Close, 2

(A short disquisition on how sideboards do furnish a room, in which I’m thinking about types of closeness: how close we get to – or should approach – those lives we thought we might lead. How distant the writer might be, or want to be, from those he or she writes about. 

The element of retreat in this reminds me of the suki no tonseisha, those writerly monks who retreated to their temporary huts to contemplate transience in medieval Japan – Bunting’s ‘Chomei at Toyama‘ being one reconsideration of this motive, simultaneously ascetic and aesthetic, with just a dash of Bartlebyism in the mix. Similarly, I suggest, Hugh MacDiarmid wanted to get away from the couthiness of the close, to become uncouth. 

My feelings on the matter are, perhaps, more conflicted.)

I find myself fantasising (in the sense that nothing I do quite amounts to planning) about augmenting the inherited furniture of my rented tenement flat, given that it is a mirror image of my grandmother’s flat, with my grandmother’s sideboard – which was itself the ‘virtual sideboard’ of a lost novella, written on holiday in the 90s in the darkness of a Tenerife holiday bungalow while my partner and infant daughter slumbered in the bedroom, my ‘inspiration’ fuelled by half bottles of three year old whisky with names unheard of in these parts – Auld Perth, The Highlander’s Delight, Prince Stewart’s Own Blend. 

The novella, as far as I can remember anything about its plotless meanderings, simply located all my memories and fantasies about my childhood and Dundee somewhere in the recesses of the sideboard, and so too folded away the past itself like a tablecloth, or the vast thick table mat that was brought out every time my great-aunts and-uncles foregathered to play cards (always ‘Horsie’, or Newmarket), which could be accessed by crawling into it a la Narnia or a Tardis. It sounds and presumably was terrible.

The actual sideboard currently languishes in Asbestos Garage, AKA my mother’s unused garage, itself an echo of our identical old unused garage from Kennoway Place, the bungalow where we lived for the best part of thirty years, alongside the damp boxes of papers which may or may not contain the manuscript of Virtual Sideboard, which themselves are only like my archive, in that they are completely unsorted. (They are in fact more like a forgettory.)

This gesture would then reflect and reinforce the way that my current stay in Broughty Ferry is itself a simulacrum of my lost ‘Life in Dundee’ in my thirties and forties when I was in fact earning a living for my family in Newcastle (ie being a grown up), but somehow ‘should’ have lived here.

That mirror imaging is the key to the sideboard/garage/archive/forgettory: I’m in a simulacrum of my twenties: following a life like a life I ‘want’ to lead, just not enough to actually do so. Thus the weekly visits to my mother in Monifieth reverse the polarity of my treks up the Perth Road in the eighties (via Groucho’s and various vanished second-hand bookshops) to Gran’s flat. Thus my constitutional walk of a Sunday is not past the Castle and along the sandy beach, but in the opposite direction, to the yacht club and the Stannergate. 

The trope of reversal, like the McGonagall supper in which the courses are eaten in reverse order, or the manner in which the Three Estates in Sir David Lindsay’s Satire are led onstage ‘Gangan backwart’ by their respective Vices, points me to the figure of the shaman who lives life backwards, tricksily, or contrariwise, the Heyoka of the Lakota: for instance, the ‘Straighten-Outer’ is described as ‘always running around with a hammer trying to flatten round and curvy things (soup bowls, eggs, wagon wheels, etc.), thus making them straight.’

Thus the whole practice becomes a bad shamanism, trying to make something straight and simple which happened to follow its own kinks and arabesques. Thus the weekly breakfast at Visocchi’s; the stimulating diet of pies or bridies from Goodfellow’s; the diurnal purchase of the Evening Telegraph; the hour of devotions to that Tullie or staring at the Tay in one of the set quartet of public houses, The Ship, The Fisherman’s, The Phoenix, Mennie’s; the purchasing of Braithwaite’s coffee despite misgivings about this being some sort of proto-hipster gesture; the visiting of the DCA where once it would have been the Steps Cinema – these are all attempts to imitate a life, and are indeed an imitation of life.

But there are virtues to be glimpsed among the errors I have led myself into. My fascination with the contrary writers of nineteenth century Dundee – whether the working class figures associated with the kailyard, the genuine innovators, or that peculiarly Flarf-like strain of deliberately bad writing that led to Dundee’s yurodivy, the Holy Fool McGonagall – folk like James Easson, ‘Poute’ (Alexander Burgess), and James Young Geddes – has led me to reconsider those Dundonian values Michael Marra characterised as ‘hermless’ in a manner that would have appalled that great dismisser of all poetics but his own, Hugh MacDiarmid.

