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Tag: salt publishing

Thoughts on Wilkinson

I want to understand better what I like about reading John Wilkinson.

And as it happens to be in front of me, I’m going to talk about Down to Earth (Salt, 2006).

The effect of reading Wilkinson’s poems is disorientating, but they almost always display a syntactic and grammatical logic. My brain does not encourage me to find and follow the meaning in a linear fashion – it just assumes it’s there already. I respond in the same way to Oulipian N+7 poems. One feels traces of a source text hidden beneath the poem.

Like Prynne, Wilkinson favours dense, tightly woven blocks of text. Regular syllabics reinforce that sense of the poem’s integrity as a unit of meaning. It coheres.

Verbs propel you forward. ‘Rich with verbs, the sense of happenings, deeds, potentialities, necessities, results’ – Roy Fisher.

But Wilkinson’s verbs often lack subject or object, leaving you with a strange sense of a world depopulated; in which control/agency has been passed up, given over.

Beats slip, gears mash,
clutch though they disjoin,
rivulets grip the gravel,
mash conforms to mesh.

(‘In Tempo’)

This is crunchy sonics, wordplay and punning. But unlike someone like, say, Paul Muldoon, you don’t have the sense of the poet’s voice behind the text. No, these poems are unguided, unvoiced; mechanical/industrial. I suppose this is why Wilkinson falls into the ‘difficult’ camp, whilst Muldoon is merely… I dunno… ‘tricksy’ or ‘playful’.

Talking of mechanics… I think of Ballard a lot when reading Wilkinson: his dystopian vision of a world dominated by ‘oil, rods & concrete’ (that’s Wilkinson, of course).

The warm flanks of trashed cars,
the hot leather,
blue leather blistering like bee stings proliferate.

(‘Ravenous At Noon’)

Here you have the Ballardian holy trinity of sex, violence and the automobile.

Other mechanical/industrial/sci-fi reference points:

lunar chafing trays

Lipped or canted space

Harlem Air Shaft

A powered hub

Glass & chrome sing

the loom fires & shunts

To contradict myself slightly, Wilkinson’s poems may evoke automated, networked modernity, but they are not without personality.

‘Lyric grace’ – Patrick McGuinness

‘A haunting, unheard of lyric poetry’ – Adam Phillips

Do they approach the lyric? I don’t know. I guess it depends on your definition of ‘lyric’. And certainly there is something of a reclaiming of this term within avant-garde circles. I am thinking of Tim Atkins, Emily Critchley, Harriet Tarlo, Geraldine Monk, DS Marriott, Chris McCabe and others. The lyric as marker of linguistic excess, extravagance, and, crucially, of music.

What I do find in Wilkinson is the sudden injection of often incongruous voices or register. The effect is disruptive and exciting, suggestive of the mashing together (or layering up) of experience.

O how free I am amongst the yapping dogs.
Broom pods crackle. Rivulets of molten glass solidify.

(‘Hunter at Dusk’)

What strikes me
shut into the car’s inside
narcolepsy
what strike
dégringolade
de-
compensation
long words:
merging left shrinks shadows into porch steps,
curlicues of trapped music
kerb-crawling through my sleep.
Whatsup.

(‘South Unbound’)

I haven’t of course talked of the politics of these poems. Car bombs, war, finance; the application of power, often by violent means. ‘Freedom’ appears again and again, as if to imply a word stretched beyond its limits. The language is resistant, for sure, but against what, and to what end is harder to distinguish. There is a strong suggestion of control. Of things being altered forcefully, irreparably changed. Cut, slash, shave, pack, crush, ‘sear, drown, clench’, &c. This is the vocabulary of industry, and of physical abuse. The world ordered and aggressively exploited by commerce.

One poem points most overtly towards the control of the many by the few.

