Kate Bingham, Infragreen (Seren)Open remains as fresh and wide-eyed as when I read it in the Forward book a couple of years ago. Coming back to poems after a while they can sometimes lose the sense of wonder that first made one admire them but this, containing its own sense of wonder, is still an inspired and inspiring piece.
There are several more tightly-rhymed lyrics here where the form, however disciplined, extends the range of the poem rather then restricts it which is a sure indication that the poet is in charge of the language, and their talent more than sufficient to be so, rather than the choice of form bossing the poet. Midnight and The World At One are almost as good - private, sane, understated and organized.
Down is 14 lines, half of which end in 'down' and the other half all on another rhyme. Of course, the 'down/down/down' repetition has an artistic effect, which I think is also a deadpan comic one, but more than that, the use of such structures is always there to remind us that the poem is a structure, an artifice, a game and the point of it is not necessarily entirely to say what it is saying.
My Hand is one of a number of poems that take place at night and/or in bed. The small but enormous space between two people is only partially overcome by need or sympathy,
I looked at you and as you slept
my body, suddenly too warm,
remembered what its blood was for,
my fingers tingled with regret
and reached a second time towards
your folded arms and open neck.
There's a lot to like about such poems but a book of only such articulate accomplishemt might seem a bit one-dimensional, even if it provides a satisfying sense of rounded completeness. As well as the scenes of domesticity, Kate Bingham writes about outside, elements from nature like sunlight, flora and fauna. The danger with such things is that the poet's experience of them might not be that much different from anybody else's and we might think we've seen all that for ourselves. Ultragreen and Infragreen, the first two, short poems in the book possibly get a bit close to such commonplace profundity. While one must never be prescriptive about what a poem should or shouldn't do, use of a word like 'photosynthesis' should usually be considered, considered again and then rejected.
But 'look at the rain', with all its lower case lettering and lines broken into fragments, does something more metaphysical (perhaps), an appreciation of rain,
falling into itself in the street as if only falling matters
and, in Spring, only the page before,
even the weak municipal crocuses
divide and multiply, insisting they matter.
and there is a self-deprecating mood in much of Kate Bingham that seems surprised to find, but knows, that the commonplace is extraordinary, the meek perhaps will inherit the earth and such things do matter.
There is rigour and a self-awareness in these poems that make them exemplary in the way they approach the world when lesser poets attending writing groups all over the country would make the same issues seem precious and self-indulgent. I caught up with Kate's first two books after first reading Open. I'm slightly behind times finding this latest book now because it came out earlier this year but I'm glad I found out about it before too long. It contains an idea of plenty within its modesty, its innate intelligence and facility with language delivering more than ordinarily might have been expected.
If anybody thought a villanelle was a difficult thing to do convincingly, Arrangements is two of them using the same words to rhyme on. As 'arrangements' of words, one might eventually have to ask when such self-doubt becomes showing off. We should enjoy the paradox.