Karen Solie - The Living Option

Karen Solie, The Living Option, Selected Poems (Bloodaxe)

It is always a bonus when a tip turns out to be a winner. I picked up on this recent UK release from another website. It sounded right although one can't always be sure until you find out for yourself. I have had several tips from friends that have turned into big favourites of my own (Patrick Hamilton, The Magnetic Fields, Alan Hollinghurst) and I commandeer them as if they had been mine all along.
This is a selection from Karen Solie's first three volumes of poems plus a section of new poems. They are assured, confident and impressive from the first with their realistic, empirical and less deceived attitude doing everything that the blurb claims they do. The pitch is as good as a poem in itself,
Her poems are X-rays of our delusions and mistaken perceptions, explorations of violence, bad luck, fate, creeping catastrophe, love, desire and the eros of danger, constantly exposing the fragility of the basis of trust on which modern humanity relies.
In Lucky, a stranger
                 won't be remembered
leaving that Chevron, walking

flat-out into a brand new
minute.
and is 'released like an idea into the future'. Such is the fragility but such is the unbounded potential of being unrooted.
Much of the poetry is about being in transit, in between places, travelling or in either/or situations that contain a vulnerability but it also incorporates that fragility into its own being. Although there is little else Keatsian about Karen Solie's poems, one has a sense of his idea of 'negative capability'  which is, it says elsewhere, 'the ability to contemplate the world without the desire to try and reconcile contradictory aspects or fit it into closed and rational systems'.
There is recurringly the unresolved condition of Gunn's motorcyclists in On the Move or August Kleinzahler's sense of stoic resolve.
In One Night Stand,
                 He drove through
2000 miles of rain, he said,
only to find me at the continent's
end. His gift to me. And mine to him
that I would not think of him again.
is like Caza Mendoza, with its Kleinzahler landscape,
                                               south of the Nabisco factory
              and water treatment plant amid sports bars,
tarp shops, dealerships, and self-
              storage, one of a strip doomed by the geologic
                            headway of condominiums aspiring to Miami
where, in that particular encounter,
                                                Above that, little brown bats,
              though they flew in dwindling numbers, flew nonetheless.
We knew it couldn't last. And then it did.
She describes the contingent nature of existence but is unfazed by it, is perhaps enervated by anxiety and resistant to false securities, and would appear to thrive without reassurance and celebrates uncertainty.
The world has, for the most part, gone to bad but she sees in a length of rusty pipe its 'baroque filigree', and appreciates in Medicine Hat Calgary One-Way,
                       Your lives are neither
before nor behind you.
It is impossible to pick poems that are more thematically significant, more important or 'better' than any others. It is a book without stand-out poems because she is one of those rare poets whose work is consistent and consistently excellent. The elegy, Spiral, though, is one of the most memorable in a book that will demand to be returned to for a long time to come. It is a poem of displacement, both in the life of the deceased and by hearing of his death when on Skye,
where the wind in its many directions is directionless
and impossible to put your back to.
But it turns its meditation on loneliness and alienation into a realization of plenty and a celebration in its way of the life lost and the lives remaining.
I have read a number of good books of poems so far this century, so far this millennium. Those by Julia Copus and David Harsent come most readily to mind. This book is at least as good as any of them.

