David Green

David Green (Books) is the imprint under which I publish booklets of my own poems, when there are sufficient of them. Apart from that, the website has become what it is. I hope you find at least some of it worthwhile.

Monday, 16 October 2017

Martyn Crucefix - The Lovely Disciplines

Martyn Crucefix, The Lovely Disciplines (Seren)

Martyn Crucefix has always been good at giving a collection a name. There was A Madder Ghost, An English Nazareth and now this, which isn't bad either.
He has dispensed with full stops and commas. Not being a Crucefix completist, I'm not sure when that happened but it was after Beneath Tremendous Rain and by the time of Hurt. The effect, one might expect, would be to create a seamlessness, dispensing with linguistic furniture to leave the words free of their moorings, and so it does although nowadays I enjoy a full stop.
What it does achieve is some dislocation of expectation, as in The girl who returned to Aix,
one I watched as snug and warm as Richard Dreyfuss
was driven crazy by shapes in his head

ah, you see, so not 'as snug and warm' after all.
The reader can take nothing for granted on first 'encounter', as it were, with the poems. The technique has a disconcerting but creative power to shift to the unexpected even if I'm almost alone in not demanding to be surprised by every poem I ever read. It means that re-reading is re-paid more in these poems than most others although any poem that doesn't warrant more than a second look is not likely to be a good one.
The book is in three parts and the poems towards the end might be the best, in some ways the least abstract, and an alternative strategy to piling all the best work in at the beginning to get off to a convincing start. It's not every time I begin a book of poems at the first page anyway and so such a ploy is less likely to fool me. But Street View, the final poem, is the pick, about the poet finding himself on the internet feature in a sequence of shots, becoming aware of what's happening. In a loose way, it is linked to theme of the 'poetry of modern technology' to a previous poem about a mobile phone in his parents' possession accidentally ringing him up so that he, not wanting to, can overhear their conversation without them knowing.
Things difficult to love and La Giaconda gone are also poems that make immediate appeal. Crucefix is thoughtful and measured and not one for the showy or grand gesture. It is not surprising that he has plenty of competition successes to list in the credits although the details of how many poems were entered and were also-rans in other competitions we never get told in such palmares. One suspects that his finest achievements are his translations of Rilke but you need to be a proper poet to do the translating job with any credibility and he never lets you down, being one of those who have kept contributing to English poetry steadily and conscientiously making it worth being a part of. 

Saturday, 14 October 2017

The Saturday Nap

It is with some trepidation that we begin this autumn's series of weekend horse racing previews. Things have been quiet after reaching the halfway stage of the year well in excess of the previous record profit. But it has been a rearguard action in recent weeks.
But perhaps we can brave it out in adversity and turn the corner.
Flat racing cognoscenti will be all over Expert Eye in the Dewhurst at odds on but we can't do that.
I'll go with gilt-edged Paul Nicholls at the meeting he usually gets into top gear and put all my faith in If You Say Run (Chepstow 2.30).
The Prof's been on the line and nominates Lostintranslation in the 1.55.

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Danny Baker - Going on the Turn

Danny Baker, Going on the Turn (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)

There's a mistake on page 116.
I've tried my best to make sense of,
It's a common site
but, in the context, I'm sure it should be 'sight'. It's a mistake anybody could make and Danny Baker didn't go to university, like Shakespeare didn't, so it doesn't make him a bad writer but it does mean that his publishers should find better proof-readers. But Danny belongs to the spoken word and to radio, off the top of his head and come what may, his reliance on a wealth of stock phrases, in the way that Homer filled out his metre, rather than text written for the page, which is brilliant the way he does it but is only the way he talks written down. Spike Milligan said he thought he could talk but had to admit that Baker was something else.

