Paul Sutherland's 'Journeying' - A Review by Tim Neave

We start this year on the blog with a review of Journeying by Paul Sutherland, published by VP in October 2012. The review is by Grimsby-based poet Tim Neave, whose collection i. d. s. t. was published by Nunny Books in 2009.

I find I like this new book by Paul Sutherland very much. Engaged by the early poems, enjoying the voice and its thoughtful measured cadences - hardened by a convincing modernism - I'm equally drawn to the longer, more elusive poems, because I trust the voice encountered there.

Whatever their subject - the people, places, and things we meet within experience - these poems speak with subtle but reliable resonance, which lingers beyond their lines, beyond the page, and suggestively beyond the book itself. That is not commonplace in poetry, contemporary or otherwise.

Emotional, geographical and cultural journeys are described here, emphasising the essential openness of each path travelled, its consequent encounterings and temporary engagement; whether that's a few moments on a plane or the ongoing business of lifetimes, families born to and loves achieved. Impressively, his sense of journeying includes a proper awareness that the act of leaving is consequent in its own right:

I once abandoned my father and mother, left them

bewildered at their beloved land's failure

to hold their child.

'Journeying', p.33

There is both a willed and a found sense of seriousness in these poems, and a respect for things discovered in the world, beyond their descriptive usefulness. Objects, people and places are thought about and re-homed for us in imageries which ask us to re-examine the familiar, to re-imagine ordinary things because the language is alive to them in disconcertingly concrete terms. Sutherland recollects a friend's description of walking into a valley as 'like [entering] a vagina' ('Up From the Costal Route', p.51), inviting us to deal with ourselves as much as anything.

The geography covered here is extensive, but his places seem adequately peopled, even the "barren" tundra seen by an English tourist approaching northern Canada ('My Foreign Land', p.13); or, these places are experienced in history or public life sufficiently to make the poems meaningful beyond any superficial picturesque. Landscapes are evoked beautifully, of course, but not fetishised for their own sakes, and the lives borrowed from these journeys seem strangely independent; afforded sufficient respect to continue in their own philosophical worlds beyond any discrete meanings Sutherland has discovered for them. 'Our love will last, won't it?' someone asks, completing nothing ('Hide and Seek', p.79). His willingness to de-romanticise human sexual experience and pick at its serious bones is impressive and, again, refreshingly unusual.

These are quiet poems, but loud with the ongoing music of the everyday, and its background clatter of existential gears turning against the mundane and the ordinary. Proper sense is made and temporary homes inhabited,

                                    as interim earth ends

and the unknown of existence begins.

'Red Hawthorn-Hedged - XII',  p.103

Exactly where that takes us, metaphysical or otherwise, I wouldn't know. While Sutherland himself may have no intimate awareness of the verified beyond, he does explore the present, the contingent, those little histories which have led imperceptibly here, with a sense that surely - with proper openness and inquisition - we can begin to name and therefore share the abiding wonder of a cosmic sense of more; or, at least,

                                                            the sacred

in-between-ness of here and now.

'Red Hawthorn-Hedged - IV', p.88

I was pleased to share these complex and rewarding journeys, and liked very much the worlds found or made here. Fine poems, to be sure. A mature and humane book. 

- Tim Neave

'Sea Swim' Review - by Christian Ward

I'm delighted to post the first review of John Wedgwood Clarke's Sea Swim, reviewed by poet and writer Christian Ward. Christian's literary accolades include first prize at the East Riding Open Poetry Competition in 2010, and look out for a poem by Christian in Poetry Review this summer.

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The sea has inspired poets for centuries; Elizabeth Bishop, for instance, famously compared the sea off Nova Scotia to knowledge in her poem ‘At the Fishhouses’: “It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: / dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, / drawn from the cold hard mouth / of the world".

The sea around Scarborough is the inspiration for Sea Swim, John Wedgwood Clarke’s pamphlet. Written as part of imove, a Cultural Olympiad Programme in Yorkshire, this 18 poem sequence is a great showcase for Clarke’s talent for creating original metaphors and stunning images. Diving in (pardon the pun), the reader feels how the sea can transform on an emotional and spiritual level.