His dislike of poems which were in his opinion ‘like a dog when it loves you’ manifested itself in a marked rejection of closeness in the sense under discussion here. MacDiarmid wished to flee the sentiment and nostalgia of such nineteenth-century poetry – symbolised for him by the Burns Cult, and, metonymically, by the use of the Burns stanza, with its tightly-packed rhymes and dimeter and trimeter lines – precisely because it was so proximate to him. 

He wished to escape from the closeness of the toun, that place where he actually lived – be it Langholm, Montrose, Whalsay (the toun as island as whale), or the ironic homophone of Biggar – into the conceptual space of international Modernism: the continental, the cosmopolitan, the urbane. In short, the eternal city, the city of the world’s desire, the city of God, the city that never sleeps – anything but the Scottish city with its transferral of the horizontally parochial to the vertical of the close.

MacDiarmid’s mode was always to foreignise, to make strange and other and separate what it is that the (Scottish) poet does and is – though in doing so he conformed to a rather conventional Romantic notion of the distance between the genius and his (always his) genealogy. 

Because his politics would not allow him to retreat to the ivory tower, he favoured a more extreme vertical still, the Tower of Abstruse New Song, in particular the upper floors of that brutalist structure, the long poem, ‘The kind of poetry I want/Is poems de longue haleine – far too long/To be practicable for any existing medium’ – in the words of the Chinese poet Yang Lian, he wished to ‘begin from what is impossible’.

I’d like to try instead to think of a summation of the poet’s role as far too possible – a polyphony of possibilities, or an irreducibly plural series of roles that have to be assessed, categorised, and assigned priorities – the multi-tasking of a close-dweller, or citizen of the polis, a participant, however inept and/or reluctant.

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Close, 1

(When I went off to Crete for 10 days over Paskha, I had a cunning plan. Knowing that I had large projects of scary creative work to do in the realms of both poetry and prose, I set myself two ‘safe’ tasks – things I thought I knew how to manage in each field – so that I could sneak up on the hard stuff while getting fighting fit. Naturally, it didn’t work out that way. 

I actually found it easier to get on with the difficult writing – editing and ordering poems for my next still untitled collection, and fine-tuning the synopsis of, while pushing on into the writing of, my McGonagall novel. The displacement activities – lineating and beginning a commentary on the great sixteenth century Scots prose work, The Complaynt of Scotlande (or rather one chapter from it, the magnificent if somewhat ‘prolixt’ Monolog Recreativ), and working on a blog posting about living in a close – turned out to be larger and stranger than I had anticipated.

I’ll monologue more about the Monolog elsewhere, but suffice to say the matter of the Scottish tenement led into a more complicated discussion of the social role of the writer than I’d initially supposed. This, then, is the first of three drafted posts, with at least one other sketched out. More on this breaking story tomorrow.)

While my decision in 2013 to come and live half the week in Dundee for six months wasn’t exactly a Gauguin-like escape to the South Seas to bide with Robert Louis Stevenson and Fanny in absolute creative freedom with hints of amoral concupiscence, it did cause more serious ructions in my family than I had anticipated. 

Especially as I took up the Dundee Makarship at the end of that period, and entered into a longer term stay of long weekends and occasional weeks and fortnights which may well last till 2018.

The cost of the flat had to be debated with my parents – the money being a dummy for the actual issue of why couldn’t I just come and stay with them? And my partner and daughter had to reassure themselves that this was like Debbie’s trips to Crete to write, and that it certainly did not mean that I cared any the less about my family – there was a particularly painful after-breakfast walk in Tayport one Saturday where the delight of seeing wild dolphins close to shore, which we did, was overshadowed by our discussion of the possibility that I might need to spend time with my father that I should otherwise have spent with my daughter. 

It was already becoming evident within that initial six months that my father’s health was beginning to fail, and, while we had no sense he would die as suddenly as he did – in March 2014, less than a year in – there was a dawning need to articulate that my proximity might be a good thing.

Much of this turned like a newel in a stairwell around the differing opinions in the family about my flat. As soon as I saw the ‘For Rent’ sign in the bay window of a first floor flat looking out on the Tay from Beach Crescent, I’d been in no doubt I wanted it. But this conviction had to ride roughshod over my father’s teeth-sucking over the amount, Debbie’s shudders at the decor, and both my mother’s and Izzie’s dislike of the stairwell – who was going to repair that crack? Were those stairs concrete or granite?

Whereas, for me, the symbology of the close harked back to childhood – to the first close I could remember in Peddie Street, and the one I counted as home from home, indeed the one which implanted in me the concept that home could be plural: my grandparents’ (latterly my gran’s) in Corso Street. Street Street. 