At first, this third volume of memoir from the Greatest Living Englishman looks like the thrown-together contract-satisfying third of three. 250 pages of more of the same to ensure the adoring fans like me will pay up and make the tills ker-ching to the sound of cash rolling in after the tour of stage shows is over and the royalties for the telly show have been spent. And we all have to go work, don't we, even if not everybody's job is being mates with Rod Stewart, Vivian Stanshall, the Stones, everybody else you can think of and Danny Kelly.
I have worshipped the ground he walks on for long enough, not least for the way he can handle the superstar status and get away with the money-for-old-rope routine and still see it for what it is. Try telling that to Simon Dee. There's one for the teenagers.
But if Going on the Turn sets off looking like the last trawl of stories about when he met Ronnie Wood or Peter O'Toole or use a picture of himself with Elton when there is no reference to him in the text, you know it can't possibly be going to be that and it very soon isn't. The book flags up early doors that there is trouble ahead and however much it digresses, and digresses within digressions, it is most overwhelingly, horrendously and graphically, about being treated for cancer.
I know there is a whole genre of 'misery memoirs' and this could have been such a thing in other hands but Danny isn't capable of writing such a book. Even if he had died, which was a serious possibility, one would have only been left on whatever upbeat was available. Those parts, that provide the ground bass for the whole book, are hideous and only perhaps readable, or writeable, because we know he emerges at the other end. Life, we can't help but be persuaded, is a gift and few have been provided with the gift to enjoy it quite like Danny Baker.
I'd have thought I was his biggest fan but I wasn't among the hosts of well-wishers inundating him with well-wishing at his darkest hour. I would also have thought it most unlikely that, considering the company he's kept since his Sniffin Glue and NME days, he had foregone the dubious pleasures of drugs but he says he did until he and his best mate, the equally admirable Danny Kelly, take a trip to Amsterdam to see what cannabis is like.
The account of that spectacular disaster wins the genuinely Laugh Out Loud prize not for this year but for several years back-dated.
And then, the frightening story of how he left his Radio London job in the face of business strategists who honestly had the nerve to go and tell him how he might celebrate the anniversary of Love Me Do. By asking listeners to phone in and say what their favourite Beatles track was.
Oh, for fuck's sake. There's less gratuitous swearing in this book than its predecessor, which isn't only because Baker quotes his father less than before but if Danny can do it because he can, in the same way that Philip Larkin did it in poems, then I'm going to treat myself to one, just the once, because you simply can't have corporate non-entities telling Danny Baker how to do a radio show because that is exactly as gormlessly as they'll do it.
But, in a sad coda, it seems like that is the way it's going. Dan accepts that Radio 5 would rather have a preview of the weekend's sport from 9 to 11 on Saturday morning, and not the Sausage Sandwich Game, and it is only by some old-fashioned indulgence that he's allowed to carry on with this last hurrah, the man who, on Desert Island Discs, if all his other records had been swept away by a big wave, would have wanted to hold on to The Next Time.
That is the measure of the man.
It has been an honour to be of the same species as Bach and Mozart but I'm glad I shared my time as a part of it with Danny Baker.

Letter from Cheltenham

Thom Gunn: a celebration
Alan Hollinghurst,   Cheltenham Literature Festival, Oct 8th.