Southern Countertenors

Southern Countertenors, Extravaganza, Portsmouth Cathedral, June 25th

It was worth waiting until 9 p.m. before starting as the evening gathered around the cathedral, the candles grew in power inside it and the sound of the eight gathered singers filled the space with their glorious sound.
The light creates various effects on the interior, not least the angle of the last light casting colours from the stained glass in the north window onto the stone around it. It was beautiful but you had to be quick to catch it because five minutes later it was gone.
In the introduction we were told that the idea for this new venture came from a group watching You Tube and finding the Hawaiian Falsetto Festival (with which I'm sure we are all familiar), and James Bowman, the doyen of English countertenors, agreed to join seven of his juniors in this programme, developed by Jason Stanbridge-Howard.
The opening piece was the first of those from the Missa de Angelis, in which the singers were positioned in different parts on the cathedral and none at first were actually on stage. It is hardly a new device but it is always a good one. As ever the acoustics of Portsmouth Cathedral were
awful to hear anyone speaking but great for the soaring voices. James Bowman remains in fine form but this was as much a showcase for the coming generation of aspirant Scholls, Jarousskys and Cencics and, without wanting to show particular favour to any among a fine set of voices or deride any of them, I think it might be Paul du Plessis-Smith and Jason that have the most potential on this showing.
The programme was an hour of varied ensemble and solo singing, with duets, pieces in several parts and, of course all eight together, the finale being a fine new arrangement of the Tallis Canon by June Clark who was there to take a bow. But although we had Purcell, Palestrina and, most notably the Missa de Angelis, there was also the drawing room piece Shenandoah and the novelty of The Slow Train by Flanders and Swann but it was all fit to exploit the high ceiling and give these great voices the opportunity to demonstrate their full nuance and power.
Reviewing a concert like this is something of a fool's errand as if words can describe how a diamond shines or ever hope to communicate a starry night but one thing to reflect upon in coming away was the difference between the spacious arrangement of the Mass with the closer harmonies and more intricate arrangement of pieces like the Palestrina in which by all means the top line is the bright, celestial focus of attention but there is much to be enjoyed in the intricacies and interweaving in the other lines, too.
I left happily with the Tallis echoing in my memory, walking to the bus stop past the open upstairs window of some university accommodation where they were having a good time to the tremendous sound of Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops belting out I Can't Help Myself and music is indeed a wide church. There wasn't going to be a bus for quite some time and so I walked home through the cooling streets of a Portsmouth summer evening and was only approached by one drunk. Wednesday nights aren't what they used to be round here.
It was a shame to see that the Andrew Motion event had to be cancelled and one hopes that nothing is amiss but, otherwise, hurray for the Portsmouth Festivities programme providing such choice performances. It is going to be a very difficult choice, come the winter time, for me to nominate which was the best event I attended this year. The Southern Countertenors ft. James Bowman is another for my ever expanding short list.

View from the Boundary

England weren't bad in the World Cup. Roy Hodgson is a tremendous bloke and was said to be taking his team into Brazil 2014 without the same overblown expectations that have accompanied England every time since 1966, which is at the very limit of what I can remember.
So, why do we now need any sort of inquest, having taken in the young guns and lost narrowly to two pretty good sides and Costa Rica, quoted at 50/1 to win the group, look like going through in first place.
Why do we need Chris Waddle, once the third most expensive transfer in football history, to do a reprise of his rant at the last World Cup about how wrong it all is, on Radio 5. It only makes one turn over to Radio 3 or 4 because not only is it uncalled-for but we have heard it all before. But I see that Danny Baker has called for all the England pundits to come home when the team does. Good grief, yes. How many men does it take to talk so relentlessly and in such dull fashion for quite so long.
I'm not all that confident in my investment in Argentina, which is what I always do, but either the fancied teams will improve or we will get some unexpected, entertaining semi-finals featuring the likes of Chile, Costa Rica, France and weren't Iran very unlucky not to draw with Argentina.
--
But I like to be Radio 3 here rather than 5 and I should not be writing about football.
How long is it since I reviewed a book of poems here, I don't know. Things do pick up in the Autumn but, in one of those rare moments, I have taken a tip from another website and it was for Karen Solie, a Canadian poet who sounds, from the reviews I've seen and the lines there quoted, to be just the sort of thing I want to know about and so her early Selected, The Living Option, will be reviewed here, a little bit after the fact, soon after the book arrives and we will see.
--
But whatever you do, you might as well do it with confidence if you can. Those who only watch the summer pass because they are waiting for my horse racing feature, The Saturday Nap, to appear again in October will be thrilled to know that Toronado in the first race at Royal Ascot put me right back on terms with the bookmakers for 2014 and it is only onwards and upwards from here.
And, in the office predictions game, the issue was the colour of Her Majesty's hat on Ladies Day and so I'm back up alongside the leaders in that game, too. It doesn't get any better than this.
--
Poems for me are rarely 'inspired'. They are suggested, usually by a word and often in something I'm reading. Books are made out of other books, literature from other literature. I'm reading Donna Tartt's The Little Friend to fill in that gap. I'm sure it's not as good as the other two but if she only produces a novel every seven years then what am I going to do once I've finished this one.
But as in The Goldfinch, when I knew that one line in that was a poem waiting to be written, another line in this rose up from the page and flaunted itself similarly.
It was,
'If it's miracles everywhere, what's the point?'
I would have that if I can find enough to do with it but it is worth sharing on its own just in case I never do.

