Tag Archives: poetry

January Poem 2 – Robert Wrigley

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This has been a week full of terriers – literally.  I’ve had my sister’s three terriers, Sox, Buffy and Eddie to stay.  Added to my two Border Terriers Miles and Lola that makes five excitable dogs in the house.  At first I was planning on walking them in two groups but pressures of time put paid to that and I just took them all out together in the end.  Luckily they are all friendly with other dogs and have a good recall so I could just let them loose in the woods and fields across the road from my house.  

This has been a good week for getting poetry and PhD work done, despite having five terriers and more visits from workmen to finally finish the kitchen off.  I’ve got a lot more reading done and haven’t felt guilty at all about sitting around in my pyjamas! I think I’ve got my head around the fact that the reading I’m doing will eventually pull together to form a PhD.  I also got the date for my ‘mock viva’ which will be towards the end of February. I thought I would be really nervous about it, but I’m actually looking forward to it, and the chance to discuss what I’m doing and what I’ve been working on.  It’s a very strange feeling, to not be feeling anxious – maybe I really have turned a corner with the PhD.  

I’ve also been to two poetry groups this week, Barrow Writers on Tuesday and Brewery Poets on Friday, which meant I’ve had to stop dithering and finally get two poems which have been sitting ‘cooking’ in my notebook typed up and ready for feedback.  Thursday was my first day back at MMU this year teaching on a different undergraduate module this time, a Creative Writing unit.  I really enjoyed the teaching and some of the students have already sent in poems they wrote during the session.  Even when  I’m teaching I can tell now that all the reading I’ve been doing is paying off – bits of knowledge are linking up to other bits of knowledge.

On Saturday Chris and I drove over to Hebden Bridge for a 75th birthday party for Tony Ward, the publisher of Arc.  I met Tony at a festival in Ireland and we hit it off straight away – as I’m sure anyone who knows him will testify, Tony is great fun to hang out with.  I also got to see the lovely Amanda Dalton as well who is also good fun to spend time with, probably too much as we got a bit hysterical at one point in the proceedings.  We drove back home quite late at night, got back at 1am and then I was up at 7 to finish packing to go away for a week. 

I had two poetry critiquing groups to go to this week – Barrow Writers on Tuesday and Brewery Poets on Friday, which meant I had to stop dithering and get two poems ready for feedback.  On Thursday I did my first day of teaching at MMU on a undergraduate module called Language and Technique which is a creative writing module.  I really enjoyed the teaching – we looked at Curse poems this week and then I set them an exercise to write their own. Some of the students have already sent me their poems that they started in the session.  I’m teaching this unit alongside Helen Mort who has been her usual lovely self in getting me up to speed with everything.  I can also tell that all of the reading I’m doing for the PhD, and all the reading I did for the Approaches to Poetry course last year is really paying off – it feels like my brain is knitting together over previous gaps of knowledge!  There are obviously still plenty of gaps to be filled in of course, but that’s the great thing about reading isn’t it, there’s always more to do!

I’m writing this on the train from London down to St Ives, in Cornwall.  I’m going on a writing retreat down there with some friends – Katie Hale, Holly Hopkins, Hilda Sheehan and Emily Hasler.  I’m hoping to try and take stock of where I am with my next collection, write a few new poems, work on some drafts of poems that have been waiting to be typed up, and of course get some runs in along the coastal path.  I can’t wait to not have to do any cooking!  Last night I spent the night in London at the TS Eliot prize giving.   I went a couple of years ago and loved it, but I’d kind of forgotten how exciting it is.  I really like the format of the readings as well – I like that the prize is actually announced tomorrow, and that the Sunday night is just about the poetry and the poets.  

I haven’t read many of the books on the shortlist – I’ve actually only read Michael Symmons Roberts and Tara Bergin’s all the way through and really enjoyed them both.  Jacqueline Saphra’s reading was very moving – she was obviously delighted to be up there, and the warmth from the audience towards her and Nine Arches Press was really lovely.  Ocean Vuong was giving out lavender to people as he was signing books – but I spent too long talking and missed my opportuity.  Katie got some lavender but by the time we got home it had disintegrated and was just a twig in her bag! I really loved Robert Minhinnick’s poems that he read – out of the books I hadn’t read, that is the one I want to read first. 