‘Excuse Me’

Lined up for the gangmaster at dawn,
set off like a boost of painted pebbles,
faces clatter into runnels, into plough
ridges, burst like sacks of lime
& broken arms & legs, hollow necks
march resurrected. Forces make strikes,
swank their nakedness, now the tax-
exempt, I pour my heart out, I do,
boast fruit.

I want to understand better what I like about reading John Wilkinson.

And as it happens to be in front of me, I’m going to talk about Down to Earth (Salt, 2006).

The effect of reading Wilkinson’s poems is disorientating, but they almost always display a syntactic and grammatical logic. My brain does not encourage me to find and follow the meaning in a linear fashion – it just assumes it’s there already. I respond in the same way to Oulipian N+7 poems. One feels traces of a source text hidden beneath the poem.

Like Prynne, Wilkinson favours dense, tightly woven blocks of text. Regular syllabics reinforce that sense of the poem’s integrity as a unit of meaning. It coheres.

Verbs propel you forward. ‘Rich with verbs, the sense of happenings, deeds, potentialities, necessities, results’ – Roy Fisher.

But Wilkinson’s verbs often lack subject or object, leaving you with a strange sense of a world depopulated; in which control/agency has been passed up, given over.

Beats slip, gears mash,

clutch though they disjoin,

rivulets grip the gravel,

mash conforms to mesh.

(‘In Tempo’)

This is crunchy sonics, wordplay and punning. But unlike someone like, say, Paul Muldoon, you don’t have the sense of the poet’s voice behind the text. No, these poems are unguided, unvoiced; mechanical/industrial. I suppose this is why Wilkinson falls into the ‘difficult’ camp, whilst Muldoon is merely… I dunno… ‘tricksy’ or ‘playful’.

Talking of mechanics… I think of Ballard a lot when reading Wilkinson: his dystopian vision of a world dominated by ‘oil, rods & concrete’ (that’s Wilkinson, of course).

The warm flanks of trashed cars,

the hot leather,

blue leather blistering like bee stings proliferate.

(‘Ravenous At Noon’)

Here you have the Ballardian holy trinity of sex, violence and the automobile.

Other mechanical/industrial/sci-fi reference points:

lunar chafing trays

Lipped or canted space

Harlem Air Shaft

A powered hub

Glass & chrome sing

the loom fires & shunts

To contradict myself slightly, Wilkinson’s poems may evoke automated, networked modernity, but they are not without personality.

‘Lyric grace’ – Patrick McGuinness

‘A haunting, unheard of lyric poetry’ – Adam Phillips

Do they approach the lyric? I don’t know. I guess it depends on your definition of ‘lyric’. And certainly there is something of a reclaiming of this term within avant-garde circles. I am thinking of Tim Atkins, Emily Critchley, Harriet Tarlo, Geraldine Monk, DS Marriott, Chris McCabe and others. The lyric as marker of linguistic excess, extravagance, and, crucially, of music.

What I do find in Wilkinson is the sudden injection of often incongruous voices or register. The effect is disruptive and exciting, suggestive of the mashing together (or layering up) of experience.

O how free I am amongst the yapping dogs.

Broom pods crackle. Rivulets of molten glass solidify.

(‘Hunter at Dusk’)

What strikes me

shut into the car’s inside

narcolepsy

what strike

dégringolade

de-

compensation

long words:

merging left shrinks shadows into porch steps,

curlicues of trapped music

kerb-crawling through my sleep.

Whatsup.

(‘South Unbound’)

I haven’t of course talked of the politics of these poems. Car bombs, war, finance; the application of power, often by violent means. ‘Freedom’ appears again and again, as if to imply a word stretched beyond its limits. The language is resistant, for sure, but against what, and to what end is harder to distinguish. There is a strong suggestion of control. Of things being altered forcefully, irreparably changed. Cut, slash, shave, pack, crush, ‘sear, drown, clench’, &c. This is the vocabulary of industry, and of physical abuse. The world ordered and aggressively exploited by commerce.

One poem points most overtly towards the control of the many by the few.