Where everyone saw difficulty, then, I saw DNA in the warm awkward spiral of the wooden banister rail, and catching up the dust from its untouched turns on the palm of my hand was for me a dichting and renewing of the covenant of the close: that we live together, that we are close. 

That closeness, ironically, I could only enact by establishing a certain distance from each part of the quartet of my close family. Into the gaps thus opened up, a further definition of ‘us’ could then be admitted: as doubled communities and cities – Dundee and Newcastle, Broughty Ferry and North Shields; and as complementary regions: the North-Easts.

A close, any close, be it grand or grimy, consists of three parts, each negotiating the matter of proximity, in which our understanding of contiguity and cohabitation can confront or accommodate our awareness of personal space and relative privacy. So there is the close itself, the land (or landing), and the lobby. 

These three features of tenement living each carries a symbolic resonance: the close as a vernacular architecture of intimacy; the land, with its pairing and sometimes more of doors, almost becomes a synecdoche for the land, each one a separate country in the composite state of the close; while the lobby, continuing the land up to the privacy of our rooms, extends the notion of the liminal. 

The close, then, is almost as close to us as our bodies: the stairwell newel like a gyring of nervous messages around a spine, each land like our hips, stacked as though on a totem pole of the living, and each lobby like as many ribs. The close was once open as a stoma to the street or shared or claimed or assigned garden, but each is now sealed off with a door like the plate on a whulk, and, sometimes, individualising (atomising) buzzers.

When I went to Brasenose College, I stayed on a mazy stairwell outrageously, with that lazy unconsidered symbolism of Oxford, called the Arab Quarter, as though we were somehow in the Old City in Jerusalem.

As with those moments learning Anglo-Saxon and Middle English, where I understood my Scots was closer to this supposedly dead and studied thing than my fellow students’ invariably properer English, so this ‘Quarter’ connected oddly with my original tenement on Peddie Street via a five year old’s impressionistic memories of two room flats, a pulley for washing glimpsed out of a back window, gaslights on the stairs, and the outside loos between the lands. 

These were echoed in college in an arrangement whereby my narrow bedroom was on the top floor, while my ridiculously spacious study downstairs looked out on the High (all such windowsills acting as coolers for milk and butter during the winter in those fridgeless times), and the basement held rows of baths and toilets.

This linkage of working class tenement and upper class college rooms in turn suggested the closeness of the classes in the historic Edinburgh tenements and stairs of the Royal Mile. 

Closeness in the close is evinced through sound as much as encounter: the alarm in another flat that wakes you; next door’s music coming through the fireplace like Magritte’s miniature puffing train; the small hours pop that’s actually a forgotten bottle of stout bursting in your own freezer. 

The synecdoche of the land is suggested by childhood’s miniatures and models: my remembered games of toy soldiers with Michael Hammill on a demolished top land in Annfield Row; or by how, in my grandmother’s close, the Sturrocks (a tipsy divorcee and her spinster sister) lived on the top floor, while the relentlessly labouring Jacks were occasionally at home on the first, and the urbane-seeming Eric and fur-wearing Chrissie Fleming resided on the ground – together seeming somehow to represent the world or at least a worldview in some Geddesian sense, as though every close was a take on his Outlook Tower.

(Of course this ignored two entire flats, whose inhabitants were either more temporary or, in some other way, other enough not to be within my grandparents’ purview – the close of course also kept its others close across political and religious divides.)

The liminality of the lobby was hinted at in the sangs and rhymes of the close – the bairn rhymes and merry muses’ cramboclink that only needed to be alluded to, and rarely or never completed: ‘There’s a boabby in yir loabby, Mary Ann…’ hinted at some transgression requiring the presence of the police that would presumably already be known to those informing Mary Ann about what was happening inside her own home, possibly something along the lines of Aunty Mary’s never-revealed motivation for having a canary ‘up the leg o her draaers’

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Waukendremes, 2

The opposite of falling asleep while reading must be, exactly, waking up while writing. I’ve had, as most writers have, the experience of waking with a phrase or an entire poem in my head; or of remembering at the point of waking the poem one was drafting in that same head as one fell asleep. 

In several instances, I was discovering or writing in what I supposed to be an actual form, only to discover it was nothing of the sort – either a complete invention, or dependent on a trick of dream logic which rendered it unfeasible in the waking world. These instances might correspond to the medieval – or at least pre-industrial – experience of the dorveille. This word – its French mirroring the Scots of ‘wakendreme’ to such an extent one wonders if the Scots borrowed it, or if it just passed through some Cocteau-esque mirror of the Auld Alliance – describes that common phenomenon of the medieval or pastoral night, whereby people would sleep for four or so hours, wake for one or two, then sleep for another four. 

