Mario Praz once wrote Charles Baudelaire was a poet "in whom the Romantic Muse distilled her most subtle poisons." Having a slight handle on the French language, I couldn't agree more. Take L'Ennemie, par exemple:
The Enemy
My youth was nothing but a storm of shadows
Star-crossed, here and there, by the occasional sun-shaft.
Thunder rolled, rain ravaged (mourning skies)--
My tree never had a chance for fruit to speak of.
I live in the great fall of the mind, now,
Reaping not what I sow, the earth dark and deep (hanging sweet, hanging low). I dig at trenches--water seeps, mud heaps onto sluit graves.
The meaninglessness of toil, life--tell me, what is it worth?
Will that of which I dream ever bear ripe with ripening fruit?
No, it is pain, pain--she eats at the marrow of life.
The great obscure Enemy sucks the blood, gnaws the strength
Jo Brandon's pamphlet-length poetry debut Phobia will be launched in less than twenty-four hours, and is already available to buy from the VP website. To whet your appetite (if indeed it is not already sufficiently whetted) we're delighted to present a review of Phobia, our twenty-third publishing project, by Ciara Hegarty, author of The Road to the Sea (Macmillan, 2010).
Phobia is a collection of meditations on the self - how we perceive ourselves, our internal thoughts and private emotions, and often that ever-present, though subconscious preoccupation with how others view us - that fear of being perceived as something we are not, or the opposite - wanting to be seen as something we wish to be. In poems such as 'Arachne-phobia' and 'Flying Bricks', Brandon examines this theme of identity - the awkward self-examination and critique of adolescence: ‘you step back, too late/to hide relief on your face/her long smile hits you, right there/in that place you thought was safe’. There is a sense of loss, too, in this poem - the loss of childhood innocence, the coming of adolescent changes and desires: ‘fingers as long as legs once braided doll’s hair’ now ‘intertwine with another’s’.
Brandon has the gift of making one stop and think - to re-read what could initially be taken to be a straightforward, one-dimensional poem, and to see in it a deeper meaning. 'These Bones' gives a short, simple suggestion of the inner beauty of a person - an essence and goodness, the fundamentals of the self that we often struggle to find and, once seen, crave to see again. It leaves one reminding oneself to be a better person, and to see that beauty in others - the narrator makes us see this through and beneath the rather clinical-seeming description of having an x-ray taken.
Brandon has the breadth to be light-hearted and sparse with her language but also to be eloquent and serious, with a quiet beauty to her words.The language in 'Mottephobia' is breath-taking, conjuring up images of butterflies like ‘eyelash-light sweepings against your chest.’ In 'Miser Miser' - another poem about the self and how it is easier sometimes to make sense of one’s identity by viewing ourselves as something other - in this case a roasting bird which spits ‘rosemary like bad words’, Brandon creates another beautiful image when describing the plucked, ‘sticky’ feathers: ‘I saw a little girl run/ to gather them up, brushing them against her face/ expecting softness, drops them, rubbing hands on dress.’ Although not explicitly described, this image conjures up the confused, disappointed face of the girl - a younger version of the narrator of this poem, we suspect - and we look on as she watches the pile of feathers drifting down to the ground.
The theme of identity continues in 'Wool' coupled with another major theme of gender which recurs throughout many of Brandon’s poems. She is mainly concerned with women - and in 'Wool' and 'Laundry', how women have been undervalued in the past, of how women’s lives were hard there are images of gnarled, coarse hands due to the very physical work of old-fashioned laundering and wool-making: ‘Joints fossilising, knuckles swelling.’ But, says the narrator of 'Wool', ‘my hands aspire to hardship’. Modern day women do not have this same physical hardship in their working or domestic lives, but they do have other worries and concerns, and the women of the poem from the days of old warn: ‘they tell me to rub Vaseline into my nails and never let my fingers feel the cold.’ The poem in its simplest form is a reminder to oneself not to be slack, to work hard and fulfill oneself as a woman, and to take time to care for oneself, but it is also perhaps a reminder to men of what women go through. 'Laundry' also implores us not to take women for granted and not to forget that women are women: ‘Every feature of every girl a thing to unfold’, that despite the drudgery of the everyday, of work and home, there is a fundamental, undeniable femininity at the core. Even in the description of a sheet being folded, there is a delicacy suggested: ‘‘ave to dance a two-some reel a few times over/hold the hem like a lady’s hand’.