The point of being a mis-fit, glorying in the feeling that one belongs elsewhere, is not that you don't feel at home where you are, you need to feel not at home wherever you are. Cheltenham races, any racetrack, the Wigmore Hall, poetry readings, lunchtime concerts, they all have their ways of making me glad to be there but it's never quite me.
You might think that a Cheltenham Lit Festival session on Thom Gunn would be home from home but even that struggled a little bit, not even persuading me that if it's good enough for Sebastian Faulks, it must be good enough for me. It's not because the whole festival is really a big advertising interval you need to pay to get into or even the very civilized queue of people snaking out of the Waterstone's tent to get their new Mary Berry book signed. It must have been a while before those at the back got their few moments of audience with the great lady and, lordjesussaveus, I can confirm that books are not going out of fashion, replaced by the gormless little kindle gadget, not on the evidence of those lining up to so eagerly part with cash in exchange for hard copies of their choices in the makeshift book superstore. But those affluent, worthy, demure grey-haired types populating Imperial Gardens, I don't belong with them, really, do I. Probably not even in the extreme circumstances of editing them down to those who want to hear an hour of Clive Wilmer, editor of the latest Selected Poems of Thom Gunn, and Andrew McMillan, talking about Gunn with Helen Mort. Although it was one of those occasions, like the 300th anniversary of the death of Buxtehude marked in Handel's House, when I could at least be sure there was nowhere else in the world I ought to be.
Clive Wilmer insinuated himself into Gunn's friendship when it mattered and knew him well, even if the subject of the Troubadour poems momentarily escaped him. What one needs in such a crisis is to have a glib know-all like me sitting in the front row to remind you and I'm sure Clive was glad of me. But he speaks with great authority, in that instance of Gunn's charm and sympathy that was allied to a propensity to shock.
What has come out of Clive's book is Gunn's vulnerability, which he expressed well but, one imagined, was kept under control by his tremendous intellect and art. But perhaps his writing was all a working out of the trauma of his mother's suicide and, beginning by reading The Wound, the poem that opens any selection of Gunn's poems, I did wonder to what extend it was being implied that the wound referred to was as much Gunn's deeply embedded 'confessional' as it was that of Achilles.
Clive's main point was that Gunn's poems constituted an attempt to understand his experrience rather than just have it which is why the heavily drug-infused poems of Moly are among his most formally structured and not, as one might expect, the most diffuse.
It is to be regretted, by those who care about reputation, readership and thus book sales that Gunn seemed to miss out as the more 'English' Ted Hughes came to dominate attention among poets of their generation when Gunn was the more intellectual and challenging. But it doesn't matter to me. Those of us who kept the faith and knew all along shouldn't worry how many others of us there are.
Andrew McMillan also wondered why there was always a gap in bookshops where he thought the books by and about Gunn should be. Andrew was born in 1988 and so didn't read Gunn until there were no more poems to come. His credentials are thus only those of a fan but when he 'came out' as gay at the age of 16, he says his parents gave him a copy of the Collected Poems and said he should read that. Many are not so lucky in those circumstances.
But it is as a 'gay poet' that Andrew makes at least his initial connection. To see Gunn as a gay poet is to diminish him as much as it would be to appreciate Sylvia as a women's poet, Derek Walcott as caribbean or George Herbert as religious. If a poet can be reduced to issues like those then maybe they're not quite the poet they're cracked up to be or, more properly, not being appreciated as they deserve. Those that adhere to poets on such grounds should take their crusades elsewhere and absent themselves from literary studies entirely. But Andrew's a good lad, wise enough to know that Tamer and Hawk was the first poem to read and howsoever he might have arrived, even if his own poems bear no resemblance to Gunn's, any fellow traveller is welcome. Though it must be said, Gunn is likely to remain a poet's poet rather than belatedly become mainstream. That would be like the Velvet Underground suddenly becoming the new Abba.
One of the several temorary marquee venues was adequate to house a Thom Gunn celebration but you need the Town Hall when Alan Hollinghurst shows up.
Interviewed by Stephen Gale, Hollinghurst thrilled the liberal, novel-reading, middle-aged, well-to-do congregation with his faux-embarrassment regarding how much sex his books make reference to. Not only that but sometimes explicitly and, get this, it's gay as well. Oh, titter ye not, he's a proper writer. I used to be tempted to put him in there with Ishiguro, MacEwan, Seb Faulks, Sarah Waters, Graham Swift and any number of others as a candidate for top honours among British novelists in our period which doesn't look to me a bad one, if inevitably it has become almost too self-conscious, but it is becoming clear that the correct answer is Julian Barnes.
The Sparsholt Affair is unfolding as effortlessly stylishly as one might expect from such a consummate professional but the main effect of paying to witness this advert for a book I was always going to buy anyway was that it threatened to let some daylight in on the magic, much like I thought I glimpsed how Paul Muldoon achieved the remarkable things he does a couple of years ago.
Most interesting was Alan's list of novelists no longer fashionable that he enjoyed, in the hope that, after a similar time lapse henceforth, he won't be quoted on a similar list by the hot ticket from the next generation. Henry Green, Charles Morgan and, was it, Ronald Firbank, are thus names to look out for.
And then you join the queue to get your copy of Sparsholt signed and no less than two Waterstone's people have to go down the line making sure you have it open at the title page to expedite the signing process. I wondered if meeting the great man was actually worth being subject to such factory fodder humiliation but since my train wasn't going to deliver me from such process for another hour, well, I might as well stay and, to be fair, it is just as sublime a signature as you would expect of Hollinghurst.
But plans to retire to the genteel suburbs of earnest, hard-back, well-meaning Cheltenham are on hold. Perhaps I've been too long on inward-looking, downbeat, downtown Portsea Island and the graciousness of the spa town might prove unbearable, not to mention the virtue signalling, the artisan food, the stacks of cash and the fact that, even there, it's me that has to remind Clive of the detail of what he's talking about. I once saw snake on Leckhampton Hill and Cheltenham's nowhere near the sea. It could be that fate well-meaning brought me to Portsmouth, like it took Larkin to Hull, and it might be where I bat out the remaining overs, only going back to Cheltenham to see the horses.              

Signed Poetry Books - Clive Wilmer

One of the best things about being a poet/academic must be that whatever level of stardom you operate at, you don't get recognized in the street as often as Elton John would.
But, not so fast, Prof. Wilmer, I know who you are
because it's you I've come to see, please could you sign this book I bought specially for the pourpose.


Signed Poetry Books - Helen Mort

I'm glad I took on the challenge of my poor librarianship to find this book to take to Cheltenham because it has some fine things in it that it was good to be reminded of
And now my copy is all the finer for being signed.

She done a good job hosting the Gunn session.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Politics Explained, maybe for the last time

I'm finding it soothing, almost respite, just not to talk about it any more.