Clarke has a knack for recording detail in an imaginative way. A swimmer surfacing in his dark wetsuit is ‘like a cormorant’ (“Rings”), beach chalets are ‘small wooden stanzas’ (“Beach chalets”), a warship’s red flag is like a ‘pilot fish’ (“Warship, South Bay”) and a spider is ‘auburn-legged’ (“Winter Minutes”). The reader becomes part of this landscape with these intimate details.

There is a strong emotional undercurrent in these poems, felt in poems such as “Hydro”, where Clarke compares his shadow to a ‘frisky amoeba blundering in another world’ and the tender “Winter Minutes”, where there is ‘nothing to record but your absence’. The sea can take away just as easily as it can give back. Language, emotion and the real, physical, are all fleeting here.

Sea Swim is an excellent pamphlet. John Wedgwood Clarke’s deft imagery and knack for creating poetry with depth makes him one you need to read. Much enjoyed.

Phobia: Review by Ciara Hegarty

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).

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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.

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Pick up your copy now from the VP site: just £5 from us, or £6.30 on Amazon.co.uk.

Rudd's Reviews: James Mcloughlin's Encore

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.

Rudd's Reviews: Valley Press Edition

With his work on Pulse now (mostly) done, and the release just days away, I'm pleased to report Steve Rudd has dedicated some of his valuable time to reviewing some recent Valley Press releases.  He's promised to disperse them across the web, but also allowed me to stick them up here, for any interested parties!  So scroll down and get stuck in.

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Read more about the book here.

Jo Reed's Stone Venus - Review by Steve Rudd

A lifetime in-the-writing, this sumptuous collection of thirty-eight poems delights the senses whilst fortifying one’s imagination. Proving herself to be an artiste in every sense of the word, North Yorkshire-based poet Jo has evidently - and wisely - invested eons of quality time into the crafting of the material which dominates her very first book of poetry.

From the reflective nature of opening masterwork ‘Embarkations’ (‘… an old life pours down steep stairs’), the reader is lured onto a journey of the most formidable and hypnotic order. Taking her audience figurative and geographical places not usually courted by fellow poets, Jo transports all those who are lucky enough to read her entrancing work. Whether she’s focusing on ‘fox-trots with Eros’ in ‘Piccadilly Circus’, or entering ‘bleak palaces on the arms of Poet Princes’ in the Egypt-anchored majesty of ‘Life Class’, you can be assured that Jo’s detail-laced writing is destined to move you on every level.

It’s clear to read that Jo’s experienced a remarkable life less ordinary. She’s lived all over England for a start, having been born in Durham, before spending time in Norfolk, Surrey and Lincolnshire. Currently calling the seaside resort of Scarborough ‘home’, she wields that ever-so-rare knack of pitting people into arresting scenarios, painting lavish pictures with words that seem to be very carefully chosen by default.

One may be reminded of Dorian Gray’s fate as they lap up ‘Vanity’ (‘… you bared lupine teeth into the smiling surfaces of silver teapots’), before the short but perfectly eloquent ‘Woman Drinker’ coquettishly threatens to stall readers in their tracks given its succinct brilliance, ‘A glass fan reflecting the glare of all who desired her’. ‘Suffolk Romance’, meanwhile, stops time ‘as green horizons wash velvet over the village’. As if to purposefully counter such ruralised innocence, ‘Two Crows’ (‘… entwined in anger’) promptly manages to startle, its descriptive focus utterly compelling in tone. ‘Hill Farm’ goes on to prove to be the most haunting poem on offer, the brief beauty of ‘Making Silk’ hankering after the collection’s ‘Most Magical’ title.

All poems sit beside one another as though their order evolved organically over time and through space. Not a single word is out of place, as reminded when the breathtaking power of ‘Violin Section, 1941’ proceeds to glue readers to their respective seats with ‘music perverted into an instrument of death’. As stark as relevant language allows, Jo never shies away from being brutal when she needs to be in order to heighten the emotional impact of her poems. Refusing to sentimentalise her work for the sake of doing so, her extraordinary poetry remains true as a direct result of her searing honesty. Far from being enslaved by the language that she so clearly adores, Jo uses the English language to her own ends, her energising mastery of wordplay guaranteed to delight readers of all ages.