Phobia is less a series of poems about fear, as the title would suggest. It is more an exploration of human nature and identity, with Brandon cleverly using the construct of phobia as the structural backbone of her thought-provoking collection.
Latest Valley Press author Steve Rudd is continuing his attempt to review every VP publication from 2011, though sadly his travel-weary netbook is struggling to load up the blog; thus, I will be posting the articles for him. The next book to fall under his critical microscope is Encore by James Mcloughlin, so without further ado, over to Steve...
Ripping at the seams with thirty-three profound poems, Encore couldn’t be any more apt as a title, for the reader is left craving for much, much more from this exciting young talent. Opening with the four-part title-piece, James comments upon the changing seasons without further ado (‘I am a guest at nature’s costume change’), going on to regulate the beat of ‘A Calmer Child’ with an alternative but no less alluring rhythm: ‘I was a hassock child, kneeling at the altars of faraway trees and galleons, gallivants and glory’. Literally within a minute, James eloquently transports all those willing to read and reflect on his entrancing train of thought, his reality-rooted flight of fancy.
‘Expanding Borders’ boasts a volley of superb lines (consider the oft-repeated chorus-line ‘A twenty-year-old’s expanding borders are not of outstanding order’ for instance), while the genius of ‘For Ireland’ - a personal favourite - reveals itself with a startling succession of perfectly conceived line-breaks, leaving ‘the flame of the wordsmith, silent, exiled’. The questioning nature of ‘Digested Read’ (‘The pointless comet hurtles closer’) looks towards ‘Lost Bothers’, the latter piece a beautiful poem in which James unleashes his anger at the speed of time’s indifferent passing. Indeed, ‘Where does life go and when does it come around again, to make hours happy?’
‘Lucidity I’ (‘I wore his garb to advise myself to cut my love’) runs into James as he expertly details a detached encounter with his own conscience. For those folk hopelessly hankering after love-leaning poetry, ‘Remind You’ proffers terse observations about love and its associated fallout, maturely acknowledging ‘the river of guttural instinct’. ‘Photos in the Sun’ proves equally as pensive, before the deliciously dark thrum of ‘Mud Money’ (‘Cigarette fugues and blackened teeth speak for bodies in the ground’) leads readers towards the insightful mastery of ‘OCD’.
Few poems are as poignant as the purposefully misspelt ‘Wntr’ (‘Their wrinkled laughs don’t tell of autumn or age – just wisdom’) which revolves around an aged couple unwittingly approaching the inevitable, yet the crafty arrangement of ‘Trampoline’ imprints the most impact, its cliffhanger of an ending proving delightful as opposed to frustrating.
In spite of having spent so much time on Merseyside and in Yorkshire (he’s in the midst of undertaking a degree in Leeds), James often alludes to America in his writing, yet his style remains distinctly British, the quality of language artistically framing his output in both time and place. Splurges of his poems closely resemble song lyrics, yet the deep and meaningful nature of all that’s conveyed elevates every aspect of the content, not least because all manner of themes are embraced. Luring readers into his world, James uses vivid description to his advantage, regardless of whether he’s muscling through disdainful reality, or his fantastical imagination.
If one didn’t know that he’s in his early twenties, it certainly wouldn’t be obvious to the casual poetry consumer. The manner in which sentences flow and stories emerge speaks volumes about James’s ability to capture moments and distill emotions. What’s more, his work manages to be as true-to-life as it is fiendishly surreal, the idealistic ‘I Imagine’ (‘I imagine arid deserts that heighten the glory of the saviour, the oasis…’) sharply contrasting with the textured flavour of ‘Tangible’. Evidently - and understandably - confident about his way with words, James is teetering on the verge of a glittering literary career. Remember where you heard his name first.