So now we are just south of Reading and speeding towards St Ives.  It’s raining and grey and miserable but I am still on a bit of a poetry high from last night.  The second January poem this month comes from another brilliant collection – Robert Wrigley’s new book Box.  I saw Robert Wrigley read at Aldeburgh a few years ago and loved his poetry but was too shy to go and speak to him.  I got permission to post one of his poems from his Bloodaxe collection The Church of Omnivorous Light on the blog which you can find here and we’ve stayed in touch via Facebook since then.  We swapped books over Christmas and I was delighted to find Robert has a ‘My People’ poem as well, as the first poem in his collection.  

Robert Wrigley is the author of ten collections of poetry, including,most recently, Anatomy of Melancholy and Other Poems (Penguin 2013), which won a 2014 Pacific Northwest Book Award.   His earlier books have been awarded the Kingsley Tufts Award, the San Francisco Poetry Center Book Award, and the Poets Prize.  A University Distinguished Professor Emeritus at the University of Idaho, he lives in the woods near Moscow, Idaho, with his wife, the writer Kim Barnes. 

Along with Christina Thatcher’s book which I talked about last week, Box is one of my favourite collections I’ve read for a while.  It’s full of animals and transformations and an engagement not just with the natural world and its inhabitants but also a love of reading and engagement with other writers.  One of my favourite poems is ‘Blessed are’ which observes ravens attending to the corpse of a deer, but then the poem follows what happens to the skull as the year progresses and ‘the snows bury it’ until spring when it becomes ‘a blessing for blowflies’ until the speaker retrieves the skull and hangs it up where it will be ‘filled with the thoughts of yellowjackets’.  Another one of my favourite poems is called ‘Brother to Jackdaws’ where the speaker transforms from a man wanting to be a jackdaw, to the speaker being a jackdaw.  

I asked Robert if I could post ‘Ecology’ because I’ve been reading A LOT of academic writing this week around modes of address in lyric poetry.  Well, I’ve been reading a lot of Jonathan Culler and what he has to say about modes of address.  Sadly I can’t quote any of it as I am trapped at my table on the train and can’t get to my bag with my notebook in, but one of the things I remember is that he says that direct address to the audience or reader is actually relatively rare in lyric poetry, that usually the poet will be addressing someone or something else in the poem (a beloved or an animal or inanimate object) and the audience are only indirectly addressed.  There are obviously exceptions to this rule, but they are not as common.  He calls this ‘triangulated address’ which Ithink is a great term and I quite enjoy saying the word ‘triangulated’.   

So in one sense you could think of ‘Ecology’ as a rare example of a lyric poem that directly addresses the reader.  The imperative of ‘Study’ runs all the way through.  The things that we as reader or audience are being told to study are not the things one expects to study.  This is perhaps the study that a poet should make, with lines like ‘Study wind as well.  We will never know/what it desires beyond the elsewhere it is going’ and ‘Study the heart, which should not be seen/but heard’.  I love the word ‘study’ as well and how it encompasses explore, and examine, and look, and maybe even describe and watch and pay attention to.  

Of course the slippery thing about lyric poetry is its strange balance between public and private discourse, and to say that this poem is a direct address to the reader or audience, a forward facing imperative that instructs us to look, to be present in the world, ignores the fact that this poem is also turned in on itself.  It has two faces, one turned outward towards us, and one turned inward, towards the self.  It could equally be directed or addressed to the poet-self.  Maybe it is addressed to both.  

I plan to read this poem every morning in St Ives to get me in the mood for writing, for paying attention, for listening to the heart, ‘which should not be seen/but heard.’  

Thanks to Robert Wrigley for letting me use another of his poems on the blog. If you’d like to order Box you can do so here.

Ecology – Robert Wrigley

Study the muddy house, the salmon
gutting it out through glacial till.  
Study the heart, which should not be seen 
but heard.  Study the tree that is the child

and the ink that makes an octopus invisible.
Epistemologies of silence and blindness, 
suffering of common stones, the soul
with its hardened, scaly, ineveitable callus:

study them by coyote light, buffalo magnification.
Study the imperatives of rain and snow
at the whim and fancy of the wind.
Study wind as well.  We will never know 

what it desires beyond the elsewhere it is going. 
Study elsewhere, the geography of strange beds 
and topographies of lips, the glowing,
enormous, indefatigable possibilities of red. 