Undistorted by artificial light or the demands of the factory system, which invented eight hours sleep much as it invented regulated, centralised time (fixed time, like regular distance, was another commodity delivered by the railways), there was a space which belonged neither to the owl nor to the lark, which was not pathologised as insomnia, in which people prayed, made love, and meditated in the small dark hours – and, no doubt, composed.

Our nearest echo of it, then, is the disturbed night, and the rituals we invent to send us back into the dream; and our nearest understanding of it as a state of consciousness might be the lucid dream. That condition, of knowing while asleep that you are dreaming, has always seemed to me to correspond closely to the creative act, of making something up while believing that the thing you’re inventing has some prior rights to existence: the poem-before-the-poem, as it were.

My usual trigger to alert me that I’m dreaming lucidly rather than waking bewilderedly is when I find myself levitating. (It’s interesting that we have parallel forms for the passive conditions of being asleep and being awake, but the very active verb ‘dream’ has no exact antonym. ‘Waking” is a single act, not a continuous one, and, although we think of this state as reality, ‘realising’ won’t quite do.)

There are a number of techniques that enable levitation, but my favourite is the Imaginary Pedal: here, while walking briskly, you place one foot on the pedal of an invisible bicycle, then just forget to return it entirely to the ground – the non-existent pedal turns slightly, offers you the necessary resistance, and you’re off. Quixote taught me that, probably.

When flight becomes a matter of willpower, it’s a sign you’re beginning to wake up. At a similar point in the dream of writing, I realise I must find some way of preserving the dream text into the waking realm. Many dreams end with me trying to write a poem down on a piece of dream paper I expect to find on waking up through the magic trick of tucking it under my pillow. 

The focus on writing at these points as a willed action is illustrative of the nature of the parallel between these worlds: letters won’t stay put, words resist being fixed things. It’s like the experience one has in a thunderstorm at night: of seeing something momentarily illuminated, but without the colours it would possess in daylight – as though you are seeing the naked thing.

A couple of recent examples of such phrases: ‘Where is the sentence with the Moon-Bison which has two full stops?’ ‘The illuminated flumen is flown in’. 

One is clearly already losing the text it wishes to preserve to paradox, the other has that characteristic dream imbalance to it, whereby the music of language has slewed it away from a literal meaning: it is suggestive without it being possible to settle its sphere of reference. I was reminded of Beefheart’s naming of his band members, particularly Winged Eel Fingerling, and thought again about how lyricists like Beefheart and Barrett were in pursuit of a sliding, angled language which distilled the altered states they’d experienced.

‘The winged Elvis is of course an ancient Aztec symbol inscribed on the sunglasses of the emperors,’ I noted to myself in passing, before recalling that, earlier in the dream, I had been working on an abecedary form in which successive letters began key words in each half of the line. Now that might work. This gift, a derivation of the alliterative poem, was filed away for future use

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Exceptionals and the Rules


FullSizeRenderI was very struck by The Guardian‘s editorial this Monday reflecting on the deaths of Chuck Berry and Derek Walcott, and thinking of poetry as something which encompassed and is lessened by the loss of both. Not only did this pick up the issue of Dylan’s Nobel in an intelligent way, it was a rare chance to see how a major cultural institution – one of the four ‘estates’ of modern society – views poetry.

The recent springing upon us of ‘World Poetry Day’, and this morning’s sad news of the death of Roy Fisher (hard on the heels of another significant loss – that of Tom Raworth – and accompanied by that of another fine critic, poet, and editor, David Kennedy), provokes reflection on the insights thus revealed.

It set forth the tenets of a generous orthodoxy, one where memorability and melody are equally at stake, where the underlying issue is: what is resonant – sonically, emotionally, historically? As such it made me think again about two areas I’ve been concerned with over the years, and test my assumptions.

The first is the relation between the poem and austerity: ‘There should be no spare words in a poem any more than there should be any missing.’

On the surface this is self-evident, or at least self-evident about everyone else’s poetry – one’s own always has to resist its own special dispensation, based on a more, um, nuanced understanding of ‘spare’.

But why should there be no spare words in a poem, no excess? Why should all poetry be tied to a fashion or cult of minimalism, or, worse case scenario, be considered a safe place for some sort of obsessive perfectionism? Why not be as messy and flawed, or ordered and economic, as the subject, tone, or approach requires? Is that principle of appropriate variance not how we get from the epic of Omeros to the lyric concision of ‘Johnny B. Goode’?