‘Excuse Me’

Lined up for the gangmaster at dawn,

set off like a boost of painted pebbles,

faces clatter into runnels, into plough

ridges, burst like sacks of lime

& broken arms & legs, hollow necks

march resurrected. Forces make strikes,

swank their nakedness, now the tax-

exempt, I pour my heart out, I do,

boast fruit.

Yeah, f**k you Cowell

Just spotted that my poetry collection has appeared in Salt Publishing’s Top 20. Or rather, that it’s just sneaked in. At No. 20 (or, if you discount the fiction books and anthologies: No. 12!).

So go on, treat yourself, or a significant other, at Christmas by purchasing a copy of How To Build A City, which contains poems and other things about cities, ukeleles, yoga and medieval saints. Or if you’d rather not contribute to yet another ‘Best of’ or ‘Top 20′ then head over to Penned in the Margins and grab Weather A System or Static Exile (the newest titles). They’re both better than socks, pocket torches, and overpromoted pop singles.

I’m starting to feel pretty cheap -

Merry Christmas everyone.

Tom x

In conversation with Jared Stanley

 

I had a nice chat with that fine fellow Jared Stanley, who must have the best book title of any Salt poet: Book Made of Forest. The full results of our email correspondence are over at the Salt Publishing blog.

The cities we walk through

autumn_lo

My copy of the Autumn issue of Poetry London popped through the post today (Post, you say? Oh yeah – ) and lo and behold it contains a review – the first in print – of my book How To Build A City. I’m pretty ecstatic. That horribly talented Luke Kennard was tasked with perusing my poems, and found them… to his taste.

Here are some choice cuts:

Worse luck, How To Build A City is so good it scares me. It’s a debut collection which is angry, vital and constantly surprising with a pleasing earthiness to the language.

Chivers’s writing feels refreshing and necessary, a genuine, lyrical appraisal of contemporary life, something about the mediated layers of reality we experience every day.

The lazy reviewer in me just wants to write something like from spam email to urban foxes, Chivers has his finger on the zeitgeist. Which is exactly the opposite of what the work’s trying to do, which it seems to me, is to stop us blithely using terms like zeitgeist at all.

I really admire Luke’s work, so it’s great to get this kind of praise. I still have some signed copies of the book, so message me if you’d like one – and I’ll include a new original poem to boot. Alternatively, nab a copy from my publisher (which is also Luke’s… conspiracy theories start and end here).

Cyclone Virtual Tour – Legs IV-V

That’s it. Tour over. Thanks to everyone who made it possible – my agent, my manager, miscellaneous roadies, the big man, &c. &c.

Errata

The Poet of Sparty Lea is being repeated on BBC Radio 4 on Saturday night at 11.30pm.

Cyclone Virtual Tour – Legs I-III

  • On Monday I was interviewed by Julie Palmer-Hoffman (aka The Book Grocer) for Londonist.com
  • On Tuesday poetry blogzine Gists & Piths aired my ‘Statement of Intent’ and a short film
  • Today Michelle McGrane interviews me for Peony Moon

It’s all in aid of promoting me book: How To Build A City. It’s available from Salt Publishing for £10.39. I have a few signed copies left for £12.99.

The Triple Launch


  

My first collection How To Build A City was launched alongside new books from Abi Curtis and Luke Kennard two Saturdays ago, and here is the video evidence. It was a great night, hosted by that charming genius Ross Sutherland – the venue (The Slaughtered Lamb) was absolutely rammed, and consequently pretty hot and sticky. Also, a troupe of burlesque pole dancers had been using the space before us – really. Thanks to everyone who came along. To those who didn’t, you know what to do.

Also, here are some photos.

 

All photos copyright Jack Carr 2009.