Last Friday, the 24th, Scarborough's 'Arts Workshop' was host to the launch of the fifteenth Valley Press book, Jo Reed's poetry collection Stone Venus. And readers, good news - I think I've finally cracked the whole 'launch thing'. Which is not to say the last two launches weren't successful; it's just that this one was really successful. The secret was almost certainly holding it in the VP heartland, Scarborough's South Cliff area, where I would estimate more than half the residents have both heard of Valley Press and wish us well... how could it fail?
In the end, a record forty people turned up, and seventeen copies of the book were sold (as well as a few other titles) - a gauntlet for future launches has very much been laid down. Other lessons I will take from this experience (besides the 'hold events in Scarborough' one) are as follows: 1) that it is possible to produce two books in one month... a bit stressful, yes, but doable, and 2) that you shouldn't leave books lying around unsupervised... unbelievably, while the reading was on, some wise guy slipped copies of both Lonely Destiny and Encore into their bag, in what I believe is known as the 'five finger discount'. I have mixed feelings about this, but on the whole I think I'm pleased to have produced objects that induce such desire for ownership that people will break the law to possess them. Now I know how Steve Jobs must have felt when the first iPod was shoplifted.
I should probably say a few words on how the book came about. In fact, Stone Venus pre-dates most of the other recent projects, starting in early September 2010 when the publishing was very much a hobby, and I had no intention of pursuing it seriously... things have moved fast! I had known Jo for a few years, she is part of what might one day be called the 'Scarborough set', including the likes of Felix Hodcroft and Nigel Gerrans, and a few others who I hope to get under the VP umbrella eventually. She had just finished a Masters degree in Creative Writing, at Newcastle University, focusing mostly on poetry, and had produced a vast portfolio of poems - which I was only too happy to look through and edit. After a bit of collaboration (which we managed despite Jo spending the entire winter in Dubai) we had soon trimmed the manuscript down to a manageable thirty-eight poems; Jo was even kind enough to let me order the poems, which is one of my favourite parts of the poetry publishing process.
In fact the whole process went extremely smoothly - even the cover design was worked out in the end, though with Jo being a professional artist by day, that part of the project did provide the most friction. In fact Venus has set a new record for different versions of the cover, too... there were eight in total, the process finally ending with Jo getting pretty much what she wanted in the first place. For the record, my favourite was a couple of editions previously - you can see it on the right. Not bad eh?
Talking of pictorial content, it would be a poor launch post indeed if I didn't at this point produce a series of photographs documenting the launch... and there's another attempt at capturing poetry on video, though this one breaks additional records for poor quality. I will definitely be investing the profits from July (if indeed there are any) on a mid-range video camera... suggestions for which model to go for should be forwarded in the usual manner. Enjoy!
I noticed this welcome sight whilst getting a lift to the venue. Why don't you have VP poetry books in your back seat pockets?
Here we can see a small portion of the massive crowd... I now look at this and try to spot the thief. I think that might be him at the back, in the black-and-white striped shirt, with the calico sack labelled 'swag'.
Jo shows off the infamous rock, making the audience laugh by listing other things people think it looks like, besides the Venus de Milo. Guests were invited to write their suggestions in a small book, and the winner won a free copy - this went to Jenny Thomas, who thought it was 'a failed prototype for a polar bear.'
The flowers on the left include a begonia, propagated from a plant previously owned by Jo's mother, a plant which is mentioned in the collection's opening poem. Guests were invited to take a clipping themselves as a souvenir - this was a really interactive launch!
Rosie Larner reads her favourite poem from the collection, 'Exit Stage Left'.
Felix Hodcroft tackles 'Minotaur', in his usual dark and dramatic style... cracking stuff.
We all love music (if you don't, go away). It can cause great surges of emotion, inspire you, distract you and impress (or disgust) you. Often what I look for in music, in order to acquire these things from it, is creative, admirable lyrics or at least creative, admirable instrumentation. Most of my love for poetry stems mainly from great lyricists of the past and present and much that I write finds its origins in a rhythmic, musical womb.
However, is poetry and careful lyricism dying out in music? Modern day 'popstars' such as Rihanna, Chris Brown and Katy Perry seem to think it should be. Lyrics like ' Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?' are hardly the most incisive, heart-rending, spine-tingling lyrics one can ever have heard. Compare the inane lyrics of Rihanna's 'What's My Name' with the masterful, beautiful lines in Leonard Cohen's 'So Long, Marianne' and you'll begin to see what I mean.
