume of Ten. This is the Bloodaxe anthology for the Complete Works programme, run by Spread the Word which supports the development of Black and Asian poets.  The evening was full of energy not just because all ten poets read well, some of them off-the-scale well, but because there was a sense of shared enterprise.  The audience had come to celebrate the poets’ success and what it symbolises for diversity in British poetry. 

Open Ten: the New Wave, and the first thing you read after the contents list is this quote:

Less than 1% of poetry published by major presses in the UK is by black and Asian poets.

It’s from the 2005 Free Verse report, funded by the Arts Council, which exposed lack of diversity in British poetry and led to the Complete Works programme. 

Before the reading there was a panel discussion on the state of things today, from statistics to aesthetics: chaired by Bernadine Evaristo, editor of the first Ten and instigator of the Free Verse report, with Bloodaxe editor Neil Astley, Carcanet editor Michael Schmidt, and 2014 Forward Prize winner Kei Miller. 

The 1% has grown to 8%.  That’s a long way to move in a decade but to reflect the UK population the figure would be 14%.  Nine of the 20 Complete Works poets have had or are having full collections published, around half by big presses.  They have won awards and been competition judges, editors and PBS selectors.  The panel thought their success has had an impact on perceptions; eg. ten years ago, Black and Asian poets were often assumed to be performance poets not poets of the page. 

The picture’s lopsided, though.  Of the main publishers only Carcanet, Bloodaxe and Peepal Tree publish Black and Asian writers in any numbers*.  And those who get published don’t get reviews.  My last Guardian Review audit showed that in the 13 months to June 2014 only Grace Nicholls and Derek Walcott had collections reviewed.  That’s 5% of the total reviews, though: given that the Guardian reviews mostly books from the big five poetry publishers, this figure may not represent a further bias.  The audit also showed that all (I think) reviewers in the period were white, and all Saturday Poems were written by white poets.  That suggests a bias. 

The weekend after I posted the audit, Kei Miller’s poem ‘When Considering the Long, Long Journey of 28,000 Rubber Ducks’, from The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion, appeared as the Saturday poem.  Nice coincidence.  The panel told us the Guardian commissioned a review of Miller’s book, but spiked it.  Imagine the frustration...  It will now appear, and he was interviewed in the Review before the Forward news.     

5% of last year’s arts grants (not sure what’s included) went to black and other minority ethnic applicants.  

More history: all the poets up for the 2004 Next Generation promotion were white until Evaristo intervened and asked to widen the field.  That resulted in Patience Agbabi being chosen.  2014 NextGen has four out of 20 though the judging panel was all white.  At the Ten evening the poets were presented as representative of the best, not as The Best.  The NextGen promotion could learn from that. 

But there’s one respect in which Complete Works could learn from NextGen.  There were proud references on Monday, and in the preface to Ten, to the New Wave’s focus on younger poets; and we were told that the next set of ten will be younger again. Should this be about the age of emerging poets, or the quality of their work? Should Complete Works perpetuate the past by excluding older Black and Asian poets who never had an opportunity to become known?  Nathalie Teitler of CW assures me that this is not the case and that the judging process for CWII was blind.  

***

Schmidt talked about difference being more interesting than similarity to him as a publisher; Astley about feeling a responsibility to make available the broadest possible range of poetry.  Schmidt thought the scene had been more open in the mid-20th century, when Tambimuttu started Poetry London.  Miller said there aren’t enough critics and interpreters to create a space in which Black and Asian poetry can be discussed.  

Miller asked: does the sound of black British poetry get heard?  He’s a middle-class Jamaican; many other published Black and Asian poets have a middle-class background and/or were not born in Britain.  I think he’s got a point.  Which one could extend to a broad social analysis of the British poetry scene. 

They discussed aesthetics.  Miller: if you want your next book, your next poem to be better, you have to commit yourself aesthetically.  But to what… aesthetics come from culture. What culture?  If you think you’re getting better, by whose standards are you (or others) judging?  Schmidt:  linguistic dichotomies can lead to a dialectic which helps an aesthetic to emerge, for publisher as well as writer. 