How To Build A City – Now Available to Buy

Photo-0199_2

If any of my readers (ha! what a notion) are interested, my debut collection of poetry How To Build A City is now available to buy online from Salt Publishing. You can, presumably, also order it from Amazon, your local bookshop and so on, but in my experience ordering direct from the publisher is best for everyone! So click on the link above to find out more, and perhaps depart with a few pennies…

I had my first look at the books themselves last night in Brighton – I was down for a reading at Abi Curtis’s launch, which was lovely. The books are handsome devils indeed, and I’ve not spotted any typos yet! When I first saw them, I was a bit scared and didn’t want to touch, let alone open, one. I’m a bit like Charlie Bucket with these things. But on the train journey back, I fully perved over it.

If you’re in London this Saturday, you are invited to the launch of How To Build A City, along with Luke Kennard, Abi Curtis and Ross Sutherland. It’s at The Slaughtered Lamb, starts at 8pm and is free entry.

Salt Shaken

Some readers may already have heard that independent poetry press Salt Publishing has been going through some pretty nasty financial difficulties of late. They have started a campaign to save their business, spearheaded by this irreverent YouTube viral.

It’s difficult to exaggerate the impact that Salt has made on UK (and to a lesser extent US and Australian) poetry. Their demise would leave an impossible hole to fill. So please go and buy some books at their website to keep them afloat. One book at a time, right?

The good news, from my perspective at least, is that my debut collection How To Build A City is still on course. A little delay, which means that the Brighton launch has had to shift a week forward, that’s all. June 8th is the date.

In the midst of their crisis, Salt director and genuine web guru Chris Hamilton-Emery has still managed to “soft launch” a new feature of their website, the Salt writers pages. This is mine.

OK, enough about me. Go and buy some books.

I bought this, this, this and this.

Various Poetastings

I’ve been out and about a fair bit this last week, handing out flyers for London Word Festival of course. A promoter’s job is never done.

Eavan Boland

Firstly, The Poetry Society’s annual lecture at The Bishopsgate Institute on 31st January. This is where I organised London Lip with Iain Sinclair et al. and I’ll be seeing quite a bit more of The Bishopsgate and its lovely staff over the Spring when I take up my official poetic residency there. The lecture was given by the US-based Irish poet and critic Eavan Boland (above). A striking speaker whose poise lent her words an air of urgency. But not as fierce as she looks in the photo! As she explained, the topic was ‘The Cartography of Poetry’ – ie. a state of the nation address – but she would limit herself to an evaluation of ‘the political poem’. An apt topic, I thought, and something more potentially controversial than, say, a reappraisal of the sonnet or the villanelle (as Boland herself pointed out). It’s also a topic that has been much in the mouths of writers and literary commentators. Since the millennium, we’ve had 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq II and 7/7. And all that political instability alongside a growing sense of the threat of climate change. All of this brings the private, the domestic and the personal into the open, and forces writers and artists to question the value and purpose of their work.

Boland began by citing the well-known literary bust-up between Denise Levertov and Robert Duncan, a dispute founded on their divergent views on ‘public poetry’. Specifically, Duncan resented Levertov’s involvement as a writer in the Vietnam protest movement and considered her political poems not only to lack, but to actively betray, the poetic imagination. Duncan’s own position is that ‘the poet’s role is not to oppose evil but to imagine it’. This example sets up a number of complex distinctions, both ethical and aesthetical, which I won’t even try to unpack here. Boland herself argued (and it’s a position I applaud) for ‘a disabling of the either/or’ approach to poetry. She also spoke of the need for ‘a rich, diverse and risky poetry’. This last adjective is most important and gives away her true position on the Duncan/Levertov argument – Boland calls for a political poetry that takes risks, that avoids easy conclusions.

‘The political poem is a way of writing myself to the position to ask questions.’ (Boland)

I’m with her on that. When ‘political poetry’ resembles the lazy doggerel Pinter and Harrison came up with in response to the Iraq war, it’s not worth reading – that kind of work is politically and artistically safe; it asks no questions; its constituency is self-assured to the point of being self-regarding. Preaching to the converted, in other words. Rather, Boland advocated ‘a disintegration of we’. I’m with her on that too. That’s partly why I like Chris McCabe’s work (see below…).