Sure, it still provides a grim form of entertainment in private but the game's up, not least after the half serious amount of cash the referendum and the American election relieved me of last year.

The joke is over about the blonde advertisement for himself whose name I'm not even going to use because the oxygen of publicity is all he lives for and those who still think he's a 'personality' are beyond our help. Oh, that's just him being him, they'll say.
Well exactly, so ignore him, then.

I had more time for Mogg in a post-ironic way, the way in which Vicky Coren meant 'I find you strangely attractive' but the emphasis has now shifted from the attractive to the strange.

I never thought the time would come when one could remember Ronald Reagan almost with affection.
It was impressed on us at school, under a series of subject titles that went from Civics, Economic & Public Affairs to British Constitution, by a seethingly right-wing teacher, that there were processes in place that ensured the way the country was run, in today's corporate usage, were 'robust'. It was not made clear that by the time we were his age all that vast edifice of protocol would be the plaything of vanity projects for bumptious inadequates.
One minute it's a ringing endorsement of a quite clearly beleaguered Prime Minister but the day before and the day after it is the transparent setting out of stalls in another vaunting bid for the so-called top job that Cameron beat him to in the first place and that last year he announced in ham-acting humility couldn't be him.
He stands for nothing whatsoever beyond his own opportunity. I'm a victim of his incessant campaign on his own behalf just by having to set it out, for my own benefit more than yours, when I could actually be listening to Toots & the Maytals.
I know that you know that I know that you know that and we all know he's two-timing us.

1967 seemed turbulent and dangerous at the time, we are told, but what a joy it was to hear Tony Blackburn recreate his first Radio 1 broadcast oin Radio 1 Vintage. Radio 1 kept me going until about 1974. The second ever record played, it turns out, was the masterpiece Massachusetts and it felt profound to be reminded of
When I think of all the good times that I've wasted
Having good times,
by Eric Burdon and the Animals alongside such other giants of the soundtrack of our pop-picking lives like Diana Ross & the Supremes and Cliff.

Also, seen in a good light last night on Sex, Chip Shops & Poetry; 50 Years of the Mersey Sound were some of the heroes of my teens who have been superseded by others since. But let's give Roger, Adrian and Brian their due, not necessarily in that order, for at least being in place to exploit the zeitgeist, make themselves a living from their finely-crafted bohemian image even if some of the reviews by snooty, elitist poetry critics of the time derided their work for reasons that never went away.
Some of my adoration of them was based on a realization that, Blimey, it's possible to get away with stuff like that and we don't all have to be T.S. Eliot and it was Allen Ginsberg, their godfather of Beat, that I probably thought I saw through first before reluctantly, years later, deciding to shelve my Liverpool poets books upstairs among the 'other books' because they somehow didn't seem to belong alongside Larkin, Auden, and now Elizabeth Bishop, and certainly not John Donne.
But maybe I'll bring them back downstairs. You have to like them even if it's only for the sheer nerve that you think you can see they know they're getting away with it. But Brian Patten, the young apprentice to the Ginsberg-Warhol surrogate, Adrian, for who I bought a spritzer in Cartmel College bar, Lancaster, in 1978 or 79, overawed to be in the presence of anyone quite so Adrian Henri, was perhaps the poet among them even if, like Don Paterson and any number of us since, he only had to see rain and he had a poem.

So, it's nostalgia, then, for me as my 58th birthday comes, as usual, just as the year goes colder.


for Roger and Brian
and i.m. Adrian

we told them we were poets
took trouble to go home
from parties in L8
and knew whimsicalwords
in sad thoughtful phrasing
would persuade birds
not to hesitate


Monday, 2 October 2017

Bacewicz String Quartets

Grazyna Bacewicz, Complete String Quartets (Chandos)

If you're going to get something wrong you might as well get it completely wrong. I knew of this disc but couldn't have investigated very far because I'd jumped somewhat too readily to the conclusion that it was a contemporary of Mozart and Haydn. It must have been the architecture that made me think so but only a little bit more closer inspection reveals a bus of a make and model that wouldn't have been familiar to them.
Seven quartets on two discs, covering 1938 to 1965, can't help but bring to mind Shostakovich who made time among his wide-ranging output for an iconic set of his own. And Grazyna is, of course, a lady and so very welcome to help with the impossible project of trying to bring some levelling to the massive gender imbalance in the Western classical music canon. In a presentation on Classical Music that I have half planned in case the opportunity comes up to give it, I have to include the caveat that although I'll go back to Hildegaard of Bingen and finish with Errollyn Wallen, I'm afraid there aren't many women in it and, yes, it is mostly German men in powdered wigs.
This is busy, adventurous music, at least at the forefront if not avant garde for its time. Not quite as adventurous as this, maybe, which I found absolutely riveting on Sky Arts last night,