That'll do.

Shakespeare and Anonymity

In his introduction to his recent book, Shakespeare's Montaigne, (extracted in All the World's a Page, Daily Telegraph Review, 7/7/2014), Stephen Greenblatt offers us several insights into Shakespeare, Montaigne, what they might have in common and the differences between them. Some of them might be useful, some of them erroneous and some somewhere in between but all inevitably are extrapolated from what is by now purely textual evidence. And sometimes we are tempted by our facility for imagining to extrapolate a bit too much.
Prof. Greenblatt contends in one place that,
Shakespeare, who had an indifferent or ambivalent relationship to print, seems to have cultivated a certain anonymity.
But I know not 'seems' and literary studies are lucky to be in a position where what seems rather than what is will suffice for a thesis. Of course, science is also only theory but it is in pursuit of laws, constants and truths rather than content to accept what seems as a conclusion.
It is frustrating for biographers of Shakespeare to find their subject quite so elusive and having to use so much of their own fancy to bring him into focus but it doesn't follow from that that Shakespeare's shadowy existence, from our perspective 400 years later, was a deliberate act of subterfuge on his part. That his age put less store by biographical detail was not his doing.
By all means, poets like Francois Villon or Ovid told us plenty about themselves in their work and Greenblatt's point is that Montaigne himself was the central figure in his own work as an essayist. But those were poets and an essayist whereas Shakepeare was primarily a dramatist, working in a professional theatre producing plays, sometimes in collaboration with others, plays that were owned by the theatre rather then their authors and, having been paid, they had less concern about the cult of the creative artist, the primacy of the text or even, perhaps, posterity.
Shakespeare apparently oversaw the first edition of the Sonnets, which had his name on it, and his plays were the most commercially successful of his day which, combined with being an actor and shareholder in the theatre company, made him a wealthy man and so he was well-known enough. There is no suggestion that he avoided celebrity status just as there is none that he pursued it. Even the most assiduous of scholars find it hard to establish a personal statement in Shakespeare's plays or poetry although James Shapiro's chapter on Hamlet in his book, 1599, makes a convincing case for that being his most finely-worked and thorough-going essay on a world view.
There was no attempt to hide authorship of the poems, The Rape of Lucrece or Venus and Adonis, in their dedication to a nobleman and the will includes bequests to friends and those he had worked with, it is thought, in his own memory.
But it is going at least one step too far too deduce a longing for anonymity in Shakespeare and it is a regular fault of modern biographers, if not all of them, to read more into the extant evidence than we have any right to. The most common tendencies are to make Shakespeare into a version of oneself or assume eveything good about him and refuse to entertain anything detrimental. The fact that Shakespeare died 200 years before the Romantic age that brought the personality of the poet to the centre of the work should always be there to remind us that we need to try to understand him from a pre-Romantic point of view. We don't seem to be very good at that. 