Poignant, poetic and even bizarre themes & lyrics seem to have had much more prominence in the past decades of music. In the 90s, Stephen Malkmus and Pavement brought a madcap touch of poetry to their alt-surf rock, whilst Trent Reznor haunted listeners everywhere with chilling, goosebumptastic Nine Inch Nails songs. Going back further and to even more obvious examples, Bob Dylan's constantly brilliant wordplay and imagery make his lyrics just as effective on the page as in the earphones. See the heartbreaking but brilliant 'The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll' for just one example.
Despite the fact that it would be both harsh and naive to state that there is no great poetry remaining in music (bands such as Bon Iver, Sufjan Stevens & Frank Turner keep that flame alight), it would perhaps be acceptable to say that the majority of modern music eschews meaningful subject or theme in favour of distressingly uninteresting ideas. Notice how often the words 'dj' and 'floor' are used these days? Jeez. Hardly the pagan imagery and beautiful acoustics of 'Stairway To Heaven' is it?
That being said, it's wonderful that bands with provocative, engaged lyrics such as Arcade Fire are beginning to get the recognition that they thoroughly deserve. What's not so wonderful are the countless number of genuinely poetic, earnest bands and songwriters left in the shadows because of a mass clamour for trash like that already mentioned. If I hear 'Do It Like A Dude' one more time....
I'd love for something of a resurgence of original, thought-provoking lyrics. Until then, though, I'll make do with this:
I've recently been exchanging emails with a gentleman named Peter Bain, who appears to have a talent for writing poems 'to order'; reacting to events in the lives of his friends and colleagues, or in the season of his favourite football team Hibernian FC. He was wondering how he could take this talent further; I advised he write about local news stories and attempt to sell his work to the papers. I was most amused by the eventual reply, which was as follows:
Hi Jamie,
Thank your for taking the time to peruse
I’ll take your advice and report on the news
That’s local of course and I’ll look out events
If I fail to make cash we’ll be living in tents
First problem I have will be picking the paper
That thinks I am serious, not having a caper
It should reach lots of readers but like a wee laugh
When reporting on articles and making them daft
Next problem I have will be doing something straight
Do we live in all seriousness and is that my fate?
I have tried it a little and it has been a while
I can do it, I know, though it’s not quite my style
So thank you again for your good sound advice
Your comments were positive and especially nice
If occasion occurs, if you need the odd line
Call me, I’ll get them, but remember - they’re mine.
Readers in the Edinburgh area, be on the look out!
Five or six years ago, I left the United States to travel. When I left, I took next to nothing with me, packing my bags as if I were fleeing the premises of a burning building. These are the only books that made the melodramatic cut into my tiny carry-on, three poetry anthologies: A Book of Luminous Things, a collection of "short, clear, readable, and...realistic" poems selected by Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz, primarily from Chinese and 20th-century American and European poets; Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, a rich series of mystic poetry translated and selected by Daniel Ladinsky; and The Holy Bible (King James Version)--mainly, of course, the books of Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiasties, and Song of Solomon. They remain the three books that I consider to be absolute staples, as necessary travel (and living) companions as my toothbrush and water bottle.
It is with these recommendations that I conclude this celebration of National Poetry Month, for they capture perfectly the immediate, raw spirit of the art form, showcasing its consistent ability to illuminate both the frailty and strength of the human spirit.
At the root of poetry is oral tradition. David sang his Psalms. Homer recited his epics, just as countless others have bared and shared their souls by telling or singing stories in metre and rhyme. Participating in that tradition are the following modern musicians who, in essence, are poets in their own right. The first is (and forever will be) the artist of all artists to me. He could sing; he could dance; and he proved with Billie Jean that he could write. The second has always had a special place in my heart. My father (himself a published author) would sing along to such profound lyrics as "Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light/ You've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight" while washing the dishes at night. The third I consider to be one of the greatest poets of the 20th century (far ahead of Pound & Eliot, in fact), having painted the sistine chapel of poems in Calling Out Your Name. And the last is one who I am convinced should not be known as a musician at all, but as a writer; for he exemplifies the role of poet in our modern-day society perfectly, carrying the weight of that role with an easy, natural grace.