The sky, which is the mother of all rivers, 
must be studied, as must the river of all mothers, 
those oceans of spirit, the wells of unbelievers,
days like buckets full, arriving one after another

in the absence of an invisible engineer. 
Study the balusters and balustrades, wall studs
of sedimentary stone, the skin, the downiest hair.
Study spring grass, the planetary grave, the blood-fed

soil of the body farm, the pentagrammatic arm. 
Study the cuticle and free margin parentheses enclosing 
pink implications, the vast concupiscent charms
of the toes, the sleepy eye’s slow closing.

In such time as you are given, study the house 
within the house within the house you love in. 
Know of it such portion as you are allowed, 
and return to it to die, like a salmon. 

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PhD Musings and January Poem 1 – Christina Thatcher

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First week of 2018 and I’ve been trying to get back into my routine which has been a bit doomed to failure because of visitors and a left over addiction to a computer game that I started playing over Christmas.

So, I’ve decided to try and keep featuring poems here – but the Sunday Poem will now just be renamed by month.  Some months you may get one poem a week, and other times you may not.  I’m also going to try and link in a bit more thinking around my PhD, although again, this might not happen every week.

I’ve spent a large portion of this week running – I even managed to be first woman back at Parkrun this week in a time of 22.20 – still 50 seconds behind my PB but I’m slowly getting back to fitness after having a bit of time off with a dodgy knee just before Christmas – brought on by not resting after completing a half marathon.  My knee is fine now but I haven’t quite got my full running mojo back.

I’ve also had a meeting about Kendal Poetry Festival with my co-director Pauline Yarwood and our website designer.  The programme is finalised and has been for quite a few months now, and I’m busy gathering in photos and biogs from the festival poets and then there is a hard slog ahead as we start to write the content for the website and programme.  I love getting the photos of the poets though – it’s one of the most exciting bits as it makes it all a lot more real!

I’ve managed to get a few solid days work on the PhD though this week, inbetween recovering from New Year.  I’ve typed up a few rough drafts of new poems and spent mornings reading Theory of the Lyric by Jonathan Culler.  I thought I should try and do some reading around what is lyric poetry.  I’m finding the book really interesting, if a little hard going, but I’ve been feeling irritated with the book since the introduction, when Culler sets out the poets he’s going to be looking at – ‘canonical lyrics’ from Sappho, Horace, Petrarch, Goethe, Leopardi, Baudelaire, Lorca, Williams and Ashberry.

Positives – it’s great that the range of poets is drawn from other languages apart from English.  He also presents the poems in the original language and then a translation.  But one female poet in the whole book!  In the introduction, his reasoning for this is “Though there are  many circumstances in which enlarging the canon or attending to hitherto marginalized texts is the right strategy, when reflecting on the nature of the lyric there is a compelling argument for focusing on a series of texts that would be hard to exclude from lyric and that have played a role in the constitution of that tradition”.

I’m not even halfway through yet, so maybe some other women poets will appear.  He has referred to Emily Dickinson a few times.  Reading this book made me relieved that I didn’t do a degree in English Literature.  When I started writing and reading poetry, the only poetry available was Carol Ann Duffy, so I had no idea that women had been pretty much excluded from the canon.  I didn’t even know what the canon was, so there was no voice in my head telling me I couldn’t/shouldn’t write because I was a woman.  But I think if I’d had to study English Literature at the age of 18, when I was as unsure of myself as most other 18 year olds, and the texts we were told to read were mostly men, and the text books we were told to read referred to mostly men, it would have taken a long time to shake that off.

Instead I was doing a music degree and learning a whole load of other stuff about women and music and brass playing and power and gender – but that’s a whole other story!

I should be careful however, not to criticise a book for doing something other than what I want it to do, but I do wish there were more references to women poets.  Having said that, there is some really interesting stuff in the book, and I don’t understand all of it to be honest, but some interesting snippets – he talks about J.L. Austin’s theory about ‘performative language’, which brings into being what it refers to, such as when we say ‘I promise to pay you tomorrow’.  When we say this, we bring into being the promise, rather than telling about the act of promising.  If poetry can bring into being ‘that to which they refer or accomplish that of which they speak’ then poetry can be one of the creative and world-changing modes of language’.    This is something I’m interested in when I’m performing poems around sexism – by talking about sexism in a space where sexism is usually ignored, or not talked about, by elevating the act of sexism to art, sometimes I accomplish sexism or bring it into being (from audience members).  Sometimes by noticing sexism and writing about it, I can accomplish the noticing of sexism by others.