The Tallis Scholars

 The Tallis Scholars, Portsmouth Cathedral, June 20th

The last time I saw the Tallis Scholars and reviewed them here I had the temerity to suggest that perfection was no longer enough. There was a time, perhaps twenty years ago when I'd have given anything to see them but now I've seen them a few times, I'm a bit blase about it. By all means if they're in town, I'll go but I'm almost doing them a favour.
I'd like to recant on any such idea immediately if I may.
It is wonderful how many stars these days are prepared to meet their public and engage with them. I know they are promoting themselves but many do seem to genuinely enjoy giving a bit extra. Peter Phillips appeared in a pre-concert event to talk and answer questions for 45 minutes. He was born very much in the neighbourhood into a non-musical family. And on the evidence grew up to be a charming man. Most amazingly, his interest in music came from records like the Cambridge University Willcocks recording of Spem in Alium, not from any nurturing or fostering by a well-meaning teacher or family, and somehow, all these years later, he is pre-eminent in the field.
His aim is to produce the immaculate tone and blend that have made The Tallis Scholars outstanding at what they do over the last 40 years and there is no way of telling if the sound they make is anything like that which Tallis and Byrd would have heard. His guess is that contemporary performances would have been more private and probably quieter. And those 45 minutes were an invaluable introduction to the performance.
He did express his own doubts about their efforts to fill larger concert halls with sound with such small, unamplified resources. The Albert Hall holds 7000. I said I'd been at the Prom a few years ago when they had done the Striggio and it was fine, it was okay. And a lady in the audience asked 'only okay?'
(Yes, madam, that's right, I said it was 'okay'. I entirely take Peter's point that his group might be better suited to more intimate venues. And if you want to write in and debate it then I'll be more than happy to publish our exchanges here rather than provide gushing endorsements to our heroes when they don't necessarily apply. There are more than enough opportunities to enthuse about stuff without making it compulsory.  (I'm sorry about that.))
The highlights of the first half were Arvo Part's The Woman with the Alabaster Box and Mouton's Quis dabit oculis, which was remeniscent for me of the plaintive lament on the death of Ockeghem by Josquin and needs investigating as soon as I've rushed these notes out to the world.
There were pieces by Victoria, extracts from the Missa Batalla of Guerrero, the great master Josquin himself, Palestrina who belongs in the same bracket and almost inevitably outstanding in the second half was John Tavener's Song for Athene which I don't even feel qualified at the moment to find an adjective for.
The programme included several different combinations of the five sets of two voices. The top line is always likely to be most memorable for its use of the cathedral's acoustic but especial mention for me needs to be made of the counter-tenor in the Mouton, Patrick Craig, as well as the basses in the Tavener. But it is very much an ensemble performance and no part would amount to as much without the excellence of the rest of it. Peter Phillips doesn't believe in auditions- they can all do that; he needs a bit more convincing than that before you can join his liitle choir.
I don't know if I've ever seen a musical act while they were number one in the charts. Possibly the Boomtown Rats. But the Tallis Scholars' website says today that their latest release has been number one in the Classical Chart for six weeks. And Peter Phillips made no secret of the financial considerations involved in touring, performing or being prepared to sign a copy of his book (which cost 25 pounds) for you or direct you to the CD stall. I've never quite been able to line up the most sublime art with commercial expediency but it pertains to these fine people just as it does to Simon Cowell's latest generic pop singer. But at least they're honest about it.
I will never doubt them again. I didn't actually doubt them, I just took them a bit for granted. I won't be doing that either.
Fine, gorgeous, immaculate and forever.

The School of Night

The School of Night 

You don’t know who your friends are in the dark.

It’s hard to say who will betray you next

or if their kiss means any love at all. 

Shadows rehearse slow dances on the wall.

In candlelight, a traitor to yourself,

there’s no way to distinguish true from false. 

The city at your back is volatile

and rests upon the interpretation

of smiles, glances and codes you need to crack. 