Could this be more a constraint upon the constraints rather than a virtue ascribed to them? It seems to suit those who wish to control and position poetry – editors, journalists, bureaucrats – rather than practitioners or readers. If, as the editorial goes on to say, ninety per cent of poetry is lost in time, let it be so. But it may not be because, as the article implies, they failed to be economic. It may just be an uncomfortable fact that, initially, most, and, eventually, all things must pass.

The second is a touch more contentious: ‘Poetry, music and religion must all once have been indistinguishable, but they separated millennia ago in the west.’

What, then, we might ask, are hymns? What if this were never the case, or only the case in certain cultures, or, as with hymns and psalmody, at certain but nonetheless sustained points in certain cultures? Might this apparently mythical union of poem, song and religion be better identified as a way of reading?

What if it’s perfectly alright for there to be three separate but cognate modes of handling patterned, performative, ritualistic language? David Kennedy as well as Derek Walcott had much to say about the various types and purposes of ritual. What if these poetic, melodic and spiritual modes simply formed part of a spectrum, including patterned, performative, and ritualistic prose, including legal, political, and indeed literary and journalistic discourse?

Fundamentally, if, as World Poetry Day purports to do, you cram everything you think of as poetry into a day, must we spend the rest of the year in what you suppose is prose? What if there wasn’t a single monolithic block called ‘Prose’ which encompassed all speech and all writing, and a minuscule series of ‘Exceptions’, where the supposed privilege associated with these, like that fabled former unity, was in fact a mode of marginalisation?

I am reminded by all this of a quote from Roy Fisher, who summed up his writing by suggesting, ‘Anything I have seen, I’ve only seen by…looking at what was out of the corner of the picture, what was outside the frame.’

This principle of the epiphenomenon, the peripheral, and the secondary, as a resistance to all the grand old narratives, with their focalising and their teleologies, their categorising and orthodoxies, seems to me the one exemplified by both Berry and Walcott, as well as the other writers we have recently lost. There are stories about poetry as about poets, and it is the job of poems and even poetics, not to deny the narrative as a mode, but to offer that which is contrary to those stories which, in their neatness and need for satisfactory conclusions, memorialise poetry to the margins.

As Walcott’s St Lucia, Berry’s Cadillac, and Roy Fisher’s Slakki (‘Not much of a valley’) demonstrate, as David Kennedy’s New Poetry anthology argued (‘Province Plenty, London Nil’ as Peter Porter’s review was headlined), everywhere not in the centre is yet another centre, but to be eccentric in this sense is to be alive to both locations in a manner the purported centre always struggles to see and hear, and indeed regularly requires the perspective of those peripheries to achieve.

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Waukendremes, 1

An interesting blog post from Richard Gwyn about the not uncommon experience of falling asleep while reading reminds me I’ve been exploring a few angles of this phenomenon over the years.

That odd-to-and-fro relationship of reader to writer, and of writer-as-reader to the text struck me particularly when I dropped off before a reading in Galway, and woke up with the idea for Omnesia, a book partly about just this sort of doubling, about the books you have in your head, your own as much as other people’s.

The condition is, I think, well-described by the Scots word ‘waukendreme’: you don’t quite know where the reality, if you can call it that, begins.

I’d just been noting that I was doubling my library – buying copies of Don Quixote and that already-doubled book, Confessions of a Justified Sinner, for the flat I’m maintaining in Dundee while I’m Makar, and while I’m writing/trying to write my McGonagall novel.

And I’d been looking, of the purposes of writing a blog entry, for a note about the phenomenon of doubling or echoing previous houses, modes of life, habitudes, when I’d spotted a couple of instances of nap-related (or more generally slewed-) thinking which echo Richard’s point.

(The Slew is something else again which I’m trying to write about in terms of compositional strategies, so perhaps this’ll encourage me to shift my conceptual arse. Certainly it looks like there are two or three potential posts gathering around these ideas.)

Here’s the first note. It was written in July last year on our writing holiday in Crete, when we were in the habit of having a siesta:

I was dropping off to sleep this afternoon when Debbie woke me by closing a shutter, and I realised I’d been “watching” a programme in which three people dressed up as their favourite characters from a book and answered questions about that book or its author.

The format was a not unfamiliar cross between say Mastermind and cosplay, but the interesting element was that in the few seconds I’d actually been asleep, this quiz had become a long-running ‘classic’. 

(One of the contestants was Sancho Panza, in that sense that, somewhere in every dream, a part of Don Quixote continues to unfold.)

The readiness of the sleeper to accept the dream, as well as the rapidity of the invention, is what particularly  fascinates me. On the one hand, there is that first, purest suspension of disbelief, that one is not asleep, which includes suspending disbelief in the coherence or otherwise of the elements of the dream, and perceiving it as, somehow, narrative.

