Andrew Taylor's eight hours: a response
I'm not sure why these should be these poems that did it. Or whether it it is the culmination of a long, unknowable process. In part it's because I couldn't make a party. Professional reasons have caused me to not take my writing as seriously as I should for some time. And this blog, orginally created to hive off the writing parts from my catch-all Coastalblog has been abandoned for almost ten years. It is, as of now, revived. In a sense I am, as of now, revived.
So, to the poems. One of the qualities of Andrew Taylor's poetry that I've always admired is its abilility to conflate the mundane and the other. This is one of the jobs of poetry. In "Eight hours" a series of images become something altogether else. I am unsure in what other way the words "Mozzarella breadsticks" could become poetry, or could be anything other than a dodgy starter. here they fit in, rubbing up companionably to Iced tea and the jetsons. Possibly the title alludes to the correct amount of sleep, certainly there are circadian references, dreamlike sequences. Maybe it's a response to listening to Max Richter, maybe not. I should set my stall out to say I'm not much of a one for decoding poems. I don't see them as crosswords.
Just as well, as these are poems which politely decline to give themselves up. They are referential, but don't feel the need to spell out the references. You may know the people named in the poems, you may not. You may be familiar with rodelius, or the work of Flying Saucer Attack, you may not. It doesn't matter, he's putting them in anyway. The thing you always get with An Andrew Taylor poem is a fundamental honesty. They are him, they ring true even whilst they evade your understanding, not that understanding is necessarily the point.
This is not to imply inaccessibility or elitism. "10.1.14" is a straightforward, tightly written affair, step by step with the poet on his journey. "C 42 A" is almaost a narrative, Andy stepping away from the looseness and elision of the other poems, even allowing himself an "I". There is a personality here, in the sense of something personal, not the sense of "a personality" which always seems to imply rapid right-wing opinions or, worse, bow-ties. There is the domestic, there is love. I'm reluctant to try and read too much into them, it seems rude, intrusive, almost. That's not what these poems are here for. They're here to exist, to be graceful quiet sketches of moments. There also here to bring me back to writing about poetry, but I don't imagine that was the intention.
So, to the poems. One of the qualities of Andrew Taylor's poetry that I've always admired is its abilility to conflate the mundane and the other. This is one of the jobs of poetry. In "Eight hours" a series of images become something altogether else. I am unsure in what other way the words "Mozzarella breadsticks" could become poetry, or could be anything other than a dodgy starter. here they fit in, rubbing up companionably to Iced tea and the jetsons. Possibly the title alludes to the correct amount of sleep, certainly there are circadian references, dreamlike sequences. Maybe it's a response to listening to Max Richter, maybe not. I should set my stall out to say I'm not much of a one for decoding poems. I don't see them as crosswords.
Just as well, as these are poems which politely decline to give themselves up. They are referential, but don't feel the need to spell out the references. You may know the people named in the poems, you may not. You may be familiar with rodelius, or the work of Flying Saucer Attack, you may not. It doesn't matter, he's putting them in anyway. The thing you always get with An Andrew Taylor poem is a fundamental honesty. They are him, they ring true even whilst they evade your understanding, not that understanding is necessarily the point.
This is not to imply inaccessibility or elitism. "10.1.14" is a straightforward, tightly written affair, step by step with the poet on his journey. "C 42 A" is almaost a narrative, Andy stepping away from the looseness and elision of the other poems, even allowing himself an "I". There is a personality here, in the sense of something personal, not the sense of "a personality" which always seems to imply rapid right-wing opinions or, worse, bow-ties. There is the domestic, there is love. I'm reluctant to try and read too much into them, it seems rude, intrusive, almost. That's not what these poems are here for. They're here to exist, to be graceful quiet sketches of moments. There also here to bring me back to writing about poetry, but I don't imagine that was the intention.
posted by Matt | 12:25 AM
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