Pastoral

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To begin, an apology. I promised you a guest this Sunday, but the boiler needed replacing, and a proper man was booked to paint the kitchen, and with one thing and another, we’re all a-fluster, and we’re in no state for a guest. But here you are, and as my mother would say with a perfect grasp of grammar: Well, we can’t not give them something. If you were expecting a full Sunday dinner with trimmings, then sorry. I can do you a pot of tea and a biscuit.

As it happens, a couple of things have coincided; not unhappily. As my mother would never have said.

First up. I wrote a cobweb strand on Oct. 26…’A way with words’. It was about the language of maps and landscape. It took me ages. Last week I bought the wonderful Robert Macfarlane’s new book: Landmarks. Within the first four pages he had elegantly articulated everything I was trying to say in October. And the rest of it too. The stuff that I wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. The words that fit. The words without which there wouldn’t be the idea.

Second, I went last week on a three day writing course at Rydal Mount near Ambleside. I hate to say this, but I’m not a fan of the Lake District. Or, more strictly, of the National Trust, biscuit tin, jigsaw puzzle Lake District. It puts me too powerfully in mind of something Raymond Williams said of the novels of Jane Austen….that the majority of the people (who make the houses and the villages and farms and estates and landscapes possible) are, simply, invisible. The Lakes are a working landscape of thin and difficult steep land and tough little Herdwicks, and small farms, but you wouldn’t know it driving up by Windermere, and through Ambleside and up to Keswick.

As we drove from Kendal, though, the land was lovely. There were comb-overs of late snow on the ridges of the far hills. The fields were that clean grey-green of the end of winter. There was a lilac haze at the tips of the hawthorn and rowan and sycamore. There were early lambs out in the fields. Everything was there to be seen as it isn’t when everything’s in leaf. All the work was visible. The work of drystone walls, of baled hay, of cleared out ditches and newly gravelled field tracks. It’s a landscape that doesn’t dissemble. It declares how it’s been made by hard graft and skill out of natural materials, out of what comes to hand.

And then we arrived at Rydal Mount. It’s truly a handsome place, and it’s gardens are landscaped. I normally bridle at 18th and 19th C. landscaping. It’s what my socialist uncle used to call theft on a grand scale. But in the rain, and in this tight little steep sided valley it looked perfect, and I relented. Melted, in fact. There were three sheep in the middle ground just below a knoll crowned with three well-disposed conifers. They looked as though they had been trained to stand there, never to move. You could sit in a huge sitting room, out of the rain, and enjoy the Picturesque, the well-wrought urn. And somewhere, out of sight, someone would be ironing, washing, chopping, cooking, scrubbing, smithying, drywalling, painting, hewing…………….and you would need never be troubled.

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I remembered Raymond Williams in a BBC adaptation of his brilliant work ‘The country and the city’. He had one of the books of the landscape gardener, Humphrey Repton, and he turned the huge pages as he held it up in front of the sweeping landscaped grounds of Tatton Hall. A work of beauty, those books. Large double spread watercolours of the land as it originally was, and then pages that folded over and folded in to hide and reveal successive changes and additions. Like The Hungry Caterpillar for the  unimaginably rich. It always stuck with me, that image, partly because of Pope’s scathing attack on what he regarded as the vulgarity and bad taste of the craze for redecorating the land, and partly because of the strange vanity of it. You could look at the paintings and drawings of what your estate would ideally look like. Eventually. It struck me that you’d never see what you were paying for. I mean, how long does it take for a stately beech to grow big enough not to look insignificant in a deer park? Well, I found out later that what happened was astonishing. Huge mature trees were dug up and transported, dragged on waggons drawn by teams of oxen, and planted in prepared holes and watered in. It turns out that you didn’t have to wait. But by then I’d already written a poem. It’s in The Garden: words that will grow on you. And it’s also here:

 