Miller wondered if British poetry, which he described as sterile compared to the US scene, is healthy enough for its aesthetic(s) to be challenged.  I can see where he’s coming from but don’t share his pessimism.  Even the establishment’s looking up: didn’t he just win the Forward and didn’t Liz Berry, whose work is enriched by West Midlands dialect, win the Forward first collection?

Anyway it’s easy to agree with him that poetry by Black and Asian writers has introduced aesthetics from elsewhere.  Maybe every generation of English readers and writers thinks itself fortunate but we seem especially so – with all the sources and uses of English in the UK, the energy and unfathomable variety of US poetry, and so many other influences on the language from the Caribbean to South Asia and beyond.

I’d have liked to hear more from the panel about the future – what they’d want to happen in the next ten years, and how.  Maybe their assumption was, continue as now; and maybe that’s enough, given the talent available and changing attitudes.

Ten: the New Wave is edited by Karen McCarthy Woolf, herself a product of the first wave of ten (four years ago), whose collection is just out from Carcanet.  There’s a preface by Nathalie Teitler, director of CWII, giving some of the history.  There are few magazine credits in the back, other than for Poetry Review, but most of the ten have been widely published.

There is a credit for The Rialto – one of Mona Arshi’s poems.  In a year of reading poems for The Rialto, a disappointment has been how few submissions we get, so far as I can tell, from Black and Asian poets.  We would like to see more.  Everyone reading this, please get the word out. It’s currently taking us under 3 months to read poems. See here for submission guidelines. Ten poet Rishi Dastidar is about to join us as Assistant Editor. 

In her introduction to Ten, Karen McCarthy Woolf picks confidence as an attribute that these diverse poets have in common – the confidence to follow whatever their own aesthetic and interests might be.  That seemed to be borne out by Monday’s reading.  I was especially looking forward to hearing Jay Bernard because of her tall-lighthouse pamphlet Your Sign is Cuckoo, Girl (see picture, if you can - it blurs when enlarged). Here’s the end of her school-set poem ‘The Basics’.

in the park they put the day’s lesson
to the test: the side of your eye is more
sensitive to light, so –

look to one side of a cluster you’ll see it clearly;
like the stark younger face of your gran
if you barely –

The plough, or big dipper,
arching through the dark –
is not a funfair ride, but a question mark –


* Complete Works say: Faber have only published Daljit Nagra and Derek Walcott in full collections.  Nine of their ten authors in the Arts Council-funded Faber Pamphlet series are white.  Cape haven’t published any non-white poets.  Picador have published Yusef Komunyakaa and (once she was established) Jackie Kay. 
Ten poet Sarah Howe will be published by Chatto next year.

Sunday, 28 September 2014

Fragmentation, helter-skelter: Anne Carson’s Red Doc>


Once upon a time I lived in Stesichoros Street, in Athens.  In my mind’s eye I can look from the balcony into the crevasse of the street… where a red, winged man is herding his musk oxen through what space remains between parked cars, apartment-block entrances and wisteria. 

Stesichoros. Photo: Oxyrhynchus Online
I knew then that Stesichoros was one of those ancient poets surviving only in fragments – of which more turn up sometimes, on papyri recovered from the Egyptian desert, enough for a Cambridge Classical Text with commentary to be coming out soon.  Stesichoros was born in a Greek settlement in Sicily, and flourished either side of 600BC: an epic poet, post-Homeric and pre-Greek tragedy. He wrote a long poem, the Geryoneis, about the tenth labour of Herakles in which the hero visits a red island and steals its red cattle from a red, winged monster called Geryon, whom he kills. 