Having recently completed an MA in Creative Writing, it’s heartening to see that her talents have been brought to the literary fore with this genuinely stunning collection from ‘Valley Press’. Reeling from the strength of material within, let’s hope Jo succeeds in collating supplementary material – old and new – for publication in the near future.

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Read more about the book here.

Jamie McGarry's The Dead Snail Diaries - Review by Steve Rudd

The third book of poetry to be unveiled by Yorkshire-based poet Jamie McGarry, ‘The Dead Snail Diaries’ has Jamie attempt to absolve himself of the guilt inspired by accidentally crushing an innocent snail to death. In a surreal twist of fate, upon hearing the fateful crunch, Jamie stooped to find a tiny book: the snail’s diary. Recognising the strength of the scrawl within its belittled pages, Jamie conspired to adapt the snail’s writing into a legible format. ‘The Dead Snail Diaries’ is the stunning result.

Suffused with twenty-four exquisite poems that focus on every imaginable experience and emotion once endured and enjoyed by the late snail, the premise is too extraordinary to overlook. Coolly beginning where the snail’s life left off, the opening poem is craftily entitled, ‘The Haunting of Poet by Snail’. As hoped, it details ‘A tragic mix of slime and shrapnel’ in light of Jamie unwittingly becoming a killer… though he’d undoubtedly escape with a manslaughter charge were he to be summoned by a court of law. After all, shell-shocking accidents happen.

Hilariously portraying slugs as ‘beer-swilling’ and ‘hard-living’ in comparison, Jamie sets up a strain of sibling rivalry, the menacing nature of ‘The Hollow Snails’ startling with its apparent brutality: ‘You saw us from a window, between release and our demise.’ In ‘Snail Browner Than Ever’, affairs sway into existential territory, at least relatively-speaking: ‘The world grows ever upwards, without glancing at its feet.’ Jamie’s correct to so boldly commit such an observation to paper. It’s heartening to know that fellow scribes are equally as keen to comment upon the way in which some folk dismiss the art of paying attention to detail, unwilling to keep themselves grounded for fear of stagnating, perhaps.

Whether he’s focused on snails, or describing Hannah Hauxwell’s humble life in his debut collection of poetry, Jamie remains an objective observer whilst subjectively pandering to the entire gamut of emotions. Crucially, his tongue is forever lashing around his cheek, Jamie’s sharp wit triumphing in making his poetry as accessible as possible without sounding pretentious. Channelling offbeat bursts of humour into a staggering proportion of his poems, Jamie proves that he can be serious yet lighthearted in one fell swoop - very often in the same sentence.

‘Snail Goes Speed Dating’ speaks for itself in the most ironic manner. ‘Even mutual love at first sight cannot be consummated for several minutes,’ Jamie relates by way of the deceased snail’s most potent observation. Throughout, slugs tend to get the last laugh. For instance, ‘Slug’s Night Out’ pounds with the self-belief of a tough-as-nails slug psyched-up for a hedonistic night on the patio tiles. In spite of a slug committing suicide in lukewarm beer, the poem can’t fail in raising a smile. The same goes for the genius extolled in ‘The Snail Not Taken’ (‘I moved the one with regret in its eyes – and hoped it would make a difference’), for it’s a beautifully crafted poem partly inspired by Robert Frost’s most famous work, ‘The Road Not Taken’.

‘Snail’s Advice to His Son’ succeeds in being utterly charming from the get-go as a young snail receives wise words from Papa Snail, chewing on advice along the following lines: ‘Don’t take life too seriously, son, for few survive uncrushed.’ In its wake, the colossal ‘In Search of the Great Green Sea Snail’ muscles into the word-obsessed fray. Providing the multi-act backbone of the collection, it tells the epic story of an all-conquering snail. ‘A Snail at the Races’, meanwhile, chances upon arguably the most confident snail to ever have marked a trail in history, implying that he could ‘move’ as fast as Usain Bolt if the urge commanded his shell to shift at earth-shaking speed. Delighting in all nooks and crannies of Snail World, the problem of swimming with one ‘foot’ is also brought to the reader’s attention. ‘A Snail Says’ and ‘Slug Goes to Rehab’ foster further laughs.