but adventurous enough for most of us.
It is complex music and 'difficult', I dare say, but two discs of it on which the Silesian Quartet bring an admirable clarity will last a long time to keep going back to. It can be discomfiting, agitated,  nervily spring-heeled or darkly reflective. Poland in that period had reason to feel that way and it's not possible to expect them to have dwelt too long meditating on larks ascending.
It was only when this disc won its category in the Gramophone awards that I realized what it was and the inevitable eulogy that wrote it up was an offer one couldn't refuse. Having not known who Bacewicz was, I do now and she is in there with the Ligeti, Kurtag and others who represent the heroic line of concentrated, meaningful modernism as opposed to the cerebral doodling of Boulez. It contrasts almost diametrically with the other disc currently on the playlist, the wonderful, immediately accessible Sebastian Comberti Stephen Paxton sonatas and concerto for violoncello. That is an instant delight and welcome relief whereas Bacewicz is more likely to sound true but be harder to take. But both are recommended as elements of a balanced diet.
I'm very glad the Silesian Quartet won the prize for this because otherwise I'd never have known and I'd have gone about under the erroneous assumption that she was a Polish contemporary of Mozart that, on this occasion, I'd declined to listen to.
I've managed to fill out the requisite number of words without saying very much about the music. Which is clever of me. With much avant garde art it is best to say as little as possible but one usually knows whether one likes it or not and I like this a lot. I hope it remains off the shelf and by the CD machine long enough for me to appreciate it better and better although whether I'll ever be humming leitmotifs from it in the office in the same way that the compositions of Burt Bacharach, the Motown Hit Factory or, today it was briefly Roy Wood, is a point likely to be moot for some time.
The next project is to make a conscious effort to know the difference between Zelenka and Zemlinsky. They only belong together alphabetically and a Wigmore Hall sort of bloke really ought to know which is which otherwise, next time I go, that might be the question they ask on the door and I might not get in.

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Letters to the Editor

Letters to the Editor

It might not matter much to you
but it does to them, somewhere deep
in the terrifying suburbs.
They have a point but not a point
that matters except to the few
obsessed with irregular verbs
or folk music, the life of St.
Jerome or tips on how to keep

tropical fish. All human life
is there. Even at this late stage
new ideas about Shakespeare
are waved away by those whose game
it is as if taken aback, as if
it had been an offence to hear
such mischief. But there were our names
on the TLS letters page.

All that fatal erudition,
all that careful wit and wisdom,
typeset so that those who care to
can read what such dilletantes
offer the human condition,
all the sins that flesh is heir to,
throughout the clement home counties,
further and beyond the kingdom.

Thursday, 28 September 2017

Baroque Ad Hoc

Baroque Ad Hoc, Lunchtime Live! Portsmouth Cathedral, Sept 28th.

Baroque Ad Hoc do it for the joy of playing as well as giving the pleasure of listening which are the two purposes of this kind of ensemble sonata and good for them.
Three recorders, one of them often John Kitcher's diligent and riveting bass - the interest is not always in the top line and we mustn't mistake it for a bassoon- and the cute hapsichord pictured, combine with great delight and, further to my recent points about 'impersonality', it matters little whether it's Vivaldi, Alessandro Scarlatti or arrangements of Handel opera by one of his contemporaries because their first piece was an anonymous Sonata in F Major. Which didn't detract from it one bit because even if some of like to think we can differentiate Bach, Handel and Vivaldi asnd assume it's Telemann if we don't think it's one of the first three, there is precious little biographical detail in these saloon entertainments and so it's difficult to see why it should concern us unduly.
I have a disc of Telemann recorder music and so am aware that an hour is enough but it's nice, light and nimble while it lasts, of course, and Gil and Portia exchanged themes, overlapped and interplayed to great effect with Gordon directing from his charming keyboard. They were ready with a deserved encore, fittingly maritime in the Cathedral of the Sea, some variations on Portsmouth.
It's been a fine couple of weeks away from working covering five lunchtime concerts from the Wigmore to Chichester and Portsmouith cathedrals. It's fair to say no item was more warmly received than Ad Hoc's jolly rejoinder.