Outside the river slides by, untidy

with bleak secrets, as surreptitious as

a snake winding itself through undergrowth. 

This must be what you mean by chivalry,

or do you just help out when they are short

with some judicious back-stabbing and throats 

slit in murky alleyways on account

of recusancy or a disputed

reckoning. And now I feel your callous 

hands upon my skin. I can’t say how long

we have together, how long it might last

or whether it will be a fond farewell.

It depends what sort of day I've had

This masterpiece cartoon has been stuck to my kitchen cabinet for many, many years now. You can see how old it is from the orange tinge to it.
And sometimes it is like that, isn't it. It is just the desperation that comes from having to deal with the rest of humanity. Sometimes. By no means all of the time. Much of the time they are wonderful.
There are other things stuck to my kitchen cabinet and I might share them with you as well some other time.

Today's Times Crossword

You know it ain't easy; you know how hard it can be. I am indebted to Andy's Word Finder.



The Three Lives of Dylan Thomas

Hilly Janes, The Three Lives of Dylan Thomas (The Robson Press)

Rarely has one of these anniversaries served to restore or establish a reputation for me better than the current Dylan Thomas centenary. I don't think one ever has.
Hilly Janes is the daughter of the painter Alfred Janes who made three portraits of Dylan at different times. She makes a life of the poet from that perspective, with anecdotes and material brought from the relationships between him and the group that also included the composer Dan Jones and the broadcaster Wynford Vaughan Thomas.
It is very readable, certainly not making any more of the darker side of Dylan than needs to be and celebrating his achievement while retaining an awareness of how and why his reputation in several areas wasn't always beyond reproach. It is sympathetic but by no means hagiography.
There was simply never enough money in his lifetime although in a coda that traces the development of the Dylan Thomas industry after his death, there is plenty now and, inevitably, it has to be contested. Dylan's behaviour was beyond incorrigible much of the time but many couldn't help but tolerate him due to an irresistable charm. A few made it clear that they didn't and Kingsley Amis, often incorrigible himself, is one of them and seems to be a strange choice as a trustee of the trust that administers the estate. His first-hand knowledge of the workings of the literary world was his qualification rather than any perceived kindred feeling.
Hilly Janes sets just the right tone in retrieving from the sensationalism and gaucheness of the poet superstar status that Dylan was accorded the right amount of credit for linguistic innovation, deeper meanings and ground-breaking poetry. Of course, he is not an easy poet to appreciate fully but neither is he merely a purveyor of grand-sounding rhetoric. This is a valuable contribution to the subject published at the right, significant time.
Caitlin is as difficult as Dylan- at least- and they are made for each other in a desperate, serially unfaithful and eventually traumatic way. It couldn't have been happy but it must have been magnificent in its best moments.
The book is only perhaps a little bit unsteady in a few places later on in the assessment of Dylan's legacy. I wouldn't dispute that he was a 'game-changer' but it's just a phrase I wish an alternative could have been found for. And John Goodby, professor at Swansea University, is quoted in some detail, as witness to where the poetry now stands,
'A lot of modern poetry is now formulaic and anecdotal, following on from writers like Philip Larkin,' Goodby says. 'It doesn't relish the resources of language, and is rather scared of them. Dylan's poetry is not afraid to sound like poetry
Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves there. We have only just come to realize that some of us misjudged some of what we regarded as Dylan's bombast and immediately we are accusing Larkin of some kind of lexicophobia. I think we can allow that Larkin relished the resources of language but not in quite the same way. His 'ruin-bibber, randy for antique' doesn't sound formulaic to me. Formulae, theory and doctrine are the constituency of a particularly dull strain of avant-garde, still stuck somewhere in the 1960's, who have no idea of Dylan's invention or Larkin's more considered craft and ironies.
But one is not to complain and a misguided opinion can be as interesting as one that nails it.
This is a fine book and does its job beautifully well.