So, listen to the music. Watch the performances. And remember that poetry is meant to be seen, heard and felt as well as read.
I'll never forget the first time I read Ezra Pound's In a Station at The Metro. The words startled me, like the sound of a siren. I nearly jumped out of my seat. The image Pound had created was so clear in my mind that although I was sitting in the quiet corner of a bland classroom, I felt myself to be in a crowded station, at the metro.
It wasn't until that poem that I understood words to be wood and writing to be a craft, something you work at slowly but surely, taking your time, until you're finally skilled enough to be able to whittle syllables into nothing but pure imagery--and manipulate a reader's mind any which way you want.
Because the poem that came after In a Station at The Metro in the anthology I was reading at the time was The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound have always gone hand-in-hand in my mind. Although I have a particular affinity to Pound, Eliot has stolen the breath from my lungs nearly as much as his mentor. He attacks language with a primal energy, his libido pumping loudly in the background of each of his poems, while still adhering to a sense of structure and rhythm. I get the same goose bumps reading Eliot as I get listening to Miles Davis.
The following links are two gems I found hiding in The Paris Review, old interviews by Donald Hall of both Eliot and Pound. They delve into the relationship Pound and Eliot shared, the work of both, and provide a small window into the shared mind of two master craftsmen.
It's the designated National Month of Poetry here in the United States. Since the Academy of American Poets first inaugurated it in 1996, publishers, booksellers, libraries, schools and poets around the country have banded together during the month of April to celebrate the poem and its place in American culture. To participate in the celebration, I have put together a list of poets who have influenced and inspired me in immeasurable ways--and will be exploring each throughout the rest of the month. To begin, here is the one and only Anne Sexton:
Anne Sexton is one of those rare modern poets who never requires anything from her reader. Every poem makes complete, abstract sense. She crafts phrases that roll off of the tip of the tongue so naturally, they make one believe they should have always been. Her work is stoically explicit and unashamedly feminine--a true beauty to behold.
The video above contains rare footage of Anne reading one of her poems, bantering with her husband, coddling her daughter--and, in essence, living the poet's life. She's stunning, exactly the way I would imagine her to be: Her voice and mannerisms are as seductive as the words she's reading; she lives with an obvious exaggerated passion, yelling at her dog with utter disdain, smoking with addictive pleasure; and she can describe off-handedly as well as perfectly how and why she loves Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23. She demonstrates here and in her work the power of the living, breathing artist--a power that she proved with her life and death can sometimes be so strong, so great, it suffocates the vessel it inhabits.
VP afficionados will already be aware of an upcoming poetry collection known as The Dead Snail Diaries, catalogue number VP0012, hopefully with us before Spring has passed. However, you may not be so familiar with the book pictured to the right - VP0005 - and you should get to know it quick, because it will soon become a piece of Valley Press history.
In 2009, after completing the first ten poems of the 'Snail Sequence', I produced a series of hand-made booklets (fifty copies in total), fully illustrated, on thick cream paper, bound in lovely brown card - a labour of love, though I did this mainly so I'd have something snail-related to sell when I tested these poems out on the road. With the finished collection due, it occurs to me that the window for selling these copies is about to pass - so with this in mind, I have put the remaining copies on eBay, so that readers of the blog (if indeed you are out there) can 'buy it now' for an highly reasonable price of £4. I'll be sending these out myself, so if you put in a request (i.e. 'please made this out to Josie') in the 'comments' box when you pay, I'll be happy to personalise them.
I can guarantee that no further copies of this edition will ever be printed, and you can't get hold of it anywhere else - it doesn't even have an ISBN number! So if you've got £4 to spare, this could be an interesting way to relieve yourself of that amount. Note: if for some reason you don't like eBay, but you still want a copy, drop me a line and we'll sort out something more old-fashioned.
I'd just like to take a little time to do some shameless self-promotion here. I've just set up a YouTube account in order to upload some videos of me reading my poetry out. I may look a fop and feel a fool, but it's just part of an attempt to reach that wider audience and broaden my experience of performing, which at the current moment is very minimal.