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

High Windows

It's a good job I took photographs of the high windows in Chichester Cathedral today to take this project of Pictures That Bring to Mind Famous Poems because I had those in Portsmouth in mind but now I might not be going to Portsmouth Cathedral on Thursday.
It simply wouldn't be the point to use a photo of the Arundel tomb to illustrate An Arundel Tomb, the poem that, although brilliant, one of Larkin's very best and just as clear and accessible as anything else he wrote, is apparently becoming a major stumbling block for Larkin scholars.
I'd love it, I'd absolutely love it, if anybody could explain how 'transformed' was an improvement on 'transfigured' on the telly last night. And where it came from. 
High Windows is one of those poems where the old devil uses a swear word, just to show he can, which might have been more shocking coming from an old fogey in the 1970's than it is coming out of the mouths of every so-called comedian on the telly nowadays so early in the evening that you haven't got the rest of your respectable family to get themselves to bed yet.
But it's not about that at all, the whole poem is about the,
      sun-comprehending glass

and one doesn't need to be religious to appreciate something beyond.
In fact, the non-religious who are capable of such straightforward transcendence might be one step ahead of the devout by not feeling the need to provide quite such an outrageous tapestry of explanation. Nevertheless, we are always in the debt of those who took the time and trouble to build cathedrals. They're lovely.

I'm not sure that the sun-comprehending floor in Chichester has been captured here quite as well as it was in Gloucester a little while ago.

Melbourne and Socrates in Chichester

Henry Melbourne, clarinet, and Ben Socrates, piano, Chicherster Cathedral, Sept 26th

The clarinet wouldn't be my favourite instrument, it's fair to say. Once we've had the Mozart and Stranger on the Shore, all that's left for it are the tootling emellishments in trad jazz. So it's a credit to Henry Melbourne that he made today's Chichester concert a worthwhile one with some music away from the mainstream of populat taste.
Poulenc, however, does rate quite highly among C20th composers, the lyricism and peace afforded by passages in the Sonata being a further reason to admire him. Written in 1962, athe year before his death, we were warned that it was full of grief and other such dark thoughts but it was lively enough in its acrobatics and high energy ending and it would need to be grrimmer than that to be too dark for me.
Two songs by Rachmanninov gave Henry the opportunity to bring out his bass clarinet and I'll retain my pose of clarinet philistinism by wondering why Adolphe felt the need to invent the saxophone when there was already such a thing as that. She is as beautiful as the day (in Ben's translation) was a somnolent beauty and the highlight of the set, Rachmanninov being a bit of a dab hand at the lush and gorgeous.
Herbert Howells, the Gloucestershire man, always reinforces m preconceived ideas of him as the A.E. Housman of music, redolent of lost soldierrs and loss of faith, or at least the struggle to retain faith.  His Clarinet Sonata might have benefitted from me not knowing who had written it. Ben put in some fine work as accompanist and I'd like the opportunity to see him in the main role as pianist one day, which I might get as he returns to Chichester from time to time.
Fine, convoluted expressions of anxiety, sorrow and fracturing probably do transmit the artist's state of mind, if I'm reading it correctly, but I'm on safer ground with the less idiosyncratic baroque.
But top marks to Henry and Ben for their adventurous programme. It would do us no good at all to listen to Brandenburg Concertos all day long.
I would have been back down to Portsmouth Cathedral on Thursday for some restorative baroque, and wish I was, but I saw the local poetry Master of Ceremonies on my way out of the cathedral who kindly invited me to present myself and poems in Havant for a poetry day event so perhaps I ought to be doing that. Kind of him to ask.      

Monday, 25 September 2017

Larkin's Photography

A nice programme this evening on Larkin's photography, Through the Lens of Larkin, BBC4, included many previously unseen photographs from the archive of 5000 pictures, many of which were in The Importance of Elsewhere published in 2015.

But, more riveting than even the photos was the reading of An Arundel Tomb at the end, a poem that continues to provide difficulties for Larkin scholars.

Time has transformed them into

it said.

I went to my several books with that poem in and all of them provided what I had expected, 'transfigured', which is not only better but also fits the eight-syllable line.
Being a programme about photographs rather than poems, though, it did not explain where this new reading has come from.
Or did they just get it wrong.

Publish and Be Damned

...or not.

That would be the question if it made much difference.

The Perfect Book is 20 poems now all set up in a document to send to the printers and I could hit the vaguely defined deadline of October 17th, four years since The Perfect Murder, if I wanted to.