It’s interesting, as Anne Carson says in her 1998 book The Autobiography of Red, which took the Geryon myth as its starting point, that Stesichoros chose to write from the victim’s perspective.  Interesting that one ancient authority said about him: “What a sweet genius in the use of adjectives!”  Maybe, Carson suggests, he opened out the descriptive world, departing from Homeric stock epithets.  (I cross-checked that quote, not because there is the slightest doubt about Anne Carson’s scholarship, but because she plays around with the reader.) 
       
Who wouldn’t love ancient literary fragments?  There’s the Indiana Jones thrill, and then there’s fragmentation in poetry from The Waste Land to Flarf.

In The Autobiography of Red, Geryon is growing up in a world both mythical and modern.  He has a teenage love affair with Herakles, who leaves him; they meet again some years later.  The book is full of love, heartbreak and longing; it’s also funny and, thanks to the extreme energy of the language, exhilarated.  Here’s an extract chosen more or less at random (as the desert might offer up) from ‘XI. Hades’. The whole poem’s in this form.

SPIRIT RULES SECRETLY ALONE THE BODY ACHIEVES NOTHING
is something you know
instinctively at fourteen and can still remember even with hell in your head
at sixteen. They painted the truth
on the long wall of the high school the night before departing for Hades.
Herakles’ home town of Hades
lay at the other end of the island about four hours by car, a town
of moderate size and little importance
except for one thing. Have you ever seen a volcano? said Herakles.
Staring at him Geryon felt his soul
move in his side. Then Geryon wrote a note full of lies for his mother
and stuck it on the fridge.
They climbed into Herakles’ car and set off westward. Cold green summer night.
Active?

In Red Doc> Geryon is older, known as G.  Herakles reappears as a traumatised war veteran called Sad but Great, Sad for short.  There’s an artist called Ida, “innocent and filled with / mood like a very tough / experimental baby”.  There’s a road trip for most of the book, through fire, ice and a psychiatric clinic; G’s herd of musk oxen (they have a dance scene); Hermes (in a silver tuxedo), CMO, 4NO (see here), Lieutenant M’hek and Io (a white musk ox); and G’s mother, who dies at the end:

                           And the
reason  he cannot bear her
dying is not the loss of her
(which is  the future)   but
that dying puts  the two of
them    (now)    into    this
nakedness together that is
unforgivable.  They do not
forgive it.   He turns away.

Grief, trauma and disillusionment replace the youthful passions in Autobiography, but the excitement level remains as high.  Red Doc> often reads like a series of disjointed fragments: for example, how did the road trip start?  There’s no scene setting equivalent to the Hades passage above; it’s as if that bit’s still buried in the sand.  Personal pronouns are used without the character they refer to being named, a gap- and confusion-creating tactic.  Sometimes a disconnected voice called Wife of Brain comes in, a song-like Greek chorus crossed with an oracle: helpful exposition + further mystification. 

Otherwise the book is mostly in columns, one per page:

THE   ICE  FAULT   is  a  slot
in the  ice  as tall as a man
that  vanishes   back    into
shadow.      A     smell    of
something      brisk      and
incongruous         laundry?
sunlight?   lingers   at   the
entrance.  G  drops  to  his
knees  to  peer  in.     Cold
stabs    up    through    his
trousers.         Sad      has
retreated  to  the  car  and
started  the  engine  which
echoes           monstrously
everywhere.   Moving  out!
Sad yells putting the car in
reverse. 

This helter-skelter format makes the reader zoom down the page, bumping from one side to another – it’s possible, and perhaps best, to read Red Doc>very fast indeed and (unlike a newspaper) several times, the opposite of how a scholar might read a papyrus.  (Daisy Fried in the New York Times says the form creates “a chute for language”.)  The text even looks like the narrow columns that ancient papyri were written in.  That’s not deliberate: an NYT interview explains, “Carson hit a wrong button, and it made the margins go crazy. She found this instantly liberating. The sentences, with one click, went from prosaic to strange, and finally Carson understood — after years of frustration — how her book was actually supposed to work”.  The > in the title was also computer-generated.  And then there’s this:

Meanwhile     in      another
room   of  the   clinic  G   is
dreaming       of        Daniil
Kharms.   They  are driving
along  in  a   paper  car.   G
has  a big  roll  of newsprint
which  he   is   cutting  into
stretches    of    road    and
leaning out  to toss them in
front  of  the  car.    This  is
hard    to    do    from    the
passenger  seat  and  Daniil
Kharms    has     to     keep
swerving the car to stay on
the road.   Is he getting fed
up?    G     worries.    Daniil
Kharms turns to him.    Cut
me  an  incognito  he  says.
G  goes white  with  shame.
He hadn’t  even  thought of
this!   Daniil  Kharms  could
have been saved!    He sits
up  suddenly   drenched  in
ringing.  Phone.

The book / road trip devouring its own columns, faster than they can be written…  (DK was a surrealist and absurdist writer from the early Soviet period, who died in a psychiatric ward in prison during the siege of Leningrad.)  Anyway, Carson didn’t just fit narrow margins to the text after her discovery; if so, some of the lines would have held more words.  The form must have helped her shape the writing. 
                                                                                 
Then there’s dialogue, with slashes which score the rapid play and overlay of ordinary conversation; here’s part of the opening scene where G and his mother are talking.

                                                               / just got out of
                                   the army / wounded /

  messed up / are they giving him care / a guy shows
                                   up  with  a  padded  envelope
                                   of    drugs    every   night    I
                                   guess

it’s care / he staying with you / for a while / behaving
                                   himself  /  some  days  he sits
                                   around    reading     Christina

     Rossetti some days he comes out of the bathroom
                                   covered     in       camouflage
                                   paint    /    keep   him   away
                                   from

your herd /

Sometimes Red Doc> reads like a climate change near-disaster movie of Hollywood proportions, or a quest / ordeal: G and friends journey through an alien northern landscape experiencing both fire and ice, and…

               Ice bats!  They
are  blueblack.  They are
absolutely   silent.   They
are  the size  of  toasters.
And they are drafting him
down  the  ice  fault  with
eerie  gentle   purpose.

Their roosting-place is Batcatraz, in what turns out to be the wall of a car-repair workshop, which turns into the clinic: dream-like shifts.  Bats, batty…  Carson told the NYT that Red Doc> was “a mess, obstacle course, uphill grapple in the dark, almost totally disoriented and discontented experiment every minute of the thousand or so years it took to work out.”  It reads as if written as fast as physically possible, and as if the process was a lot of fun.  I hope at least the fun is true.

Fire and ice join other opposites: lover / family, introvert (G) / extrovert (Sad), thought / speech, animal (the herd) / human.  Sad’s post-traumatic stress adds a contemporary angle on terror.

Red Doc> comes with no context-setting introduction: you have to go to Autobiography of Red for that.  I think it helps.  Last week I was discussing Red Doc> with some friends (who hadn’t read Autobiography).  We were 50/50 split: sheer excitement at form and language pulled us through, or the difficulty was overwhelming.  One criticism we all had of Red Doc> was that the characters aren’t developed; Autobiography comes in handy for this too, giving the backstory with Geryon set up as the introspective, arty teenager and Herakles the restless adventurer.  Wife of Brain’s role as (Greek) chorus had a surprisingly big, clarifying impact on reactions.     

We discussed which of the long narrow columns could stand on their own and agreed on the one starting ‘Time passes’, all of which you can read here.  Hard to choose an extract; it ends:

                  Time  for  the
man   at   the   bus   stop
standing on one leg to tie
his  shoe.    Time   taking
Night  by  the  hand   and
trotting off down the road.
Time passes oh boy. Time
got the jump on me yes it
did.

I read both the Reds in parallel, moving between them; can’t remember when I was last so excited by a book, or rather two.  There is so much more to say about them.  The excitements include language, form, intelligence both intellectual and emotional, worldly wisdom and other-worldly, myth and modernity.  And the gaps: part of the thrill is exercising the imagination to supply what’s been left out.  Being a papyrologist.