Grand designs

The grass is wet, Ma’am; take care. Allow me. So.
Perhaps your man can hold the book? Yes.
You see this colour wash and pencil shows
the way the land’s disposed just now. These barns
and cottages will have to go. Now, if we fold
these papers, let me show you our design.
Thus: a shallow valley where we redirect
the stream, and, in the middle ground, a lake,
this balustraded bridge in Portland stone;
here, we plant our stands of chestnut; here, of elm
and beech. We need the play of dappling light.
A raised knoll here — with Pantheon —some sheep
precisely placed, a scattering of deer.
The Pictureseque, you see. This vantage point
will need a temple. Something simple, Doric.
Madam, you approve the scheme? The which
to undertake will be a privilege.
We could begin within the month….upon my word.
And as to finishing? The work to be complete,
within a twelvemonth; Ma’am, my word on that.
The achieved effect? Ah. Shall we say, two hundred years.

 

Right. Another cup of tea? A biscuit?…..sorry we only had plain. No? You must be off? Listen, we’ll do it properly next week…all the trimmings. It’s a date.

 

(For the record, you really must buy:      Robert Macfarlane Landmarks [Hamish Hamilton 2015. £20.00]

While you’re at it, treat yourself to       The garden  [Otley Word Feast Press 2014.  £8.00] …..they do PayPal.)

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Video killed the radio star

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Well, it’s a grey rainy bank Holiday, and I’m writing this so it’ll be all ready when I come back from the Old Olive Press, and tempted to think…didn’t summer use to be, well, summery. But, as Raymond Williams usefully demonstrated * , nostalgias are infinitely regressive. Which is one way of explaining the oblique title of this Sunday’s post. Wasn’t radio supposed to kill reading, put an end to books? And so on. Anyway, I’m writing this in response to a post that Anthony Wilson** put up on his blog recently (I’ve come late to Anthony Wilson, as I come late to most good things, and so I’m relying on the golden oldies from his back catalogue). The one that caught my attention was one about why students say they don’t like poetry.

Now, I think, like he does, that what they’re saying is : they don’t like Poetry, and I think that there are reasons for this that could be laid at the door of teachers (including me), and, a long time before that, Literacy. When I was an English Advisor, I could guarantee that if I visited a Year 5 or a Year 6 class, sooner or later a group of girls (almost always girls) would want to perform something for me, and (almost always) it would be Alan Ahlberg’s Please Mrs Butler. Nobody made them learn it, nobody suggested they learn it, but learn it they did, and performed it to anyone who stopped long enough to be an audience. I learned it, too: Please, Mrs Butler, this boy Derek Drew keeps taking my rubber, Miss what can I do? And then in comes the voice of Mrs Butler, in this brilliant rhyming call and response poem for two voices. I didn’t try to learn it; it just happened slowly, through repetition.

Another memory. When I was Secondary English teacher and form tutor I used to enjoy, enormously, the way (mainly) girls would copy the lyrics of pop songs from ‘Smash Hits’ into their journals and jotters. In coloured felt pen. Why? nobody made them. Why copy them? They could have cut them out and stuck them in. These were kids who would have been indignant if I asked them to copy out Poems. But, of course, these were poems. It’s just that nobody called them that, so it was OK. But why copy them out? Why, to learn them. We can all learn from that. I used to wonder why it was mainly girls. I think…I think it’s because then (and I don’t know about now) girls’ play was more collaborative than boys’, and that collaboration was sustained, in part, by poetry. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not pushing a nostalgic view of childhoood, but I was 16 when the Opies’ ‘Lore and language of schoolchildren’ was published in 1959, and a lot of the playground rhymes,  for  counting-out and skipping and ball-bouncing, were still alive and well in the 60s as my own children were growing up. I’m not too worried if they’ve been displaced by whatever advertising jingle or popsong has been appropriated and subverted by today’s children. It’s all part of the long revolution.

Literacy has a curious and occasionally disturbing history. For how long was it the monopoly of the church? And then a shared monopoly with the ruling elites? There was no universal literacy before the invention of cheap mass print technology and universal education. And even then, a peer of the realm in the 19th century, debating the education of the labouring classes, conceded that they needed to be taught to read, because they would need to read instructions (about the management of machinery, for instance), but there was no point in teaching them to write, because they would never issue any.