He also talks about how critics and universities advocate approaching all lyric poems almost as if they are dramatic monologues with a ‘speaker’ who is not necessarily the poet, which I thought was interesting as well.  He quotes  Mark Payne who says that ‘the poem is a forum for direct truth claims about the world on the part of the poet’ whereas in fiction or narrative poetry ”the truth claims are to be evaluated only with respect to the fictional speaker and the world he or she inhabits.’  I love that phrase ‘direct truth claims about the world’ and the way the word ‘claims’ also holds inherent in it the possibility of lying…

Obviously there’s a lot more in this huge textbook and I’m picking out small bits that aren’t necessarily representative – you’ll have to read it if you’re interested!

Just before the Poem of the Week, I wanted to leave you with this lovely quote from Derrida, also found in the pages of Theory of the Lyric.  One of my young poets at the Dove Cottage Young Poets session wrote a beautiful poem about her relationship with poetry, and particularly with poetry learnt by heart.  It had lines of Carol Ann Duffy’s poetry and some other poets woven through it.  Just by chance, I’d just read this in the ‘Theory of the Lyric’.  Derrida – that a poem is not just that which asks to be learned by heart but ‘that which learns or teaches us the heart, which invents the heart’.

I’ll leave you with two poems by Christina Thatcher, from her book More than you werepublished by Parthian. as the Poems of the Week.

Christina Thatcher was shortlisted for the Bare Fiction Debut Poetry Collection Competition in 2015 and was a winner in the Terry Hetherington Award for Young Writers in 2016, Christina Thatcher’s poetry and short stories have featured in a number of publications including The London MagazinePlanet MagazineAcumen and The Interpreter’s House. Her first collection, More than you were, was published by Parthian Books in 2017.

Christina Thatcher grew up in America but has made a happy home in Wales with her husband, Rich, and cat, Miso. She is a part-time teacher and PhD student at Cardiff University where she studies how creative writing can impact the lives of people bereaved by addiction. Christina keeps busy off campus too as the Poetry Editor for The Cardiff Review and as a freelance workshop facilitator and festival coordinator.

It’s a strange coincidence that I read More than you were whilst thinking about the lyric tradition and what poetry is for and what it should do. The collection explores the death of David Thatcher, Christina’s father, and this footing in fact and reality is made explicit on the back cover of the book.  But if we go back to ‘direct truth claims about the world’ I guess the claims these poems are making are claims about trauma and violence and grief, and the repercussions of experiencing these things.

It was hard to choose just one poem – although they do work on their own, you can read this whole collection cover to cover in one go.  It is completely compelling.  There is a narrative which drives the poems forward through these tiny snapshot moments.

The idea of learning and teaching – what we learn by heart, what we learn from text books which exclude us, what we learn from reading poetry has ran through this blog.  In Christina’s collection, she has a sequence of short poems called Lesson, numbered 1 to 10.  I found these poems extremely moving – the lessons often have a double meaning, or an intended meaning and an unintended meaning.

In Lesson #1, the short lines fit well with the idea of things being cut off, being severed.  The brutality is created not only by the killing of the snake, but the witnessing of the killing of the snake, not only the witnessing, but the witnessing of the killing of the snake with the toy shovel, which is now forever changed from a toy shovel.  The character of the ‘she’ figure (presumably the mother) who is ‘quiet and strong’ is contrasted with her act, and not just the act, but the acknowledgement of the act.  Is the lesson that sometimes to protect family we do ‘unfair and gruesome things’ or is the lesson ‘the world is a place where unfair and gruesome things can happen’?  Maybe both.

Lesson #2 is given by a different figure, and follows on directly from a poem that referenced the father, so I assumed it was him.  The strangeness of that image, ‘like spiders on a pillow’ and the strangeness of the lesson, that ‘young girls/are only ever as good/as their skin’.    And the strangeness of it sounding like a proverb.   I’m sure many women have memories of people saying stuff like this – I remember my nanna’s neighbour once saying to me, whilst I was playing a board game with her daughter ‘Close your mouth, you don’t look attractive sitting with your mouth open’ and the shame of being caught ‘not looking attractive’ and the lesson that this was something I should be doing.

Thanks to Christina for letting me post these two fantastic poems on my blog, and do rush over to Parthian and buy her book from them.  You will be supporting an independent publisher and you’ll get to read a fantastic book.