Here, for your pleasure, is the first and so far only video:
If you have any comments or feedback please let me know. Indeed, requests are even considered! Enjoy.
I'm writing today to let you know about some major poetry-related events coming up in Scarborough over the next couple of weeks. These are events I have been vaguely responsible for whilst wearing my Scarborough Poetry Workshop hat, and aren't strictly Valley Press related, but I know many of you blog readers are based in the area and keen on the literary arts. (Please note: there's not really a hat, it's a metaphor.)
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Thursday 31st March
Poetry Cafe - 8pm Venue: Stephen Joseph Theatre, Restaurant Running Time: 2 hours Price: £5
Feed your body and your soul with delicious food and wise, funny, poignant and whimsical words and music provided by Scarborough Poetry Workshop. Enjoy a relaxed meal in The Restaurant and listen to verse and melody from our own local poets.
Tickets include a glass of wine or, for a party of 4, a bottle of wine. You don’t have to dine but there will be a tempting menu and the performance will be arranged around courses.
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Friday 8th April
Poetry Snap - 5pm Venue: Scarborough Library Concert Hall Running Time: 75 minutes Price: Free on the door Scarborough Poetry Workshop presents the very best of the regional poetry scene, in an extraordinary digest of Yorkshire-based talent. Representatives from four poetry groups will perform short programmes of their finest work, and the 'Snap' will culminate with a reading from established Scarborough poet Mike Di Placido.
Poetry Slam - 8pm Venue: The Cask Inn Running Time: 3 hours Price: Free to non-competitors on the door
Inspired by the 'Snap'? Why not head over to The Cask for Scarborough Poetry Workshop's fourth 'Poetry Slam'? The 'Slam' is a knockout competition where poets read up to three pieces of original work, attempting to impress a panel of judges selected from the audience. The competition is open to all, simply turn up at 7.45pm and put your name down. £3 to enter, but free for those who simply wish to come along to listen and cheer on the poets.
The first collaboration between poet Deirdre McGarry and artist Nigel Folds, Lonely Destiny filters through both time and space by seamlessly weaving vivid imagery alongside vivid illustration, taking its reader to unseen heights and unplumbed depths. McGarry's handwritten lines of bold spiritual poetry read like rivulets straight out of humanity's collective stream of consciousness, while Folds' illustrations speak straight to the heart in subtle, undetailed movement, capturing the light and tone of McGarry's words--and the human psyche--perfectly. Although the title of the book suggests a theme of isolation, Lonely Destiny is a deeply intimate metaphysical voyage, personal to the touch; and the tune it leaves ringing in its reader's ear is one of complete understanding.
*Lonely Destiny is now available for purchase via Valley Press. For details of the launch event on Friday 18th March, consult the VP site or Jamie McGarry's 'First Look' entry.
The time has come for a post introducing the world to the eleventh Valley Press publication, due out on the 14th March. Lonely Destiny is a book where unique, lovingly-reproduced paintings stand alongside handwritten poetry; part of a fascinating genre which seems to be enjoying a resurgence in England - the art/poetry book (I've seen at least four in as many days.)
The poetry has been written by Deirdre McGarry, a friend of mine but (as I keep telling puzzled onlookers) no relation, as far as we can identify. There are a lot of McGarrys in this world - and on the Yorkshire coast, they just happen to be poetry kingpins. Deirdre is a founding member of local cultural group 'Fish Pie & P.E.A.S.' (which allegedly stands for 'Poets, Entertainers, Artists and Songsters'), and has been published in many anthologies, local and otherwise. She is perhaps best known for her 'Writers Open House' events, where writers of any background, genre or stature are invited to visit her Flamborough home for as long as they wish over a two-week period, in order to enjoy uninterrupted writing time, regular workshops, useful networking with other writers and publishers, and putting a hand-print on a large piece of paper (but wash it off quick, that paint ain't soluble!)