Lastly, Boland touched on the politics of the environment, prophesising future conflict over nature poetry between, on the one hand, eco-poets who are socially, environmentally and politically engaged, and, on the other, those who espouse a largely Romantic, Wordsworthian approach (the latter being the more popular and well-established). Or to put it her way – a battle between a natural world which provides moral/spiritual instruction for the poet, and a natural world scarred and violated by human activity. This made me think of David Caddy’s work – rooted in the natural world and a small rural community, but international in character and politically and socially engaged. Readers might also be interested to note that political poetry, and specifically writers’ responses to climate change, is the subject of Making Nothing Happen, one of my London Word Festival events at The Bishospgate. Friday 29th February with Mario Petrucci, Melanie Challenger, Caspar Henderson and Neil Astley.

If there’s anything I took issue with in Eavan Boland’s lecture, it’s that I don’t really believe in a clear distinction between the political poem and the non-political poem. In many ways, all poetry, all acts of representation, are inherently political. I guess I agree with Jamie Wilkes on this one. So the argument is not between political and non-political, but between different kinds of politics. Then again, perhaps it’s just a matter of semantics…

The rest of the evening was spent in The Water Poet, Folgate Street with Simon Barraclough and Isobel Dixon (whose responses to this post I await!). We wedged ourselves in the only space not entirely overrun with loud city workers – the pool room. Conversation ranged from poetry (obviously) to soap operas. Coronation Street was a favourite of mine and Simon’s, whilst Isobel introduced us to the South African soap Egoli (meaning ‘Place of Gold’). I also argued hard for The Bill, which I was missing at the time.

The Troubadour

Then onto The Troubadour,West Brompton (above) on Monday night to witness the long-running Coffee House Poetry series coming head-to-head with Salt Publishing. A whopping ten Salt poets read (though I missed one or two, sneaking in during Tamar Yoseloff’s set) in the atmospheric basement venue. All the poets I saw were excellent and representative of the diversity of Salt’s growing stock of writers. Particular highlights for me were Isobel Dixon, Luke Kennard and Chris McCabe.

Isobel’s work is gently pervasive. She reads with a confidence and firmness that belies the lyrical lilt of her poetry. Every consonant of her finely-tuned lines is articulated, which I like. All too often poets rush through readings, aiming no doubt to capture the rhythms of speech, but ultimately mushing all the language into some comforting but unrecognisable pulp. I remember a particularly good line of Isobel’s about how her father’s beard hid a small face, or something like that. I paraphrase. Clive James is also a fan of Isobel’s book A Fold in the Map.

It’s always a pleasure (I initially wrote ‘joy’ then crossed it out) to hear Luke Kennard read. I’d heard a few of the poems he performed before – like ‘The Murderer’ for instance. His newer work was excellent too; in particular a piece about a couple meeting in an elephant’s graveyard. Luke’s a proper satirist, and also a very nice man with a fine selection of jackets. His poetry is popular even with people who don’t really like poetry, like the barmaid at The Troubadour, who asked him to post her a copy of The Harbour Beyond The Movie. This is always a good sign.

The real highlight of the evening was Chris McCabe, who I’ve known since I published a poem of his in Keystone (Issue 5, 2004). Chris works in The Poetry Library on the South Bank and has recently become a father for the first time. His work combines linguistic experimentation and plenty of tonal disharmony with a genuine accessibility and, importantly, wit. I’m never shy about giving my opinion, so here it is: Chris is the most exciting poet currently writing in London. There you go, I’ve said it… His first book The Hutton Inquiry is an impressive debut but too long and a bit patchy. His second book, also from Salt, is due out this year, and if I remember correctly from our conversation is entitled Zeppelin. I for one can’t wait. In fact I don’t have to, because David Caddy has accepted some of his work for the forthcoming Tears in the Fence. My recommendation? If you get the chance to see Chris read, take it up.

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