I've just returned from business trips to Copenhagen and Vienna, two destinations that compensate for the travails of travel and being away from home. Both cities have enviable public transport systems; cheap, clean and not too crowded. I arrived back at Birmingham airport from whence to take a train home to find the train absolutely packed, all the seats taken, the isles full of people standing, a group of beer-drinking youngsters making a racket at the end of the carriage and various people engaged in politely English disputes resulting from the chaotic seat reservation system. But the atmosphere is cheerful. Clinical efficiency - who needs it?

Yet - new pamphlet from Carrie Ettter

YET

Carrie Etter

ISBN 978-0-9535401-9-8
£3.50 (U.K.) / $8.00 (U.S.)
Publication date: 23rd February 2008
For more details click here.


Here are the opening lines of this collection:

Out of the vernacular as the sky drains of light
The body heavy with a day’s work that gravity
What would it mean to aspire to transcendence?

The image of a sky draining of light asserts itelf, but we're conscious of the phrase 'the vernacular' which places us in the domain of language and abstraction. Is the vernacular referring to language, or some other art form, like painting? Either way, it implies that skies draining of light may be constructs of thought and language.

The second line, seemingly straightforward - the body heavy with a day's work - ends in mid sentence. That gravity ... then what? There's an impression of a mind heavy with a day's work that abruptly switches attention.

In the third line, the call for transcendence that is a stock-in-trade of poetry from the Romantics onwards is referenced here, but questioned, almost subverted. The rest of the poem builds on this beginning with an effective blurring of the discursive and descriptive.

This pamphlet is an exemplary mixture of political and personal, descriptive and abstract. We have a title as blunt as 'The Occupation of Iraq' and another poem giving us an amusing comment on Archbishop's radio interview. But alongside this, we have part of the continuing 'Divining for Starters' series; a set of meditative, almost philosophical pieces. That's a lot to pack in to a small pamphlet, but it doesn't feel packed, more evenly paced, unhurried. 'Yet' is highly recommended (by me), which is why I published it.

There's an interesting (I think!) discussion of 'Englishness' going on at this blog: here. It's reminded me of how good, if a little disconcerting, it is to have this sort of discussion, which might challenge one's own world-view. About ten years ago I stumbled across the british-poets email discussion list. More sophisticated forums like Facebook have replaced these groups, and their demise was hastened by saboteurs who seemed to delight in stirring up arguments with insult and provocation until sensible people were driven away. The british-poets list (which also incorporated Irish poets, including Billy Mills and Trevor Joyce) was at the time run by the late Richard Cadell. He proved to be a warm and wise host and I'm grateful to have had the benefit of his encouragement for my writing and publishing. The group provided my introduction to innovative poetry and my education was assisted by being able to chat with the likes of Peter Riley, Douglas Oliver, Keston Sutherland, Geraldine Monk, Alan Halsey and other illustrious persons. It was all a bit ragged at the edges, but there was an openness that I think you'd be unlikely to get in a more controlled and monitored environment. I've realised while typing this that I'm getting nostalgic for the old days of email discussion groups. Better stop now.

The Beginning and End of the Snow
by Yves Bonnefoy

(tr. Alan Baker)

A joint publication by Bamboo Books, Culver City, CA
and Leafe Press.

Designed by Bob Rissman (Bamboo Books).

from 'The Book of Random Access'

17

The things you see at 4am! Do people still have their milk delivered in glass bottles? Without my glasses the streetlights float like faery lights across the park. St. Elmo's Fire. The bushes thrash about in the wind. First person singular present tense. What else is there? I think about my father thirty years dead. John and I are not on speaking terms. I stress about work and what I have to do tomorrow. How will my children live? That's future tense. The will-o-the-wisp lights in the short-sighted dark. The long-sighted page. Is it all happening in a continuous present? he asks / asked / will ask. What time is it? All clocks moving through the ether are slowed down compared to clocks at rest in the ether. One would have to distinguish between “apparent” and “true” space and time measurements, with the further proviso that “true” dimensions and “true” times could never be determined by any experimental procedure. That clock on my wall, its numbers are blurred. Long have we parted been, lassie my dearie. I remember talking to an old man when I was a child. He was my cousin’s grandad. He said that as a young man he came to Newcastle from Yorkshire to look for work. That was in 1900. In the narrow streets near the river he was surprised to see women sitting outside their front doors, smoking clay pipes, as he'd never seen such a thing in Yorkshire. Why should I think about this at four o’clock in the morning?

