My Leafe Press henchman John Bloomberg-Rissman has just completed 'Flux, Clot & Froth' (FCF) part 2 of his on-going project, of which 'No Sounds of my Own Making' was part one. FCF, published on John's blog, would run to around 800 pages in book form. The work is an exercise in sampling, that is, borrowing text from other writers - or people in general - to make a kind of boundless poetry that interfaces with all aspects of contemporary life, via the texts that document it. It's an epic project - just check out the list of names he's borrowed from - but it's at the same time a light-hearted (and affectionate) spoof of the epic works of High Modernism. The whole project is called Zeitgeist Spam. Long may it contiinue!

Abellatif Laâbi

I was very pleased to hear that Laâbi has been honoured by the Goncourt Academy. The Moroccan poet was awarded this literary honor for "his life achievements," the Academy said in a statement. The prize will be officially given on January 12, 2010.

Leafe Press, of course, has just published a new translation of Laâbi 's poem 'Fragments of a Forgotten Genesis' in a dual-language edition, and it's available now (see below for special offer). Laâbi is a heroic figure, who has spent his life fighting oppression of all kinds (he was a strong supporter of Salman Rushdie during the 'Satanic Verses' affair). He was born in 1942 in Fes, Morocco. In 1966 he founded Anfas/Souffles, an important literary review, which provided a focus for Moroccan and Maghreb creative energies. It was banned in 1972. Laâbi was imprisoned, tortured and sentenced to ten years in prison for "crimes of opinion" (for his political beliefs and his writings) and served a sentence from 1972-1980. He was then forced into exile in France, where he has lived since 1985.

Laâbi has published a huge volume of work, particularly poetry, but although there is a Selected Poems ('The World's Embrace') from City Lights, San Franciscio, he is under-represented in English. So Leafe was particularly pleased, in fact honoured, to publish his long poem 'Fragments d’une genèse oubliée / Fragments of a Forgotten Genesis'. It was originally published in 1998 by Editions Paroles d’Aube, but was out-of-print in both English and French when Leafe Press took it on. The poem is a surrealistic refiguring of Genesis presented in twenty-six “fragments.” As a whole, the work is a mystical yet cynical re-visioning of both the Old Testament and the Koran. The translation, by Gordon and Nancy Hadfield is uncluttered and clear, and works as a fine English poem in its own right.

I'd like to wish a belated Happy New Year to all visitors to this blog. I wish you all peace, health and happiness during 2010. Here's a piece of poetry to start the year with; a bit of summer on this winter night, with snow falling outside. My previous post was a response to Keith Armstrong's criticism of Basil Bunting; it's good to remember that whatever factions, in-groups, vested interests and power structures might exist among poets, what counts in the end is the poetry:

A fowler spreading his net
over the barley, calls,
calls on a rubber reed.
Grain nods in reply.
Poppies blue upon white
wake to the sun's frown.
Scut of gazelle dances and bounces
out of the afternoon.
Owl and wolf to the night.
On a terrace over a pool
vafur, vodka, tea,
resonant verse spilled
from Onsori, Sa'di,
till the girls' mutter is lost
in whisper of stream and leaf,
a final nightingale
under a fading sky
azan on their quiet.

Basil Bunting, from 'The Spoils'

Bunting Re-Evaluated

The role of Basil Bunting as poet laureate of Northumbria is re-evaluated here by Tynesider Keith Armstrong. The essay was drawn to my attention by Alistair Noon. I think Armstrong makes some valid points: I'm all for questioning the power of the 'vast cultural umbrella' bequeathed by twelve years of New Labour, and the consequent 'hegemony ... of local authorities and the Arts Council and many other unaccountable quangos'. It's also fine by me to re-evaluate Bunting in general, and, as I said to Alistair, I certainly wouldn't hold Bunting up as a moral paragon - his attitude to women, and ridiculous views on 'southrons' aren't things I'd admire (though to call him 'fascist', as one contributor does is just plain wrong). However, the article seems incoherent, and lacking in a clear argument. Armstrong rails against the 'literary intelligentsia' as opposed to the 'grass roots' (in fine 1970s-style Old Labour language), but it's hard to see exactly why he objects so much to Basil Bunting. He quotes Peter Riley's objection to Lee Hall's recent radio programme, and the way it propagated a North v South mythology; but that's hardly Bunting's fault, and more to do with the fantasising of Barry MacSweeney. He trots out a series of poets who don't like Bunting's work, though as none of them substantiate their views with quotation or detailed comment, they are really just matters of opinion. A number of contributors question the authenticity of Bunting's accent; I agree that in the recordings I've heard it's over-exagerated, but I can detect authentic pronunciation of Northumberland (as opposed to Tyneside) speech under the put-on, and, in any case, Bunting's poetry wasn't a poetry modelled on everyday conversation. So, as I've said, it's hard to work out precisely what his objection to Bunting is. One clue might be his comments on Tom Pickard's and Barry MacSweeney's poetry:

" [their] collections make monotonous reading... Their work is virtually inaccessible to those unable to share the crude and simplistic emotions or tolerate the inarticulateness of the language which goes as near to using words without meaning as one can. "

Whether it's actually possible to use words 'without meaning' is a moot point, but, by contrast, talking about the poetry of working class poets like Joseph Skipsey, the coal-miner, and Tyneside shipyard worker Jack Davitt, Armstrong says "What these poems lack in literary technique they more than make up for in their refreshing openness and accessibility". The question here is: is there something fundamentally different about poetry when it's written by - or written for - 'working-class people'? It seems rather patronising to suggest that the working classes (however that's defined) can only cope with "openness and accessibliity". The mental processes and the perceptions of the world experienced by a coal-miner or truck driver aren't essentially different to those of a doctor or lawyer. W.S. Graham was a working-class poet; apprenticed as a shipyard engineer at fourteen, he remained until he'd served his time at twenty-one, and throughout his life worked at casual jobs, including work as a fisherman on a trawler. But his poetry addresses philosophical and perceptual questions, and can be as complex as any. And when does a working-class person cease to be working class once he / she becomes a poet, or gets an education? Is Keith Armstrong working class? Maybe, but he also has a PhD from Durham University. Growing up, as I did, in a working-class community, one thing I learned is that you can't pigeon-hole people. The shipyard workers and miners who were our neighbours were as complex and contradictory as any other human beings; any poetry written or read by such people would have needed to reflect that.

A hopeful thought for 2010 on:

"When I realize that any chapbook publisher with a Blogspot page and PayPal account can sell directly to readers worldwide, I feel hopeful. I just hope we can find time to read & enjoy this great bounty."

Ron Silliman

To read Ron's full post, click here.

Cid Corman, Ed Baker, Theodore Enslin and Chuck Sandy

Turns out Ed Baker, regular visitor to Litterbug, is a friend of Theodore Enslin (see photo). Ed reminded me that the poem to George Oppen was called 'The Weather Within'; it's a wonderful piece of work, and it's still available on-line, here.

Follow follow follow after following
flow flowing follow after flow
a milk of light the nacre flowing
into follow milk flow as follows
milked of its colors let them
follow flow sun's bent a lasting
milk in light its nacre sheers to
touch as flow feels following after
flow touch to feel against light
against a following flow to after
let be on what is flowing it
follows as let of nacre after
sun to color dogged it will appear
a following discreet as distance follows

Theodore Enslin

I haven't read much Enslin for a long time, and today, when I knew I'd have to wait in the car for a family member to arrive at the station, I grabbed a book of his poetry on the way out. The book was In Tandem published in 2001 by Stop Press, which I believe was run by artist Basil King. Being on my own, I could read the poetry aloud without people thinking I'm mad. It's like listening to, or playing, a piece of music (Enslin,of course, is a composer), and as you read, you notice the careful, sound-based composition, and the way phrases are introduced, then re-worked and developed. It's an exhilirating experience. I don't know of any other poet who writes quite like this, with the possible exception of John Taggart, who is a friend of Enslin's.

Here's good blog: it's not poetry, but highly amusing satirical comment on the goings-on of British politics, with a grotesque set of characters - drawn from life - including The Vicar of Downing Street, The Glorious Successor and Lord Mandelbrot the Ever-Recurring. It's called The Curmudgeon.

I'm off to Frankfurt tomorrow, after a three-hour search all over the house for my missing passport, which we (the whole family joined in) finally found. Phew! If it hadn't showed up, I simply couldn't have gone. So much for freedom of movement, or even just Freedom. Anyway, there would have been serious repercussions had I not been able to go, and I have a living to earn. So very relieved.

The World Seen from the Air

Stuck for a Christmas present for that hard-to-please family member, that discerning friend? Try this. New from Nottingham's own Skysill Press, and with a beautfiful cover design from Sam Ward, this 22-page booklet contains poems I wrote about three years ago. The work is, I guess, lyric poetry, and uses repetition and variation, as in musical form.

Support an enterprising new press and a struggling poet by buying a copy from the Skysill website.

22 pages. £4 including postage.

Many thanks to Sam for all his hard work and support.