On the other, I’m always amazed by how limitless the capacities of the creative impulse are once our limiting sense of the self is set aside. As Nietzsche observed, there are vast spaces between what appear to be our most reasoned or reasonable ideas.

– I’ll dig out that Nietzsche quote and update this when in the office tomorrow. For the moment, here is the second instance, which is a sort of love prose-poem – (there’s half a temptation to call it ‘Visions of Deborah’):

Waking from a mid-afternoon nap, I’m looking down on the vegetable garden from our balcony in Emprosneros, and I see Debbie moving among the dreels of peppers and aubergines, and tomatoes, her red hair catching the early evening light. 

My attention must drift for a moment in the cooling breeze coming up the valley because the next thing I know she’s on the path just below me, some cucumbers in the red colander. 

For a further bizarre second it seems to me she is in both places at the same time, like those hagiographic paintings in which the same bright figure reappears at several points in a landscape, performing its sequence of miraculous duties. 

Thus the eye tricks the mind into learning something about what the heart must be feeling.

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Two Poems for Tom Raworth and an Instant Elegy


I’m indebted to Peter Manson who, on my posting a short elegy on Tumblr for Tom Raworth, suggested I reproduce here two poems he, Peter, and his co-editor Robin Purves, first published in Object Permanence, no. 3 (Sept 94). These were after Raworth’s work in a quite specific way which I suppose illustrates how I and other writers were working in Oxford in the late 80s.

I was nominal ‘president’ of the Oxford University Poetry Society by then, working toward a mode of writing which in 1994 I would have described as Informationist, and later as polystylist, but which at that point consisted of an openness on the part of a bunch of us to both experiment and, to a lesser extent then, form (in my case in both Scots and English), without particularly aligning ourselves with, on the one hand, the Cambridge/London innovative writing scene, or, on the other, the Oxford/London mainstream groupings.

(This was not so long after the Poetry Wars, so inviting Tom Raworth or Eric Mottram or Robert Creeley to read, as we did, could be and was seen as the sort of gesture that would cause the likes of the late Mick Imlah to keep us at arm’s length.)

We were, mostly, whimsical folks who could be rejected by Reality Studios for surrealist recidivism, and we were certainly far more into O’Hara than the then-fashionable Ashbery, while the non-partisan stance of Morgan had schooled me to be wary of the approval of either Southern British camp, especially given their continued neglect of Scottish writing in the very various forms of W.S.  Graham and Hugh MacDiarmid.

For me, Tom Raworth transcended all these categories and concerns. He had effortless control of the music of discourse, bringing a wholly owned range of tones together in a polyphony that blurred found, mutated and invented phrasing into free-wheeling linked sequences. He broke open syntax in a manner we’d been experimenting with without as yet having encountered the New Sentence.

Most of all, he was fast and funny and remarkable – the work was shapely and graceful, and so in much the same way was he. He was as delightful to be with as to listen to in a reading as he is to sit down and read again this morning. He was not so much a presence as present.

I still clung enough to the Poundian notion of virtù  to recognise he was all of a piece in a manner I still wished I could become. (Though I should by then have recognised the term’s origins in the civic self of  Machiavelli and Aquinas.)

I remember the day after his reading for OUPS we gathered in George’s café in the Covered Market – a no-nonsense establishment of which I mostly recall a single sandwich filling (something with salad cream and sweetcorn and small squares of processed ham), plus large plastic mugs of instant coffee (the refinement of Georgina’s upstairs was still to come). Tom was wearing a soft plaid shirt, and he wasn’t well, but we talked, he and Keith Jebb and Helen Kidd and (I think) George Roberts, and (possibly) Joe Kelleher, and (maybe not) Gwynneth Lewis, and I, happily, for hours.

What we talked about, however, was everything to do with what we thought about poetry (we were more eager to hear anecdotes about US writers than UK ones) and how it was written and how it could be read, and therefore, as far as the memory is concerned, nothing. That he was so sympathetic and low key and encouraging made it seem completely normal.

That it felt normal – that poetry, as opposed to constantly presenting itself as the most important thing in the world, could and even should be normal, i.e. as important and as unimportant as everything else – meant it fed into at least my practice and I think that of others in an extremely direct way.

So much so that over the next week I produced a variation on each of the poems in the two pamphlets of his I’d bought, Heavy Light, and Lèvre de Poche. This was a trying on for size, the learning by imitation many student poets did in the days before Creative Writing.