I'm off to Malmo in Sweden next week on a business trip, the start of my new globetrotting existence. All this foreign travel doesn't mean I'm some sort of big-shot - far from it; I'm a mere 'technical resource' (as people like me were described on our company's website recently). Increased globalisation of companies (people in my office report to managers they've never met in Germany, Spain and the US) and cheap air travel means that instead of sending you down the road to Bradford or Mansfield they can send you to Singapore or... Malmo.

When I get back from my trip I need to get on with the latest Leafe pamphlet, a collection by Carrie Etter which I'm excited about. I also need to send out some copies of my translation of an Yves Bonnefoy collection - more on that later. I'm also working on a long prose-poem called 'The Book of Random Access' which is in 64 sections, echoing the 64 hexagrams in the I Ching, and each section has 256 words (64 and 256 being significant numbers in computing). Wow! Bet you can't wait to read it. Well, you're in luck, cause I'll be posting some excerpts here soon.

Here's a poem by Uzbek poet Yusuf Juma, about the Andijan massacre in Uzbekistan. The massacre took place on 13 May, 2005 when hundreds of unarmed protesters were killed by Uzbek security services for taking part in a demonstration against the government.

The best men of the people were shot in Andijan.
Elders like Dukchi-ishan, were shot in Andijan.

People were shot in Namangana, shot in Fergana,
the very best lions were shot in Andijan.

The blind are alive, the jackals are alive,
Sharifjan Shokurovs were shot in Andijan.

Future Babarakhin Mashrabs were killed,
tigers like Babur were shot in Andijan.

In their hearts they were wild activists, endurers of the right way,
let their graves be full of light, they were shot in Andijan.

They went off faithful to their faith, they went off with open eyes,
the earth was left without men, they were shot at Andijan.

Yusuf Yuma is currently being held by the Uzbek government without charge in an unknown location. For more information on his case, see Areopagitica. His case doesn't seem to have been taken up by Amnesty, maybe it's too recent, but there is a petition you can sign (I've signed it) here.

The Man in Black

This new volume of poetry from David Caddy, editor of the excellent 'Tears in the Fence' dropped on my doormat last week,and very welcome it was too. In his review of Kelvin Corcoran, Kris Hemesley sees that poet as working on a project to define Englishness. Caddy could be seen as engaged in a similar project, and within the same radical and dissenting tradition; his journal "So Here We Are: Poetic Letters From England", is fascinating contribution to that project. Poet of rural South-West England with echoes of Bunting and the MacSweeney of 'Ranter', Caddy enlists to the cause, among others, Coleridge, Johnny Cash and Lady Jane Davy. There's a search for a sense of identity:

Look, we lost ourselves and choices

some time ago, when the land

was untied, overfed, resold

and the local animals were driven away.

Caddy looks to the people forgotten by globalised urban society, like the Quakers who found common cause with poachers and the rural poor, or people who 'have the thumb, can work the hopper, mesher/...have steel to fill these tenant boots'. In some ways, this poetry reminds me of Geoffrey Hill, though Caddy has more sympathy with ordinary people, and the language seems influenced by Basil Bunting in places:

Wide Scatter of bull, clenched

rewinced, disputes the human frame

The book is nicely produced by Penned in the Margins (saddle stitched and good quality paper). I've been reading a lot of New York and Californian poetry recently, and this book is a reminder of a home-grown tradition, both of poetry and of radical politics.

Details: Paperback: 48 pages, (Penned in the Margins, 1 Nov 2007). ISBN-10: 095538463X ISBN-13: 978-0955384639. Price: 8.99

We know the festive season is upon us when we see Rupert Loydell's 'Best of the Year' lists on Stride. This year I'm pleased that he's selected a Leafe book, 'No Sounds of My Own Making' by John Bloomberg-Rissman. Thanks Rupert, if you're reading this. It's a typically eclectic list. I cetainly agree with his choice of Rae Armantrout's 'Next Life', definitely on my list (if I had one) for the best books of the year. And Rachel Blau DuPlessis is on my to-do list, having been highly recommended to me by the aformentioned John B-R.

There's a fascinating review of Kelvin Corcoran's pamphlet "Roger Hilton's Sugar" on Kris Hemensley's blog.