sabato 21 maggio 2016
Erbacce 45 is out! Posted on May 15, 2016 | Leave a comment Always full of surprises, the latest issue of erbacce (Italian for weed) has spread its green feelers across continents, with poetry from Chicago, Germany, Italy and the UK.erbacce 45 Edited in Liverpool by Alan Corkish and Andrew Taylor, erbacce has a fine tradition of presenting poetry that is unusual, provoking, even – words that make exciting shapes on the page. I’m delighted they’ve taken four of my poems for this issue, alongside the work of Peter Eustace (Verona, Italy), Michelle Chen (Whitestone, USA), Clive Donovan (Devon), Alex Dreppee (Darmstadt, Germany), Luke Karl Thurogood (Wigan) and Eric Allen Yankee (Chicago, USA). It’s great to read a wide range of poets in one magazine, but it can also be enjoyable to read more work, from a smaller pot of poets. This is where erbacce comes into its own. Issue 45 includes 14 poems by Peter Eustace, a thought-provoking poet of pared down words and a fierce eye for detail. In an interview with Alan Corkish, Peter explains how his forty years based in Verona have affected his poetry, and what drives him to carry on writing. If you’d like to buy a copy of erbacce 45, or submit your work to the magazine, please click on this link:http://www.erbacce.com/ SHARE THIS: TwitterFacebookGoogleLinkedIn1TumblrEmail Leave a comment Posted in Literary publications, Poems Tagged Alan Corkish, Alex Dreppee, Andrew Taylor, Claire Booker, Clive Donovan, erbacce, Erice Allen Yankee, literary magazines, Liverpool, Luke Karl Thurogood, Michelle Chen, new poetry, Peter Eustace, poems, Verona
martedì 19 marzo 2013
SHARON OLDS – STAG’S LEAP – CAPE – 2012 I repeat: not a review just a set of personal and likely off the mark reactions. “My husband, my ex-husband, my then husband, my ex, him, he.... ” and then “my friend” several times. Comes to be very twee. Almost at the end, I am getting irritable with and irritated by this book. The husband who left comes across as a real jerk in distinctly two dimensions and the despairing wife as simply far too good to be true, i.e., a real jerk as well. Any situation, phrase or deed is a great excuse to muse about him again. Ok, catharsis, but it does seem so contrived at times. I can’t help having the impression of a Sunday School teacher saying naughty words (no offence, Ms. Olds, but you actually do read poetry like a Sunday School teacher): she misses him, misses sex with him, misses cutting his hair... but for god’s sake couldn’t she just have been a bit pissed off and angry once in a while? A wee bit more human? A few neat turns of phrase and some nice images, padded out with lots of trundling about: it seems to be chest-beating, revelatory but on closer looks they are set pieces in full creative writing syndrome. Ms. Olds has a fine reputation and this book has won a major prize, so I’m reluctant to use words like “insincerity” and “shallow” – but, there, I’ve used them. I’ll give it another go and report back. PS. Can now add "my once husband" and "my young husband" to the list, plus another "my friend"... making it all sound like mundane and rather trivial letters to an Agony Aunt. Pity, because there is some good poetry in there at times only it gets bogged down, weighed down by this "goody two shoes" style. Admit it, Sharon, you hated him at least once, wanted to kill him at least once, felt abused at least once... PPS. There's a sensation that the cellophane wrapping is never completely opened.
Bad Machine – George Szirtes – Bloodaxe – 2013 This is not a review. I am not really qualified to do reviews. It is merely a set of thoughts and responses to a first reading of Mr. Szirtes’ lastest book. Szirtes is rather like a Master of Ceremonies, present everywhere, more or less intrusively: “You don’t like this one, well, try this, it may be more to your liking. No? Too jaunty? Here’s a dirge. Don’t like free verse? This one rhymes.” There’s a conjuring act going on with rabbits popping out and every expectation that Tommy Cooper will appear “just like that”. I mean this very affectionately. There is real inventiveness here, in abundance. And a lot of hard graft and craft. Bad Machine itself is based on a scheme repeated in several other poems: certain words are repeated endlessly, in a rather shamanic way, to create a kind of chant, spell or charm. Rhyming these sets of words (“blow” as in air or impact or setback, etc.) creates a dirge-like tone that is generally very appropriate to the subject matter. The graft and craft lies in the fact that this is hardly ever tedious: the beauty is that the same word has many different meanings that are exploited to the full in the rhyme pattern. The rhyme emphasises the different meanings and this ensures constant shifts in perspective and even surprises when an unusual one comes to the fore. The craft and graft also lies in easily worn scholarship. I found strong echoes of MacNeice, who equally and always sought new and different verse forms, rhymes and patterns. Certain audacious rhymes inevitably bring Byron to mind (settle us-nautilus), or the flexible, loose sonnets of Walcott in White Egrets. (These are my responses and not necessarily Szirtes’ influences). Szirtes also has something to say. Commentary on modern life (the London riots given a jolly outing in a ballad style that delightfully contrasts the serious business going on), personal reflections and philosophical argumentation. There is depth without being obscure, a joy in language and fullness of life that at last shows that poetry can be beautiful and still deal sincerely with ugly issues. A fine balancing trick where even the occasional failure (as in MacNeice) only goes to show how good all the rest really is. Definitely on my re-reading list soon.
lunedì 31 dicembre 2012
SKIES Skies shift in tantrums of wind Swooping like hawks to clutch Nugget remnants of clouds Shredding to rain In juxtaposed contemplation Around tall-chimneyed houses up alleys Like hatchets gouging specious fields. A sudden sun slashes the grey canvas, Molten, smouldering, quenched. A rumour of luxury… Happiness counts its tolls, Its sons of sons, Gambling hours like defunct riddles Corrupting side-streets of hope In empires of dull words Filching the lees Of living’s rich harvest – Muddled brambles of extremes, Out-of-sync carousels of ideas, Bare arms and dirty hands Merely getting on with it.