Three years ago I edited and published a collection of essays exploring new approaches to poetry.
Stress Fractures is currently on sale for just five of your English pounds, so as a further temptation I am making my introduction to the book freely available right here. I envisaged the collection as a means of provoking dialogue, so do let me know your thoughts!
As a kid growing up in South London, one of the highlights of my year was the visit of the Chinese State Circus to Brockwell Park. Into the hilly expanse of green space wedged between the urban neighbourhoods of Brixton, Herne Hill and Norwood would come these lithe, muscled, impossibly exotic entertainers: acrobats, tumblers, strong-men and fire-eaters. The Big Top was a strange, other world, governed by Sun Wukong: the Monkey King. Entry was a contract – for the duration of the show, you agreed to be bound to the rules and internal logic of the tent.
In the final essay in this book, Katy Evans-Bush compares the poetic line to a high-wire act (‘the line must be taut, and strong enough to hold’); but poetry is also clowning and the taming of the lion. It is circus without the ringmaster.
In Stress Fractures I hope to stimulate new conversations about poetry, with all the infelicities of its language (to borrow Ross Sutherland’s phrase). The essays are not unified around a particular set of themes, but approach a wide range of subjects. A radically reinterpreted Emily Dickinson mingles with British hip-hop artist Roots Manuva; a teacher’s perspective on poetry in education appears alongside investigations into computer-generated writing. Poetry is conceived as a broad church (or tent) which entertains the constant play of contradictory forces or fractures (tradition/innovation, private/public, freedom/control); and as an artform stretching, connecting, collaborating and making sense of its new positions in a rapidly-changing cultural landscape.
Much has been written about the decline in space available in mainstream culture for literary criticism in this country; the increasing commercialisation of publishing; and the dispersal of critical culture to the unrestricted – and virtually unrefereeable – territory of the internet. Some of this is nostalgic grumbling for a golden age that probably never existed in the first place. Much of it certainly overlooks the opportunities to exploit new technologies (the internet, yes, but also digital printing) to generate new dialogue. We are, I believe, witnessing the growth of a tendency towards cultural democratisation, in which the static roles of writer, reader, critic, academic and consumer, as well as the hierarchical structures of publication, distribution and reception that hold those roles in place, are becoming unstable.
In his essay, Theodoros Chiotis responds to this new environment by making the case for a ‘multidimensional, interdisciplinary’ digital poetics which disrupts the authority of the writer, and stimulates new modes of cognition in the reader. To similar ends, Ross Sutherland shares his own experiments with SYSTRAN translation software to create a collaborative robot poetry. Both envisage a new, dispersed kind of authorship, though one with precursors in, respectively, Modernism and Science Fiction.
I am glad to include Tim Clare’s playful deconstruction of Slam Poetry. It seems to me that performance poetry in general has existed for too long without a strong critical culture, and that a certain stream of anti-intellectualism within that broad artform has limited its capacity for innovation. Hannah Silva’s work straddles performance poetry, theatre and live arts, and certainly doesn’t lack innovation. Her fascinating essay ‘Composing Speech’ unlocks some of the secrets of her practice as a writer/performer, such as talking backwards and the peculiarly named art of ‘double tonguing’. Silva’s essay contributes to wider conversations about the relationship between poetry and performance, live art and text-based visual art. In ‘Radio and…’ James Wilkes records an imaginary conversation with Holly Pester; as regular collaborators, their work explores the poetry of radio transmissions and spoken broadcasts: ‘the ruined voice’.
A widely acknowledged association between poetry and hip-hop is developed by David Barnes in his essay on British rapper Roots Manuva, whose lyrics he evaluates in relation to the Romantic poets and Wesleyan theology. Luke Kennard’s contribution approaches the fictional space or ‘engine room’ of the poem via early 20th century comic strips and the music of Nick Cave, David Berman and Smog. And in ‘Emily Dickinson, Vampire Slayer’, Sophie Mayer investigates the many cultural afterlives of the seminal American writer in visual arts, photography, music, and on YouTube.
That poetry is seen here to intersect with pop culture constitutes neither some desperate plea for ‘relevance’ nor a nose-dive towards the lowest common denominator; rather, it demonstrates an open, interdisciplinary critical mode which supports a view of poetry in flux with its cultural surroundings. I am keen to reject the notion that poetry and all poets exist in a special bubble, aloof and disconnected.
Emily Critchley focuses her attention on the American writer Lyn Hejinian, a major figure within Language poetry whose activities since the 1970s have been anything but disconnected. She is, for instance, an energetic supporter of cross-genre collaborations between poets and other artists. Critchley’s essay carefully unpicks the creative, critical and philosophical dynamics at play within Hejinian’s work. Some of the essays in Stress Fractures point towards a new direction in contemporary poetry, a vision that breaks out of the factionalism of the past forty years. Simon Turner identifies a resurgence of interest in Oulipo writing techniques amongst a number of younger British poets, arguing that this could provide a means of combining radical experimentation with the concern for form and craft that characterises mainstream poetry. American writer and critic Adam Fieled, meanwhile, provides an illuminating and necessarily subjective examination of ‘post-avant’ poetry – a problematic term, but one which has generated new energies on both sides of the Atlantic.
