From Cacophony
I am overwhelmed by poetry.
One of the probems I have with poetry is volume. So much is published, so much written. It's impossible to keep up with chapbooks, let alone the torrents of words on blogs and webzines, let alone the more conventional magazines. It's an exhilerating problem to have, and it's marvellous beyond words to see the scope and breadth of poetry publishing (I am talking in the small presses here, there seems depressingly little crossover to more glossy publications, but that's a discussion for another day). It's a full time job just reading it, let alone trying to write any. In an attempt to hold on to some poems as they rush past me here's the first in an occasional series which I'm calling From Cacophony. In which I pull a poem from the din and take a few minutes to try and do it justice.
I should note that this isn't an entirely an attempt to keep up with new writing. Many of the poems I look at will be from books which have been on my shelves for a while. Maybe I haven't read them for a while, maybe I want to remind myself. This is a reading series with no predetermined intention behind the selections other than to try and remember, the selection process will consist of, pick book off shelf, read book, pick a poem, write about that poem. The only criterion is that they're from a book or chapbook I own. It's a reason to read, and when you spend a lot of time focusing on your own writing you need a few of those.
It's also, and this is another point which probably deserves a post of its own, a reason to BUY poetry. I've a strong suspicion that more people write poetry than consume it, it's one of the reasons the small presses, which do such amazing work bringing a plurality of voices to the reading public, struggle to do much beyond publish. Is poetry not worth money? Should poets not get paid? Too much there to worry about in this post but it speaks to the reasons behind this occasional series. To read poetry, to buy poetry and to remember poetry.
And the first book pulled from the shelf is..
Joanne Ashcroft's From Parts Becoming Whole (Knives, Forks and Spoons 2011). Buy it here. The collection as a whole is characterised by interesting use of language, some experimental, some devastatingly precise. I've not chosen one of the more experimental ones, largely because I'm not in a particularly esoteric mood (this reading series will also be uterly arbitrary, I should note) this afternoon. I'm going with:
Of a Certain Distraction
called to swear
compelled to speak
hands
make porridge
on toast put
milk with
leaves piled against
the garden wall her
garden would be
a leaf carpet we
would sweep not
under the carpet
put milk
on porridge
hand on heart
hand on Bible
swear
speak
What I enjoy about Joanne Ashcroft's poetry is its spareness. Not a word is out of place, note the absence of adjectives and adverbs. It lets the words speak for themselves. Why this poem works for me is the juxtaposition of the domestic with something "other". The porridge, the toast and the milk set aainst this compulsion, calling to testify. Personally I don't regard a poem as a puzzle to be solved, so I don't need to know what the compulsion is for, it's enough that it's there, set against the detritus of the breakfast table.
She does something else with the italicised central section, implying secrets hidden. But again this narrative force is contextualised domestically "the leaves piled against / the garden wall". The poem ends powerfully, with a sense of occasion, of something happening. What it is we're not to know, but then it's none of our business, we are here merely to observe that it has happened, that whatever occurred has been spoken about, or is about to be. it's a satisfying conclusion to an intriguing poem.
One of the probems I have with poetry is volume. So much is published, so much written. It's impossible to keep up with chapbooks, let alone the torrents of words on blogs and webzines, let alone the more conventional magazines. It's an exhilerating problem to have, and it's marvellous beyond words to see the scope and breadth of poetry publishing (I am talking in the small presses here, there seems depressingly little crossover to more glossy publications, but that's a discussion for another day). It's a full time job just reading it, let alone trying to write any. In an attempt to hold on to some poems as they rush past me here's the first in an occasional series which I'm calling From Cacophony. In which I pull a poem from the din and take a few minutes to try and do it justice.
I should note that this isn't an entirely an attempt to keep up with new writing. Many of the poems I look at will be from books which have been on my shelves for a while. Maybe I haven't read them for a while, maybe I want to remind myself. This is a reading series with no predetermined intention behind the selections other than to try and remember, the selection process will consist of, pick book off shelf, read book, pick a poem, write about that poem. The only criterion is that they're from a book or chapbook I own. It's a reason to read, and when you spend a lot of time focusing on your own writing you need a few of those.
It's also, and this is another point which probably deserves a post of its own, a reason to BUY poetry. I've a strong suspicion that more people write poetry than consume it, it's one of the reasons the small presses, which do such amazing work bringing a plurality of voices to the reading public, struggle to do much beyond publish. Is poetry not worth money? Should poets not get paid? Too much there to worry about in this post but it speaks to the reasons behind this occasional series. To read poetry, to buy poetry and to remember poetry.
And the first book pulled from the shelf is..
Joanne Ashcroft's From Parts Becoming Whole (Knives, Forks and Spoons 2011). Buy it here. The collection as a whole is characterised by interesting use of language, some experimental, some devastatingly precise. I've not chosen one of the more experimental ones, largely because I'm not in a particularly esoteric mood (this reading series will also be uterly arbitrary, I should note) this afternoon. I'm going with:
Of a Certain Distraction
called to swear
compelled to speak
hands
make porridge
on toast put
milk with
leaves piled against
the garden wall her
garden would be
a leaf carpet we
would sweep not
under the carpet
put milk
on porridge
hand on heart
hand on Bible
swear
speak
What I enjoy about Joanne Ashcroft's poetry is its spareness. Not a word is out of place, note the absence of adjectives and adverbs. It lets the words speak for themselves. Why this poem works for me is the juxtaposition of the domestic with something "other". The porridge, the toast and the milk set aainst this compulsion, calling to testify. Personally I don't regard a poem as a puzzle to be solved, so I don't need to know what the compulsion is for, it's enough that it's there, set against the detritus of the breakfast table.
She does something else with the italicised central section, implying secrets hidden. But again this narrative force is contextualised domestically "the leaves piled against / the garden wall". The poem ends powerfully, with a sense of occasion, of something happening. What it is we're not to know, but then it's none of our business, we are here merely to observe that it has happened, that whatever occurred has been spoken about, or is about to be. it's a satisfying conclusion to an intriguing poem.
posted by Matt | 3:27 AM
|
0 comments