Lesson #1 – Christina Thatcher

The day she severed
the head of a snake
with the toy shovel
I used in the garden
she turned to me
and said – quiet and strong –
that in order to protect
our family we must sometimes
do unfair and gruesome things.

Lesson #2 – Christina Thatcher

You told me
with one swift movement
like spiders on a pillow,
never to touch fire –
your fingers will blister,
you said, and young girls
are only ever as good
as their skin.

16 Days of Action #day16

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There are only two poems in a ‘traditional’ form in my first collection, and both are in the sequence.  The first is this one, a sestina.  I read somewhere that for a sestina to truly work, it must be about something that obsesses you, that you cannot stop thinking of, that goes round and round in your head.  As soon as I read this, I knew I could try and write one.

The words at the end of each line repeat in a set pattern, and then all six words must be used in the last three lines in a specific order.  To me then, those words then, are like the key in a piece of music.  They set the atmosphere or the tone of the poem.  The words I chose, stone, bird, moon, dark are important and recurring images in the sequence.  But so is ‘it’ the idea of something that is nameless, that cannot be spoken, and so is the concept of asking, and the idea of questioning which is maybe the energy that drives this sequence.  Stone means stone, but it also means danger.  It also means the part of you that gives up, the part of you that hardens, the part of you that cannot speak.  The part of you that is a victim but also the part that fights back, that becomes stone instead of nothing.  And bird means bird, but it also means being transformed, being acted upon.  But it also means flight and freedom.  And dark means dark, but it also means danger, it also means hiding, it also means not seeing.  And the moon is the moon but it also means the things that carry on anyway, it means indifference, it means listening but it also means witness.

I started this poem in Clare’s workshop as well, although the first draft of it had no intention of being a sestina.  The next week, I was running a workshop session on form with my young writers, and after talking about why you would want to write a sestina (something that obsesses you, something you can’t stop thinking about) I had a go at writing one along with them.  It felt like following a thread of language, with the words squatting at the end of the line, unchangeable and insistent.

I’m writing this whilst tutoring on a residential course, the Poetry Carousel in Grange-Over-Sands.  Finishing off these blog posts during this weekend has made me realise how much my teaching is bound up with my writing.  I wrote many of these poems during workshops on residentials, writing along with the participants, who over the course of time have become friends, colleagues, even a large, dysfunctional and a geographically distant family.

I read from the sequence as a sequence for the first time on a residential course, and had to run into the sea afterwards to get rid of the tension that was running through me.

It has been cathartic, thought-provoking, sad, anger-inducing process to revisit some of these poems as part of the 16 Days of Action.   I also feel proud, of how far I’ve moved from them and beyond them, that the pain I was writing about is no longer the same pain.  Time, and poetry really does make things better.

The last poem in the sequence is a sonnet, but I won’t be posting it here.  I wanted to write that poem as a sonnet, because it is the most closed, most self-contained form.  The way a sonnet functions like a box, the way it snaps shut at the end made me hopeful that if I finished the sequence with it, it would stop the poems continuing.  I could stop writing about it, stop thinking about it.  That was possibly naïve however.  The ‘you’ at the beginning of the sestina is Clare Shaw, the speech taken from a conversation we had about writing about trauma.  She didn’t  meant it in the way I heard it back then.  In fact this is a mishearing, a misremembering of what Clare said.  Luckily she is a generous enough person not to mind.  I misheard what I needed to hear, which was permission to write about it.

The writing I’m doing now are looking at what makes it possible for things like domestic violence to take place, what are the conditions in our society that mean some men become perpetrators and some women become victims/survivors/resisters or just lucky (if they don’t experience it)

If you would like to read the last poem in the sequence, you can buy a copy of The Art of Falling here

Thank you all for your reading, and your supportive comments, and messages.  I really appreciate them all.

 

How I Abandoned My Body To His Keeping

What happened sits in my heart like a stone.
You told me I’d be writing about it
all my life, when I asked
how to stop saying these things to the moon.
I told you how writing it makes the dark
lift and then settle again like a flock of birds.