As a literary critic, David Caddy is interested in the social histories of artistic communities: the relationships, shared spaces and chance meetings that underpin creative expression. His essay here is concerned with both the history and future of the prose poem in English poetry, characterising it as a ‘hybrid form’ with the ability to ‘absorb a wide range of discourse’. Caddy’s subject is the poem without its most identifiable feature – the line break. Katy Evans-Bush follows with ‘The Line’, an extensive analysis of the poetic line which draws on examples from Sharon Olds, Basil Bunting, Marianne Moore and others, and which is filtered through a reading of high-wire walker Philippe Petit’s On the High Wire.
There is much hand-wringing within the arts over the ‘relevance’ of poetry to children. Indeed, as I write, the Arts Council of England has just made available a major new funding stream to enable poetry organisations to engage with young people. Alex Runchman gives a refreshingly frank assessment of poetry in education from his experiences as a secondary school teacher. He describes a largely conservative educational culture in which poetry is often badly taught and routinely reduced to exam fodder, and argues for a more liberated approach in which poetry can be both studied and enjoyed. Specifically, he calls for more poetry to be written for teenagers.
I originally conceived of this book as a kind of almanac – a form suggesting the collection of sundry data, facts, chronologies, and so on. I hope to have maintained something of the miscellany in Stress Fractures. This is not an academic publication, though a number of the contributors hold postgraduate degrees, and there are plenty of footnotes to point the diligent reader towards further study. Most of the contributors are themselves poets, and some of the essays will appeal to writers, but this is not a book solely for practitioners. Like the Big Top, anyone is welcome.
The artist Marc Chagall said: ‘For me a circus is a magic show that appears and disappears like a world. A circus is disturbing. It is profound.’ I hope the essays that follow offer you glimpses into a world that can be both disturbing and profound, but also fun, mischievous and exhilarating.
London, September 2010
A horse in a field is worth two in the hand Applejack is a reliable and hard-working pony, although headstrong about doing things on her own take horses for an example, if you look closely you notice that all horses have exactly the same face Glueing coconuts to your dogs feet so people think you have a horse
Hi-yo, Silver! Next to the running horse pub on Davies street in london under an orange cone I left a signed ten pound note A galloping horse gathers no moss crushed white chalk a glittering glass eye, formed from bottles pressed neck-first into the ground they also create snowflakes and rainbows in special factories
A horse in need is a horse indeed hooded and faceless, mounted on a huge snarling black horse with insane eyes! Swing Bill 9-1, Stewarts House 9-1, Barrel of Laughs 11-2 Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them Black horse hooves… snarling horse mouths… a fleeting black cowl A horse paints a thousand words Enfants, faites manger vos chevaux de guerre the Earth ponies who are seen bucking trees and hauling heavy ploughs
HELLO , MY NAME IS AMIR SYAFIQ. I AM BLACK BEAUTY. MY SECOND OWNER GAVE THE NAME TO ME BECAUSE I HAVE A BEAUTIFUL COAT HELLO , MY NAME IS TAJUDDIN. I WILL BE ACTING AS GINGER IN THIS CHAPTER. I AM A TALL HORSE. MY COAT IS BROWN
Good horses make good neighbours Eddy Waller […] once told of Lane making unpublicized visits to children’s hospitals (on an unidentified horse) a little sticky in the early stages Cannon to the left of them they soar among the clouds, they rain down jellybeans We had to wear knee-high rubber boots IT`S NO USE. THERE`S NOTHING I CAN DO ANYMORE. EXCEPT BEAR IT. I WISH I DEAD. DEAD HORSE DON`T SUFFER. I fucking told you horses are ignorant cunts A horse walks into a bar
An Englishman, an Irishman and a horse walk into a bar I know a horse from a handsaw a large, odd-toed ungulate mammal The horse orders a drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts by means of optically stimulated luminescence dating During the Iron Pony Competition, she resorts to using her wings in many of the contests, which Applejack regards as cheating since she does not have wings herself DEAD HORSE DON’T SUFFER they rain down jellybeans Useless horse! on a horse! never got a Charlie horse Chaucer loved this kinda stuff overbearing horses they have a special magic only humans can access
Once a horse, always a horse Once upon a horse
 Abigail Oborne, ‘Portraits of a seaside town no.3’
 @iSpeakComedy, 11.11.11
 @flea333, 10.11.11
 Lord of the Rings film script, http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Lord-of-the-Rings-Fellowship-of-the-Ring,-The.html
 Cheltenham, 13.10 11.11.11
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’
 Lord of the Rings film script, http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Lord-of-the-Rings-Fellowship-of-the-Ring,-The.html
 Will Hayler, Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/blog/2011/nov/11/live-racing-cheltenham-november-11-2011
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’
 @IleKara, 11.11.11
 @_Hollymd_ 11.11.11
 @JuiceCOURTuree 11.11.11
I have started compiling my second collection, provisionally entitled Dark Islands. As part of the process (and, frankly, to make it a bit more fun) I’ve decided to share a few images that I think reflect the mood(s) – and in some instances subject matter – of the book.