Complemented by a grin-inducing range of illustrations throughout, ‘The Dead Snail Diaries’ perfectly showcases Jamie’s artistic talents from the first page to the last. Admirably acting as a marked deviation from previous work, the book is a joy not only to read, but also to look at. Quirkily designed with a plethora of loving touches, it represents the most endearing manifestation of Jamie’s sensational literary output to date.

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You heard it here first, readers... 'sensational'!  Though I think when it comes to the obituary, 'grin-inducing' may be the one that sticks.  Don't forget to come to the Snail Reading on the 28th July, and Steve's launch on the 5th August!

Adam Gnade: An American Voice

More and more American art is becoming obsessed with identity. We seem to be having a difficult time lately understanding exactly what it is that makes us us, what sets our stars and stripes apart. When I first came across Adam Gnade's work, I felt a major sense of relief (not only as an American, but as a human being as well) because his art brings this struggle with identity to the surface, laying it out unashamedly for all to see. Whether it’s via his writing or his music, he's blazing a trail in sole search of the self, taking a cerebral road trip through the American landscape with reckless, fulfilled abandonment. He chronicles it all—the drugs, the sex and loneliness, the rock and roll—all the while maintaining a genuine, gritty honesty. There is no sugar to make the medicine go down. He kicks his head back and swallows the good, the bad and the ugly, never bothering to stop for air—all the while making me 100% proud to be American (whatever that may mean).




*Adam Gnade's work is released by an independent publisher/record label called Punch Drunk Press, which you can follow here.

Lonely Destiny: First Review

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.

DM Stith Concert Review—Tucson, AZ

The desert is a strange place to call home. We who live here measure our lives by rattlesnakes, by the sloughing off of serpents’ skins, saguaros and monsoon seasons. This summer the rain has stayed stagnant in the clouds. The monsoons keep holding their tongues, and we’ve had to stay stuck in the humid heat, spending the day watching heaving clouds pass us by. We can’t help but feel forgotten.

I stumbled into Solar Culture, a small, unpretentious venue, right smack dab in the middle of Tucson, AZ, hoping to find respite from the humid summer heat, but having hoped in vain. The temperature of the interior matched the exterior: There was no air conditioning, and the boiling energy of an excited audience only increased the degrees of Fahrenheit. Art lined the walls—a collage of independent, modern pieces. The venue was perfect in its dark simplicity. I was sweaty, sure, but completely at ease.

The setting and scene fit the upcoming performer: DM Stith is desert-like in nature, serpentine and haunting. His art is the skin he sheds, perfect in its dark simplicity.

Before his performance started DM Stith was so kind as to engage me in a little small talk. He told me a little about himself, his past. He had taught sculpture before, he said. It didn’t surprise me. His music is a physical medium more than anything. We, the audience, feel like putty in his hands.

When DM Stith took the stage, quietness enveloped the room. The crowd of soul-searching college students and contemplative adults seemed to understand that a force of nature, quite like the monsoons hovering overhead, had begun to work its magic. David sat down on a small, unpretentious rolling-chair, acting as if he were completely oblivious to his sacred charms. Not for one second did I believe that he was unaware of his powers.

What ensued was an entrancing musical manipulation of the mind. At the end of the set I felt as if I had just been molded into something along the lines of Degas’ Little Dancer Aged Fourteen—transformed into something part human, part primate.

What I appreciate the most about DM Stith’s music—and art in general—is its honesty. It’s an unashamed wrestle with the self, with God. He is Jacob, caught in the grasp of an angel; and he has no shame, no fear or trepidation in relating the struggle that results from picking such an epic fight. We, the audience, limp away from his presence with a hurting hip—with our minds, hearts, and souls having been dexterously pummeled—but also with the ultimate blessing: DM Stith himself, and the realization that no matter how dry the desert may be, we haven’t been forgotten.

*DM Stith will be touring Europe and the UK in the Spring of 2011. For further details, click here.

Cora Charis is a writer from the United States who is currently finishing her first book of expiremental poetry while teaching English as a Second Language to refugees in Tucson, AZ.