You said that thinking of the past like birds
who circle each year will make the stone
in my chest heavy, that the dark
that settles inside me will pass. You say it
is over, you say that even the moon
can’t know all of what happened that to ask

to forget is to miss the point. I should ask
to remember.  I should open myself to the birds
who sing for their lives.  I should tell the moon
how his skin was like smoke, his hand a stone
that fell from a great height.  It
was not what I deserved.  The year was dark

because he was there and my eyes were dark
and I fell to not speaking.  If I asked
him to leave he would smile.  Nothing in it
was sacred.  And I didn’t look up.  The birds
could have fallen from the sky like stones
and I wouldn’t have noticed.  The moon

was there that night in the snow.  The moon
was waiting the day the dark
crept into my mouth and left me stone
silent, stone dumb, when all I could ask
was for him to stop, please stop.  The birds
fled to the trees and stayed there.  It

wasn’t their fault.  It was nobody’s fault.  It
happened because I was still.  The moon
sung something he couldn’t hear.  The bird
in my heart silent for a year in the dark.
This is the way it is now, asking
for nothing but to forget his name, a stone

that I carry.  It cools in my mouth in the dark
and the moon sails on overhead.  You ask
about birds, but all I can talk of is stones.

16 Days of Action #day15

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The cliché advice when we go for job interviews or doing a performance is to think of the audience or the interviewers with no clothes on, or think of them on the toilet.

Someone once said to me that another technique is to imagine the person smaller.

This poem is about that really – the fallacy that size or lack of it can make someone less frightening.

But also about power, and who has it and who doesn’t.  How sometimes power that looks like power can be not-power, can be something else.   The power to make someone smaller, to diminish them, to make them a character of black/white, good/evil, to make something simple, sometimes isn’t power at all.

In Ovid’s version of the story of Thetis, who is a shape-shifter, a goddess of the waves who can become any animal or bird that she chooses, is promised in marriage to Peleus, against her will.  Peleus catches her in a sea-cave and binds her, waiting while she changes into hundreds of different shapes before she eventually gives in and submits to him.

Sometimes the power to change is no power at all either.

The World’s Smallest Man

Today I make you into the world’s smallest man.
You are so small I open my hand and you dance
on the great landscape of my palm.

You are a thin stick of a man.  When you stretch out
along my life line, your feet touch my wrist
and your head rests below my index finger.

You are a small man, but like a small dog
you are unaware of your size.  Sometimes
you go missing for days then jump out

and shout surprise! But you do not mean surprise.
I decided to make you even smaller, the size
of an insect.  Now you can walk upside down.

I think of all the places I could leave you
now you are smaller than the lightest
water boatman, but you keep shrinking

till you are less than a grain of salt,
so small you are living on my skin.
And, once I breathe, I breathe you in.

16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #day14

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16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #day14

Translated by violence – that witnessing violence, or carrying it out, or being the victim of it changes you in a fundamental way.  It sounds obvious written out like that, but there are lots of ways of knowing something without truly knowing it.

The many violences inflicted on women in Ovid’s Metamorphosis.  Echo and her stolen voice, Medusa with snakes in her hair, transformed by revengeful Athena because she was raped by Poseidon, the Theban women and Io’s maids transformed into seabirds, and Europa carried away by Jupiter in the shape of a bull and raped…and the one that twisted my heart, Daphne, transformed into a laurel tree to escape the attentions of Apollo, who then still touches her, even though she is a tree

Transformation of the self by another – maybe it is the most violent thing that can happen

It is not as easily undone

And afterwards, the knowledge that the self can be transformed, and what to do with that self, now it has changed, and whether it is a self at all, or something else, something not-self

This is one of the few poems in the book that directly address other women.  When I say ‘us’ I mean women, women who have been translated by violence, women who have been transformed by it.

 

Translation

Don’t we all have a little Echo in us, our voices stolen,
only able to repeat what has already been said:
you made me do it he says and we call back do it, do it.

Wouldn’t any of us, if pushed, sit on the riverbank
and comb snakes from our hair, or think that in our grief
we could become a sea bird, our outstretched bodies

like a cross nailed to the wind? Who amongst us
hasn’t sat astride a man more bull than man
as he knelt in the dirt, for no good reason we can think of?

There was a time when I was translated by violence,
there were times I prayed to be turned into a flower
or a tree, something he wouldn’t recognise as me.

16 Days of Action #day13 #16days

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16 Days of Action #day13 #16days

16 Days of Action – Day 13

This is the other poem in the sequence that I don’t usually read out loud.

I wrote this at Treloyhan Manor Hotel, in St Ives.  I was tutoring a residential there with the poet Clare Shaw.  She led a kind of visualisation exercise, and I wrote this poem.

It was one of two poems that I wrote in her workshop – along with the course participants – the other one is the title poem of the sequence, and will appear here in three days time.