Nigel 'working' on a painting from Lonely Destiny
Nigel Folds is a neighbour of Deirdre's - it appears Flamborough is something of a retreat for creative and interesting folk (like this blog, in a way), but he is also a very talented painter who is regularly exhibited in the region. I first saw his work on the 6th June 2010, when I headed to Gallery 49 in Bridlington's 'Old Town' for the grand opening of the 'Lonely Destiny' exhibition, which at that point included the full-size original paintings, the poems written on A3, and a CD of specially composed music - it was a truly impressive experience, and remains one of few occasions where I have drunk wine in the morning.
Nigel's latest exhibition (also featuring artist Mark Lozynskyj, who modelled for the Lonely Destiny paintings) opens at the Bridlington Spa on the 14th (hence the book release date), and will be open to the public throughout the week. On Friday 18th we are having a launch event for the book, please consult the flyer below:
If you're in the area we'd love to see you; you can find a map to the station here. Please also check out the book's page on the Valley Press site, and note you can pre-order it from Amazon, if you're feeling flash. Stay tuned to the blog for more news on VP0011, as well as photos from the launch and of happy people reading the book - see you again shortly.
'Good writing is perfect control,' said Ezra Pound, and he was damn right. This control is not slapdash or reliant on feeling, but careful and nuanced. Too often writers end up with a product that is sloppy. The good writer knows the value of returning again and again to the poem, story, article, or chapter. This is the callous truth about good writing - it's a kind of work, requires a mildly obsessive quality, a willingness to look at a paragraph or a stanza over and over again, removing a phrase or re-positioning it. This is quite the opposite to many dreamy notions of writing, the sort that imply writers have a lovely time, work drifting easily from them like autumn leaves falling from the trees.
You can easily spot a writer that hasn't tried hard enough by their use of cliches. I know. I've done it often enough. Get rid of any dark clouds or doornails that are dead. They are useless. Instead, reach for original expressions - if you're not sure, reach for a volume of poetry by Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage or Sharon Olds. But resist, at all costs, the cliches. Instead, aim for writing that is fresh and alive. Go back to the work. Try again. Repeat the process. Put it aside for a while and then come back again. This is where a good writer succeeds, despite the small pain. It hurts. But not like hell.
I'll have to apologise, initially, if this post is lacking in depth or wide ranging reference; since returning to my (very) humble student abode in Leeds, I've suffered the crippling snags of a dire internet connection. I'd like, first of all, to thank Valley Press for inviting me to take part in this collaborative creative effort and to applaud myself heartily upon the back for contributing so promptly.
My part within the starry stratospheres of literature is as an (as yet) unknown poet, unpublished, unsought after, unsure. You may indeed say I play no part at all and yet I like to think of myself as playing some role, even just as a reader. We live in a society whereby consumers keep accounts working, after all. Over the past 12 months, I've been buying and hunting down new poetry as much as I can. This is probably a not-so-unconscious way of integrating myself a little more into the literary community. That's by-the-by for now, though.
Whilst I've been unearthing my sometime buried poetical fancies, it seems, too, that the country's critics, commentators and creative connoisseurs have been doing something the same. Two years in a row, now, a collection of poems has taken top gong at the yearly Costa Book Awards: Jo Shapcott followed this year in the footsteps of Christopher Reid. Influential nationals such as The Guardian and The Independent give greater prominence to verse than ever in their arts sections and websites. Hell, even the Daily Mail puzzled the curious rebirth of poesy (in an article I can't, for the life of me, find). Triggered by the wider publicity of authors like Shapcott, Reid & others, poetry nights and festivals are springing up all over the spot, whilst previously existing events go from strength to strength. Is this really the poetical phoenix rising from the ashes or have I turned up on the scene at rush hour and got excited by the same old traffic?
Someone (I'm going to hazard at Carol Ann Duffy, because I can't look it up at minute) said recently that, if one listened to the press all the time, you would have believed the 'renaissance of poetry' had been going on for decades now. Made me wonder. Made me wonder if poetry ever really falls off the radar. Does it ever stop mattering? Of course, the kind of folk perusing this here blog would cry blasphemy at the mere suggestion of such and yet the true question is: does it ever matter more or less to the casual reader?
It's something to consider, certainly and I'm left feeling like this blog has planted the seed of question rather than harvested the fruit of answer, as I might have liked. Still, all this rum-do over versification is good news for a guy like me....