Many of the poems were filed, and put here, in the knowledge that they might not be finished and could need further attention. I've been pleasantly surprised by how relatively easily I've convinced myself that I've improved them recently.
I've re-read The Perfect Murder, admittedly towards the end of long, hard nights of wine appreciation, and like it very much and so from time to time I go through The Perfect Book wondering if it's as much to my taste- I'm not going to say it's 'any good' - because ultimately it is only my taste that matters these days on my own poems. And maybe it is. Nothing stays in if it's not justified by something that seems worth having.
But two more poems I want to include aren't even written yet. The Flawed Book, in answer to the title poem, and Letters to the Editor. Poems that are hard come by are usually nowhere near as good as those that come as naturally as birds to a tree. They look 'worked', or they do to me, and so aren't as satisfactory.
So it looks like Plan A. Wait and wait, do a bigger booklet for once. Don't run to the printers just to see what a new book will look like. It might still be Oct 2019.

Meanwhile, I've been through the website, ticking off which poems have already been on here, to see which I can send out to a magazine, genuinely and honestly never aired anywhere before. It doesn't leave many. 

Poetry Workshop

....but seriously, though, you didn't think I was going to present a poetry workshop here, did you. I know that many enjoy and benefit from such sessions and good luck to them but it's a bit earnest for me.
Which is not to say there isn't worthwhile things to be said about poems. It's just that people do have this tendency to make up, or seek, guidelines about writing poems as if there were a cache of secrets to be discovered and then you'll do it better.
I don't believe there are. Each poem, as it has been said here before, succeeds or doesn't on its own terms and what applies to one poem might not apply to another. Thus rules, guidelines and advice are out. Just do it. It's about enjoyment, of any sort, that's all.
But in a yearr when I've been struggling for poems and collections for my shortlists of Best of the Year - which is my fault for not seeking them out-  I thought I'd stumbled upon a candidate when being passed a copy of Poetry Review. And whereas it is often a lot of modish cleverness and sometimes a bit precious, the issue contained an interview with Muldoon, poems by Arrmitage and Jane Yeh amongst others and reviews of books I had read, and others of interest, I was grateful for it. I immediately went to the poems by Jane Yeh who I've been impressed with before and if A Short History of Patience seemed okay but nothing special at first, I stuck with it and after several readings saw through my initial reservations and was ready to put it on my list. Until I realized that the magazine is c.2016. D'oh.

But, not to worry. It is still worth admiring some qualities in it that aren't tenets, models or the basis of any manifesto for future conduct but are the reasons why one might admire one poem above others and, yes, try to do something similar if one is not doing them already.
In a way, it is no more than a list of good lines, of metaphors for the situation. It doesn't move from a beginning to a conclusion particularly, like a 'history' might be expected to, but it doesn't have to and we can even enjoy a gentle irony in that.
The poem echoes the Old English Wulf and Eadwacer in its forlorn, undemonstrative pining for an absent lover although they seem to have gone for good of their own volition in Jane's poem whereas Wulf appears to be forcibly separated from Eadwacer.
It's quite possibly to get away with knowledge of only a handful of technical literary terms in a workshop and the fewer one tries to use the less chance you have of using them inappropriately or being found out so it's a good idea not to mention hyperbole, pathetic fallacy, zeugma or, especially, dying fall. But we might try to pass off  'objective correlative' with regards to A Short History of Patience in as far as it conjures the absence in a litany of sentences in terms of other things from,
The soft chiffon of the river as it turns
Out of view


     the evening's smoky eye draws near.

Both of which, like the others do, have an attractive music. And 'music' would be one item I'd have on an agenda for good poetry if agendas for good poetry were permissable but they aren't and it is quite possible, I dare say, to have a good poem that lacks obvious music.
It was,
                      without you it's cold
As a warthog's bare bottom

that first put me off a bit and where I thought I'd draw the line between quite good and brilliant. But re-reading is essential to give things a proper chance and it turned out to be me that was wrong in finding such words incongruous among the other, softer words. It signals a shift in the poem from morose self pity to a discomfort that becomes the spreading ennui of loss,
Ryegrass spreading thrrough the yard like an open secret.

That tells of malaise, a lack of maintenance as result of the disruption caused by the perceived end of the relationship and so maybe close reading eventually reveals that the poem has moved from one thought to another, very subtly.
It looks like a minor masterpiece to me which in many ways is preferable to the grandstand of a major masterpiece destined to become so well-known that nobody actually thinks about it any more.
Whether or not Jane Yeh's partner left her is of precious little interest if the object of our attention is the poem. We need not be convinced of its veracity by the fact that it is any good because a good writer will convince us of many things that aren't true. It is by now overdue that literary studies returned its focus to the words and not the author's biography which may or may not be any more of interest that than of your local greengrocer or plumber.
And, as such, I'd like to praise the poem's distance from its theme, the impersonal, objectified way it is a vehicle for the emotions it recreates for the reader rather than, in a Keatsian way, an expression of, and indulgence in, the emotions themselves. That might be a fine line but it's an important one.
We might love Keats- I certainly do- but it's for his odes rather than for being Keats. I'm much more interested in A Short History of Patience than I am in Jane Yeh who is, it says on the internet, ohlordjesussaveus, Lecturer in Creative Writing at the Open University. But at least it shows she can do it and perhaps, if there must be workshops, it ought to be her that leads them.   
But, oh look, here she is,

One could get used to being retired on afternoons like this, the radio playing a Mozart Piano concerto, Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony and Brahms 4 to the accompaniment of a bottle of Medoc.