I’ve said thank you to Clare before, but I won’t get tired of it.  She was one of the first people I showed these poems to as a whole sequence and I honestly don’t think I would have published them without her support.

I’d already sent the ‘final’ version of the manuscript to Amy Wack, my editor at Seren, but I sent her this poem, and the other poem, because I knew they belonged with the others.

Part of trauma theory talks about part of you remaining in the time and place where the trauma took place.  I hadn’t read anything around trauma theory when I wrote this poem though.

Poetry can go back to that place and put a fence and a border around it, can contain it a little, so it isn’t just leaking out into and onto everything else.

All of these poems did this for me.  I often describe them as my shields that I put between myself and the world.

I said in an earlier post (I think) that there is a lot of knowing in these poems.

They are also a reaching towards knowing and a figuring out.

I Know

I know this bus stop, the green and flaking paint of it.
I know this road I have to cross, I know the traffic
rushing past.  I know these seven steps.  I know
this door, its weight, its tone as it speaks in anger.
I know this hallway, the hexagon tiles, red and black
and red and black.  I know this second door.
I know what it is for the body to open one door
then the other while the heart stays silent.
I know these floorboards.  I know what it is
to lie here, the body like a boat, caught by its heels
in a harbour. I know what it is to kneel here
as if in prayer, if prayers were ever full of tears.
Ten years on, it’s almost heady to look back,
see myself kneeling on the floor, watching
the hysterical skittering of the phone.
His voice, trapped and low: pick up the phone. 
You’d better pick up the fucking phone.
I know the top of my head, I know my shoulders,
can see how everything I knew is scattered
across the floor, like love and all the weight of it.
I know this room.  I know that sofa, the orange of it,
this patient waiting.  I know how it feels to walk
backwards into it.  I know this place.  I leave my self
down there, kneeling, still alone.

16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #Day12 #16days

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16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #Day12 #16days

The Oxford Dictionary defines a “doppelganger” as ‘An apparition or double of a living person’.  There’s an interesting article on the BBC here

I also found this rather strange website where you can register your details and find your very own ‘twin stranger’.

I have my very own twin who I’m often mistaken for, so it’s not that I long for a doppelganger.

But I’ve been fascinated by them since I heard a story from a friend about visiting a concentration camp, looking at the pictures on the wall of the victims who were murdered, and seeing a photo of a student that my friend taught.  My friend said it wasn’t a lookalike, it was his student, staring out from many years ago, from a horrific time in history.

And there are other names for doppelgangers – a ‘spirit double’, a ‘fetch’, a ‘firstcomer’.

So this is my doppelganger poem, my own private haunting, and one of the first poems I wrote in the sequence, examining an experience which led to me finally being forced to think about something I hadn’t thought about for ten years, something I hadn’t told anyone about for ten years, a ‘fetch’ that dragged me back to the past.

Encounter

It was you, the set of your shoulders, your way
of standing, your arms folded across your chest,

your belly a small hill, it was you, it was you,
your hair dark and shaved, your skin brown

from the sun.  I turned on my heel and went
back into the classroom and sank to my knees

behind the door and I prayed you away,
to a God I’d never spoken to before,

I wished you away like a child.  I looked again
and again through the darkened glass,

it was you, but it was not you.  Your soul
had entered this man, his eyes and his hands

were yours, it was you, I could swear it
on anything you named, if I stopped looking

it would always be you.  So I looked
and I looked till my eyes burned from

not blinking and I watched him walk away.
Your soul left his body as if it had

never been there and all that was left
of you was a taste of smoke in the air.

16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #Day11

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EDIT *Apologies – for some reason this post didn’t publish automatically yesterday.  Instead it went to my draft folder and sat there!*

Day 11

I wrote this in a temper, in a rush, in one go.

I think this is the angriest poem in the book.

they tried to make me say your name

Who is ‘they’? I cannot say.

I still cannot say the name.

Naming things is one of the ways we make sense of the world.  A name is a pact between ourselves, that we are talking about the same thing, that we mean the same thing.

Across cultures and religions, the act of naming the universe is a common genesis story.  Adam named the animals to gain dominion over them.

Jo Bell’s poem ‘Crates’ takes a slightly different approach to the act of naming.  It starts ‘Observe when I speak of crates/your mind supplies one straight away’ and then goes on to outline the different types of crates that the reader might be thinking of.