The sheer what-do-I-do-nextness? of that led me to attempt a contraction of those two echo pamphlets into two poems, which is what I sent to Peter and Robin several years later. Peter later pointed out how, by then, my sense of the direction of my work and indeed the work of certain of my peers (those pesky Informationists, mostly) had veered away from not so much such procedures as the schools of writing they were attached to or claimed by. Which made the Object Permanence publication more of a pivotal moment for me than I had realised.

That is, however, an issue for a subsequent post. This one is about Tom Raworth and the liberty granted by his influence. For that reason, I’ll append that little sonnet I assembled from the tweets I posted while news of his death sank in. Social media is at once emotionally dissociative and intertextually revealing in a manner which I hope, in this instance, he would appreciate.

Two Poems for Tom Raworth and an Instant Elegy

1 Under heavy light

Can damage be described as a sky over sand
laboriously sculpted into the shape of spaghetti
a Sahara Carbonara in which the bacon is camels?
is a question which suspends injury for a time.
A: No, moving through hurt points out
a colour is not influenced by getting thinner,
as skies do towards dawn, or the green
of bottles does if rolled in seas,
the most one can say is
“these are not streets this is not Mexico”.

Healing’s not within the cloud’s palate,
certainly not the one from which the chandelier fell,
nearly hitting Captain Wedderburn, of which
she asked: “was that not the ornate street-tree,
the plum-tree light?” Bella signora, no.
The light flows from and curves toward
the rubber baby buggy bumpers,
dear lady with the flowers in her
lamp-like lap, the dank breast flowers,
her breath from a well: how do you
walk like an egg-timer?
A: Dawn may once have chopped off your fingers,
but here we have a negligible horizon,
it doesn’t reach the ground.

I’m often dreaming I’m learning to swim in your
honeydripping beehive, that I am your locust,
a nice insipid sound on your back
of the sleep like a press of moths to the margin,
smoking out your gorged thoughts,
the blue swirlishoo the shadow of a feedback:
help me towards this colour.

The sun sets inside my stomach like
a night-light in a saucer of water.
I forged the Autumn-fluctuant brands across
the sky delightedly from my eye-cave,
a dariole full of oriole, or
slime-acid windows, a relationship full
of lucid lenticular moments before
the great dune said: “here is a cat”
and then we were a story.

2 Pocket lever

With everything prepared for forwardness,
painting the kidneys, rubbing stones together
over utterings filled with bright bellows
Captain Wedderburn remembered that in America
the dance may have generated a bit of maize.
The daylight concentrated underwater, I passed
a lot of confused gestures that used
to be faces. This bath is so full of water
except it continues oddly inside its hole,
pouring through brown cisterns,
and bronze frog gods go there with chopsticks,
picking human souls out of the waters.
I see a rainbow through the orange juice,
remembering it’s impossible to smell the I,
taking hours over colours like these,
then forgetting the speech
“I still don’t feel well
in Dingle Dell”
branches freshly lopped where they couldn’t fit
that subject in, rivers and mountains
tall stumps with pale stumps on them.

Significant gestures in Spain include
getting a drummer with the evening
bees, porches with the glass-thin stars, this
rose getting too long in the petal, so liquid
collects in the sloughed skin of the light.
Infirmity tastes the radio, shyly
offering what was probably bacon,
so blue, two breaths that never met in reason.
The ladder felt the fierce clasp of his hand
in which my heart is crushed, expanding on a similar theme:
deodorant on
the adorant tongue
in the armpit,
sewers coursed with phlegm and telephone wires
like variations on veins, wet roles, the happy lie.

*

non-drip ghost

‘gone mental incandescence’

Farewell! You were the best of us –
may Earth 2 or is it 3 thrive and
not go all cybermenny again!
*falls to breakfasting on neighbour’s
brainin the nuclear glow*
Is it Xmas again yet already?
As the old song sings, ‘What’s ciabatta shoe?’
The one at the back is wearing a mask
but you’re already doomed because
the one at the front has let you see its face.
Everything catches me by surprise
he asserted proudly.
I got the chicken shouting blues.
I am sick and tired of being pleased for you.

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Robo-Burns: The Orfeon Translates

(By way of xenochronicitous – AKA late – celebration of the birth o the Bard, here’s an machine-generated curio. 

The Bulgarian poet Kristin Dimitrova completed a translation of one of my Burns poems – there’s mair – back in 2009 when we worked on a companion volume to Arc’s A Balkan Exchange, a book of collaborative translations from 2007, in which myself, Andy Croft, Linda France and Mark Robinson built on five years of contact with Bulgarian poets to translate Kristin, Georgi Gospodinov, Nadya Radulova, and VBV (Vassil Vidinsky). 