So where’s this taking us? This isn’t a scholarly affair…I’m just saying, without any originality, that poetry is older than prose because it’s older than reading and writing. Its heart and soul is rhythm, and the point about rhythm is that it’s patterned and repetitive. Children teach us this, but I wonder if we listen hard enough.What did rhythm help people to do for thousands of years before writing? It helped them, through songs and chants, to work collaboratively, to move huge loads, raise sails, keep straight lines in planting and harvesting fields. It helped them to celebrate with continuity the important things like birth and death and marriage. It gave them communal memories through the stories of victories and defeats, floods, fires, famines, and myths and legends. If these couldn’t be written down, then they had to be memorised. Stories had to be memorisable as well as memorable. Which is why we needed rhythm and repetition (just like times tables) and then the clever invention of rhyme that underscored rhythm and also helped the storyteller to remember the next line. The Odyssey, and Beowulf, had to be memorised. As did the parts of the Miracle Plays performed by artisans, not scholars.

Poetry was a creation of voice and sound and performance, social, collaborative, and democratic. At some point, in our culture at least, it became Poetry, and Private, and individual and exclusive. Of course, the original morphed through broadsheet ballads, and music hall songs, and pop songs and all the rest of the shared, popular, rhyming, repetitive languages we entertain ourselves with, and somehow stopped being poetry and became popular culture. Poets threw a white light on the obscenity of the First World War, while the soldiers subverted hymns and musical hall songs and sang ‘When this lousy war is over’ and ‘We are Fred Karno’s army’ and ‘Hush, here comes a whizzbang’ much as schoolchildren appropriated Charlie Chaplin and Tarzan into older song-patterns, and the Beatles into ‘We three kings’. And no-one wrote it down for them, or made them learn it.

All of this is taking me towards some of the ambivalence I have about my own writing and the things people have said about it, and to thinking about the relationship of Poetry, and stand-up poets, and performance poets, and written and oral poetry, and whether I should worry about it. Why should I bother about T S Eliot’s assertion that poetry exists on the page, when I didn’t understand ‘The Waste Land’ till I heard it being read aloud?

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Maybe, here’s where I got conflicted. I started reading poems, publicly, in folk clubs, where poems are often called monologues. I didn’t read my own poems, because I wasn’t writing any. My heroes were John Cooper Clark and Les Barker. I plundered the collections of Pam Eyres and Roger McGough; I did McGonagall, John Hegley (especially Rowena), Marriot Edgar. So long as it was robust, had a narrative line and made people laugh it was fine. If it rhymed, then so much the better. I learned that it helps if there are repetitions and redundancies that give the audience a space to take it all in; ditto, places to pause and let the jokes and surprises work. When I thought I might write my own, it turned out to be a lot harder than it looked. There’s craft in these poems.

If you ever get to see the DVD of  Evidently John Cooper Clark, you’re in for an eyeopener. Clarky is more than happy to say that he learned his trade from Palgrave’s Golden Treasury…and then does an impromptu performance of Henry Newbolt’s Vitae Lampada.…that fantastic piece of Kipling-esque jingo, the desert sand red with the blood of English soldiery, the Gatling jammed and the Colonel dead, and the only thing that will rally them is an English public schoolboy, exhorting the chaps to Play up, play up, and play the game!. This is John Cooper Clark, and he’s being entirely sincere. Think on that.               Well, I gave up going to folk clubs because I started going to poetry workshops, and writing poems that simply didn’t stand up in the way that a folk club audience expect. Started going to poetry readings instead. And started wondering about what makes a poem work in an open mic. Because quite a lot of them don’t. You know the kind of thing I mean…when you don’t know if a poem’s finished or not, because there’s no sign off, like a couplet, or there’s a poem you simply can’t take in because by the time you start to realise it’s started it’s finished, or because there’s no resting place. And often because there’s no context. What I always like in a poet or a singer-songwriter is a bit of a story that places the song or the poem.