If I were to list the concerns of the poems, I would say, in no particular order: magic, landscape, protest, the city, imprisonment, observation, media, darkness/light, dreaming, islands, the future…
I hope this is a book you would like to read!
Delighted to have four poems in a new anthology from Bloodaxe Books, launched last night at the Poetry Library, followed by a session of hard-drinking around Waterloo from which I am still recovering. Edited by Nathan Hamilton, Dear World & Everyone In It is described as
the first British anthology to attempt to define a generation through a properly representative cross-section of work and a fully collaborative editorial process […] this anthology represents more effectively and appropriately a new generational mood – hybrid, playful, collaborative, ambitious, inclusive, cooperative.
I’ve not got my copy yet, but the list of contributors is extremely wide-ranging. I’m looking forward to discovering some new voices.
You can buy it direct from the publishers here.
I’m fascinated by this recent story. Christian Ward, a 32-year old poet from London with whom I’ve communicated occasionally on social networking, has been found to have plagiarised a poem by Helen Mort (whom I also know – in the real world). Christian’s poem, ‘The Deer’, won a local poetry competition in Devon, where the story was broken on 5th January. Save a few words, it’s identical to Helen’s poem of the same title.
Today a statement, by way of apology, has appeared from Ward. It’s not exactly unequivocal though, and that’s what interests me.
I was working on a poem about my childhood experiences in Exmoor and was careless. I used Helen Mort’s poem as a model for my own but rushed and ended up submitting a draft that wasn’t entirely my own work.
I had no intention of deliberately plagiarising her work. That is the truth.
It’s that phrase ‘I used Helen Mort’s poem as a model for my own’ which I find so intriguing. He seems to think that’s a fair explanation, that this mode of working is acceptable. But for me, this raises two questions. Firstly, what does using a poem as a model really mean in practice? Do you start with a source text and then start make edits to it? Do you just copy the theme, or the movement of ideas, or the formal techniques? Secondly, at what point in this process does the text become your own?
Perhaps we’ll never know with this work, because Ward claims he ‘rushed and ended up submitting a draft’. Is there another draft, where we might discover how he has transformed Helen’s text into something original of his own? I’d be fascinated to read it!
The wider debate that this minor scandal might provoke is where artistic inspiration and/or appropriation becomes plagiarism. Which in turn asks us to consider what can and cannot be owned by an individual author or creative artist.
Of course this debate is as old as writing itself. TS Eliot had something to say about it:
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
In the past, perhaps poets were less desperate for the original, the authentically inspired, and more content to situate their work in a dynamic with the past. Only two of Shakespeare‘s 37 plays have original plots. At the end of Troilus & Criseyde, Chaucer commends his work to ‘subgit be to alle poesye; / And kis the steppes, wher-as thou seest pace / Virgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.’
David Shields, in his provocative book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto, argues for a mash-up culture where everything is remixed, appropriated, open source. This is a somewhat radical position, but also one which has its roots in the Dadaist practice of collage.
Only recently, I published an anthology of poems that included a collage piece by Jon Stone. Jon had collaged reviews by the sci-fi critic David Langford, which caused some embarassment when David came to review the book for The Telegraph. In this instance, the problem – in my opinion (I have no idea about the legal status) – was not one of plagiarism, because the collage process had created a text that was utterly different in its appearance and effects, but of etiquette: Jon had simply forgotten to credit his source.
So perhaps we might say there is: deliberate plagiarism, accidental plagiarism (e.g. Ward, if we believe him – he has also confessed to plagiarising a Tim Dooley poem), deliberate appropriation (e.g. Stone), and finally accidental appropriation.
However we define it, I can’t help feel that Christian Ward’s misdemeanour is a symptom of a wider problem in British poetry: the dominance of creative writing courses, competitions, workshops, and their cumulative dissemination of a derivative and usually conservative poetic. Editors like me often complain of reading lots of poems that sound the same, that share a similar form, tone, turn of phrase, even subject matter. But isn’t cliche just a collectively agreed definition of plagiarism? Ward’s mistake wasn’t sending the wrong draft of his poem – it was thinking that ‘working from a model’ was a process that would lead to anything worth reading in the first place.
Chuffed to have an essay in the latest incarnation of The New Wolf – New Cartography.
Have a read (my contribution is on p.53).