As that volume, a set of translations from English – and Scots – is due to appear this year (we poets are nothing if not tenacious), Kristin thought it’d be nice to greet the New Year with her translation of ‘Rabbie, Rabbie, Burning Bright’. Then Facebook’s auto-translate facility thought it’d be helpful to just, y’know, translate that back into ‘English’.

The result reminded me of my robotic alter ego from an earlier Arc volume, the roboet Orfeon (the apparition of which in Mexico City I will eventually recount). It is Unglish of a rare sort, which robots of the future are welcome to recite at their cybernetic festivals. I reproduce here first Orfeon’s version, then Kristin’s original Bulgarian, and finally my Scots antecedent. 

The latter, incidentally, was chosen by David Robinson for the Scottish Poetry Library as one of the best Scottish poems of 2013 – mebbe the version ablow will achieve a similar honour in anither hunnert year or so?)

Robbie, Robbie, living embers

Between November and now
Since the snow fell
Squatting under winter horns
In Winter and mech
Pray for spring, rainbow
And summer clothes.
May sunshine from st. Andrei
He got drunk and not grey,
In his boozy apogee
Left Home.
Heavenly Chandelier
Now throwing up.
As Knights and bold
Chopping down chickens, turkeys, geese,
We swear to spatter factory
Enemy to bucim.
Lads we are, but with ties.
Gelded dogs.
Christmas by gesture of gesture
Approaching Financial stress
But Robert Burns was born today
Oh, highest glory!
And this day glow of six
And thawing.
If lift full bŭrdutsi
Cut and juicy sausage,
Will grasp without Confucius,
That fight stops.
Peace be with you! Chillin fists
Wings and beer.
Eh, haggis, meaty zora
From January subsoil –
You still at the table in the court,
But how to start
No Burns, no song of mouth
Rhymes and accurate?
After these lush nights in chess
Wakes up every beggar,
Go tax that beating
Backs.
Scots, forget fear
Read and burns!

*

Роби, Роби, жива жар

Между ноември и сега,
откакто паднал е снега,
клечим под зимните рога
във зимен мех и
за пролет молим, за дъга
и летни дрехи.

Май Слънчо от Св. Андрей
се е натряскал и не грей,
в пиянския си апогей
напуснал къщи.
Небесният полиелей
сега повръща.

И както рицарите дръзки
сечем кокошки, пуйки, гъски,
кълнем се, та се дигат пръски,
врага да бучим.
Юнаци сме, но с вратовръзки,
скопени кучета.

По Коледа от жест на жест
достигаме финансов стрес,
но Робърт Бърнс роден е днес,
о, висша слава!
И този ден пламти на шест
и размразява.

Щом вдигнем пълните бърдуци
и резнем сочните суджуци,
ще схванеш, без да си Конфуций,
че боят спира.
Мир вам! Отпускаме юмруци
и пием бира.

Ех, хагис – месеста зора
от януарските недра –
ти пак край масата ни сбра, 
но как да почнем
без Бърнс, без песен на уста
и рими точни?

След тези буйни нощи в шах
се буди всеки сиромах,
че иде данъчен пердах
по гърбовете.
Шотландци, забравете страх
и Бърнс четете!

*

Rabbie, Rabbie, Burning Bright

Atween November’s end and noo
there’s really nithin else tae do
but climb inside a brindlet coo
           and dream o Spring,
fur Winter’s decked hur breist and broo
           wi icy bling.

It feels like, oan St Andrae’s nicht,
thi sun went oot and gote sae ticht
he endit up in a braw fire fecht
             wi some wee comet – 
noo he’s layin low wi his punched-oot licht
             aa rimmed wi vomit.

We too hae strachilt lik The Bruce
and hacked up turkey, duck and goose;
and let aa resolution loose
            oan Hogmanay,
but waddle noo frae wark tae hoose
              lyk dogs they spayed.

Each year fails tae begin thi same:
fae dregs o Daft Deys debt comes hame
and we gaither in depression’s wame
             aa duty-crossed – 
but Burns’s birthday is a flame
             set tae Defrost.

Ye dinna need tae be Confucius
tae ken, if Dullness wad confuse us,
ye caa ‘Respite! Let’s aa get stocious – 
              And dinna nag us.
Grant us that globe of spice, thi luscious
            Delight caaed “haggis”!’

That truffle o the North must be 
dug frae the depths o January,
but cannae pass oor lips, nor we
              cross Limbo’s border – 
unless that passport, Poetry,
             be quite in order.

Sae thi daurkest deys o thi haill damn year
can dawn in yawns baith dreich an drear – 
sae thi Taxman’s axe is at wir ear
             fur his Returns?
We Scots sall neither dreid nor fear
             but read wir Burns.

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