I’d love to know what your take is on all this. Somewhere along the line, I found I tended to write anecdotal/narrative poems, and that I had a default rhythm…which was iambic (pentameter). People started to say they recognized my ‘voice’. That was nice, but recently I was knocked sideways by a comment someone made in a workshop session. The criticism was that the poem looked too regular and predictable. It LOOKED too regular and predictable? What does that say about a way of reading poems. I didn’t think it SOUNDED predictable. I thought it had a rhythm any reader could hear. But I’m insecure enough to have spent the subsequent weeks trying to write non-narrative, irregular-looking poems. I’m still wobbly about it, even though the business of the ‘look’ of a poem seems important to some, as does the playing about with terza rima and sestinas which strike me  as being akin to flower-arranging on the Titanic. The clever craft of coteries. Maybe I’m sour because I can’t do them, or if I can, I can’t say anything important that way. See what I mean about ‘conflicted’? Because I’m on record about my love of Metaphysical poetry and Tony Harrison. I think I’ve blogged myself into a cul de sac.

Tell you what. I’ll sneak away under cover of a poem I wrote for Mary Gauthier (it’s pronounced Go-Shay) who I first saw playing a dingy pub gig in Sheffield, and who has finally, years later, made the bigtime breakthrough, and this year played the Grand Ol Opry. And at least I wrote one poem that I can do without any qualms at folkclubs and poetry open mics. And Mary G. likes it. Sorry about the rambling…too many arguments going on. But let me know what you think about on-the-page/read-out-loud poetry. Please.

Shooting Star

a cold autumn night and this cold Sheffield bar

smells of 60watt lighting and yesterday’s beer

and this lady of the shooting stars

is wondering how she came to be here

 

with her dreamers and thinkers, her junkies and drinkers

the lovers and dancers, the liars, the chancers

the outlaws and angels and whores

 

in gigs like this in a Thursday night bar,

where the spotlight shines in her eyes.

For a moment she stands there looking lost

or maybe just looking surprised.

 

Then she unpacks her old blue Taylor guitar

from its scuffed and well-stickered case;

she peers into 60watt distance,

and wonders aloud…says: is this the right place?

 

She fiddles with tunings, tries a couple of ch0rds;

through the mic. comes her quiet country drawl:

hi. I’m Mary Gauthier, from Louisiana,

come here to sing songs for y’all……

 

and we’re hitching a ride on a backcountry road

through the landscapes of Mary Gauthier,

a ride through another country.

well., they do things differently there:

there’s:

bright lights and lost dreams, poets and drag queens,

trailer-trash has-beens, death cells and limousines,

and the angels are falling,

and there’s fire in the fields

 

and places flash by through the windscreen of songs

like phrases or rhymes half-heard in a dream

Juarez, las Cruces, Prairie du Chien,

Thibodeaux to Raceland…you know what I mean.

 

And you’re hitching a ride on a southern states voice

that sings cool and clear as the moon,

tho’ it isn’t exactly singing

but more like talking in tune,

 

one that lingers on sweeet and curdles on sour

holds on to a note like a child plucks a flower

lights on a phrase like a bee on a stem

lets the words run like water held in a cupped palm

 

or just fades to whispers like a moth in a flame

like the wind in the grasses, like the rain in the pines,

like the hushing of tyres when the wet blacktop shines..

 

so thanks for your leaving home stories

and the roads you travelled before

and the folks who’ve travelled them with you:

 

the poets, the dancers, the lovers, the chancers

the angels, the liars, the burned-out high fliers

the drinkers the thinkers the junkies the whores

 

yeah, thanks for the ride Mary Gauthier,

the journey was over too soon.

I’m still hearing your shootong-star stories,

still singing along to your tune.

 

There’s a lot of ‘ands’  in that.   I get told that a lot, at workshops.  Poems with too many ‘ands’. That’s me.  There’s a lesson there, somewhere. But do go and listen to Mary Gauthier: especially Drag queens and limousines, and the album that followed it, Filth and fire.