Mending Wall

Several years ago now I took some pictures in Portsmouth's Kingston Cemetery, put one here with reference to Eliot's line, I had not thought death had undone so many, and undertook to continue with a series of such photographs that brought to mind famous poems.
It didn't come to anything until yesterday when I thought I'd apply a coat of wood preserver in the hopes of making the the garden fence last a while longer. It does at least look the better for it.
But while I was at it my neighbour came out and we exchanged a few cordial words which reminded me of Robert Frost,
Good fences make good neighbors.

Coming soon, some high windows. I have some in mind from where I'll be on Thursday.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

Gary Desmond in Portsmouth

Lunchtime Live ! Gary Desmond, organ, Portsmouth Cathedral, Sept 21st.

The reason for taking time off in September is to avoid the height of summer and the possibility of a heatwave. But last year September ambushed me with an alarrming late hot spell so this year I delayed it to late September, when I really should be back at school, in the hope of side=stepping any repeat of that and to align with the choicest lunchtime concerts.
The sea was agitated as I took my late morning constitutional towards Old Portsmouth and rather more autumnal than the anticipated calm of summer in retreat before the onset of winter but it makes for lively company. And what better to welcome you to the cathedral than Gary Desmond, from Bath Abbey's, programme that begins with Buxtehude.
Three hundred and ten years since the maestro departed this life in favour of that Luheran heaven, he's still on the bill. The Praeludium in C (Bux WV 137) announces itself in grand gestures and tootles along in a jolly way in between. Thomas Arne's Gavotte was a more becoming jaunt, modest, sensible and attractive, and then Denis B├ędard's Variations on the Old One Hundreth began big before the imperious congregational was wrapped up in a variety of disguises.
Frank Bridge's Adagio in E gradually crept up on one, achieving impressive grandeur before drifting off, apparently sated. Percy Grainger's Handel on the Strand, arranged by Peter King, used a subdued dampening effect in what I assume was the left hand in a lollipop that was followed by the highlight, the beguiling, consolatory And the peace may be exchanged  by Dan Locklair which my rudimentary research tells me was played at the funeral of Ronald Reagan. I bet nobody thought they'd miss him as much as we do now.
Alexandre Guilmant's Choral et Fugue from Sonata no. 5 was suitably hymnal and opened out into an entirely expected rousing and elaborate finish to send the Lunchtime Live faithful back out fortified into what had become gorgeous, doleful, street-emptying drizzle so that I could undertake some shopping in Southsea in peace.
Such days make retirement seem very inviting indeed but one must be cautious of the fact that not every day will be like that.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017


In the Dick Francis thriller Flying Finish, the hero goes through all the usual trials and tribulations at the hands of hoodlums and gangsters before miraculously arriving intact with his star horse at Cheltenham in March for the Champion Hurdle. It's a gripping race, it's all action until, jumping the last upsides, they charge up the hill and are just beaten on the line, undermining expectations of a happy ending. And, it says, That's racing.
Well, it's poetry, too. In the equally glamorous world of local poetry, it's all to play for in Portsmouth Poetry Society's annual competition. This year the prescibed theme was 'Door'. It took me a couple of weeks to come up with anything to write. I thought I really ought to take part, to be sociable, but didn't want to put in anything too sub-standard. Eventually, once the idea came, the poem followed easily. I thought it stood a chance, bearing in mind that one doesn't know what the judge will like and the standard of the opposition is good.
But my runner was tight, fit to race, accessible and did the things that poems are usually expected to do.The judge did a marvellous job, her comments detailed, showing that she'd given everything due consideration and also said that in a close decision, my poem had been placed second.
So, what can you do. Congratulations to everybody on some fine poems. And small consolation that I don't have responsibility for the cup for the next twelve months.


Time was I’d look behind a door
To investigate what was there
On the off-chance of adventure.
Intrepid, then, I didn’t care.

Later if I saw one ajar
I’d glance through the inviting gap
And weigh up what the chances were
Of opportunity, or trap.

But now I’m glad to leave it closed
For fear of what there is to find.
My attitude’s metamorphosed.
I’m not prepared to gamble blind.