I remember when I first heard this poem.  The last three lines, the trick, the turn, the surprise of the poem, felt like the neatest fitting lid on a box.  After pointing out that merely speaking the word ‘crates’ conjures one into existence, the poem concludes

‘Now, let us speak of love.’

This poem is the first poem in Jo’s collection Kith, which is available from Nine Arches Press.  If you haven’t already got a copy, I would recommend it.

When I read this poem, it helped me understand my strange reaction, my strange rule/law around speaking/not speaking a name.  If speaking a name doesn’t give you power over something, but instead conjures it into existence…

 

Your Name

Because they tried to make me say your name,
the shame and blame and frame of it,
the dirty little game of it, the dark and distant
heart of it, the cannot be a part of it,
the bringing back the taste of it till I was changed
inside the flame of it, the cut and slap and shut
of it, the rut and fuck and muck of it,
the not-forgotten hurt of it, they syllable
stop-dead of it, the starting at the throat of it,
the ending at the teeth of it.

16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #Day10

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Day 10

Much of the information for this poem comes from https://medicalnewstoday.com and www.lenstore.co.uk

When I was writing this poem, I googled ‘black eye’ and ‘what causes a black eye’ and ‘facts about eyes’.

I knew what caused a black eye, but the internet did not give me that answer.

In the book ‘Wilful Blindness’ Margaret Keffernan examines the concept of Wilful Blindness, which is what happens when people choose, sometimes consciously but mostly not, to not ‘see’ in situations where ‘we could know, and should know, but don’t know because it makes us feel better not to know.’

For domestic violence to take place, wilful blindness has to take place.

On the part of the victim i.e ‘How could I have been so blind?’.  It’s common for a victim not to recognise that what is happening is domestic abuse.

But also on the part of society.

Domestic violence is happening under our noses/in front of our faces/

and we/you/I are wilfully blind.

 

On Eyes

That we are not born with tears
but learn them in the passing of a month.
That a black eye can be caused by a tennis ball,
a fist or a door.  That blue-eyed people
share a common ancestor with every
other blue-eyed person in the world.
That there are microscopic creatures
living in our eyelashes.  That these
will not speak up for us.  That a black
eye fades from dark-blue to violet
to yellow-green.  That dolphins sleep
with one eye open.  That on seeing
danger the eye will close.  That we
do not enter this world with colour.
That it takes only a few days for
a black eye to heal.  That the eye
is the fastest moving part of the body
but not the fastest healing for that
is the tongue.  That to avoid a black eye
make sure rugs and carpets are well placed
and there are no wrinkles in your floor.
Scorpions have twelve eyes.
Worms have no eyes at all.
To avoid a black eye, always wear
protective gear, such as a helmet or goggles.

16 Days of Action Against Domestic Violence #Day9

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Day 9

Over half way through 16 days of action.  It’s been both harder and easier than I thought.

Now I am returning, I’m interested in how the mode of address in the sequence changes – that there are more and more poems addressed to a ‘you’ as it progresses.

It’s like walking in a place I’ve been to before, but seeing it from horseback instead of from the ground.

Or like I’m on a boat, and the place where I used to walk is flooded, but with the clearest water, and I can see straight down to the path, straight through my own face reflected back at me.

I have an aversion to poems with the word ‘memory’ in them.  I decide I don’t like them.  Although I love the word ‘remember’.  It is the vagueness of ‘memory’ I don’t like. Whereas ‘remember’ feels like a physical thing.

And then I find this poem called ‘Memory’ by Lawson Fusao Inada and it is full of memory and I realise I don’t dislike this word at all, that I have made up a rule to keep myself safe from poetry in some way, and that my rule was arbitrary and stupid, because I love this poem.

Memory is an old Mexican woman
sweeping her yard with a broom

 

Your Hands

I can’t remember your fingernails
but I remember the quick movement

of your hands, how you rolled each
cigarette, your tongue licking the paper.

For months I found brown twists
of tobacco in the creases of clothes,

filters in their plastic sleeves
or delicate papers spread like wings.

I can’t remember a single thing we said
to one another but I remember your

black leather jacket, your one pair
of good black trousers.  I remember

arguing all night, but not what about.
I remember sleep was something

that did not belong to me.  I swear
I remember nothing, just your outline

at the foot of the bed, you are shouting
as if calling me from some distant shore,

but there’s no such thing as sound,
no such thing as shore.