* Raymond Williams: The country and the city [Chatto and Windus. 1973]

** Anthony Wilson’s blog…not to be missed   http://anthonywilsonpoetry.com/

Green thoughts

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This week’s post, I promised, was to be a review. However, circumstance alter cases, and I only have one working eye tonight. This, I am assured, is temporary. But it means that my concentration is not what it should be, and I mean to do justice to my reviewee. Next week. Another promise to be kept.

A short post, then. Sunday night is Countryfile night on the Beeb. Apart from the ex Blue Peter presenters setting the comfy tone, as though addressing a group of Brownies, they are also wont to rhapsodise about going for a walk surrounded by Nature. They pronounce the capital ‘N’. All Wordsworth’s fault, I suppose, but he was genuinely rhapsodic, and I count the boat-stealing and the ice-skating in The Prelude among my favourite bits of 19thC poetry. In general, though, I’d happily see contemporary poets who use the word ‘nature’ (with an implied capital) slapped about with slim volumes of pastoral verse.

I’m ambivalent about the countryside, almost none of which, in Britain is completely natural. I am excited and moved by wild weather, and uplands. I do not warm to the postcard/jigsaw countryside of pantiled farmhouses with contentedly munching cattle. One of my ‘bibles’ when I taught A level  English was Raymond Williams’ wonderful ‘The country and the city’ with its systematic review of the thread of idealising pastoral nostalgia that runs through English poetry, the bucolic that ignores the work of actual shepherds, or any kind of work for that matter…it took writers like Hardy to address that kind of issue. Soft, owned, fenced and hedged countryside makes me uncomfortable with its exclusiveness. An argument something like this started up in my head as I was driving through Devon in April on my way to Torrington…all it took to make me feel like a ruffian was the smug purple of UKIP posters plastered on tree trunks and barns, and I thought: this is the John Major/warm beer/village cricket vision of England that saloon-bar faux-toffs like Farage are peddling. This is white, male, middle-class little England. And even though the day was sunny, I wrote this poem in Torrington.

Spread

Wales and the Malverns blue and remote.

Green and hedged, and farmed and smug,

lush as a salad, these dairylands, whose butter

wouldn’t melt as April warms and fattens.

 

That was the mood I was in —–more than a bit of the chip-on-the-shoulder—–and there it might have stayed, except the road began to climb out of the broad green valley and into uplands, where I could have been stopped dead in in my tracks. Except I was driving. But I was saved by a lay-by, where I could pull over, and stare and stare at a sight that might have come out of a Lawrence short story. That time of year when uplands still haven’t quite got over winter. It wasn’t chalk downlands, but was like something Eric Ravillious might have drawn. So when I got to Torrington I wrote two poems, and this is the second.

CIS:P.5-1938

 

(I’ll take the opportunity here to thank Ann Sansom for helping me to tidy this next poem up. Thanks, Ann. Editor sans pareil.)

 

Pastoral

But there’s a crackle in the air, a shimmer,

where valleys deepen, bedrock humps up,

shrugs off browsing cattle, crosses a line

into air and distance where birds hover,

skyline ashtrees bristle.

 

Uplands of gorse, blackthorn, hornbeam –

all barbed wire and circuitry; pale grey wintergrass,

papery fern sprawling and bruised and brittle,

cross-hatched and scratched with iron nibs in sepia ink.

Linen and rust.

 

The horse comes dark, bunching, flexing,

fluent and massive all at once.

Its rider is weighty and poised.

They flow together into the scooped downland.

They make a word. The word is : ‘galloping’.

 

This man in his patched tweed coat, his boots;

this brown horse rough with winter, steel

at the corners of her mouth, who turns as he leans

with a dip of the shoulder, hands sure and still

in the whipping mane of her long neck,

earth flying from her hooves.

 

Something elemental in the moment; something trite.

There should be girls with wide hats, abundant hair,

pale violet coats, and brilliant stockings,

Rose and emerald silk.

 

That felt better. Thank you, man on a horse somewhere on a Devon hillside on a pleasant April morning.

And thank you for reading. Normal service to be resumed next Sunady. Fingers crossed.