Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Guardian Mentions New Poets

There is a new new generation of British/Irish poets, arising, mainly without the connivance of pr spin. A refreshing, welcome broom of change - serious, witty, smart younger poets, mostly not interested in old divides and grumpy feuds, but 21st century poetry and poetics.


There's an interesting article by poet and literary organiser Anne-Marie Fyfe on this new effervescence, here. Good to see, especially, Helen Mort and Luke Kennard mentioned. I'd add other names to those mentioned here - James Byrne, Nathan Hamilton, Emily Berry, Alex McRae, Melanie Challenger, Daljit Nagra - among them, but this is a good start.

Writing A Poem In A Luxury Apartment

John Kinsella, in his Introduction to the international anthology, Vanishing Points: New Modernist Poems (Salt, 2004) writes: "Context does matter. Someone writing a poem in a luxury apartment in a great city at the centre of a military empire does create a different intentionality from the singer composing with community members, expressing the group's marginalisation, loss and defiance. The expression 'avant-garde' is military in origin."

Who is this someone in the luxury apartment in the "great" city? Paul Muldoon? Auden? James Merrill? I don't know many poets, really, who live and write poems in luxury apartments. Would that be flats over £750,000? In Chelsea? Sure, context matters - but does the poetry this anthology explores, and shares with a wider audience, take a stand on the question of this new sub-genre: Luxury Apartment Poetry?

The avant-garde is sometimes awfully self-satisfied - as if they didn't, too, use and benefit from, the services and products of the late-capitalist moment. I am pretty sure Kinsella has lived in relative luxury - all British poets live better than the majority of people on Earth who subsist on less than a dollar a day.

Can poems, should poems, be evaluated by deciding whether or not where they were written was luxurious, or impoverished? Or isn't the poem, finally, not to be judged by its best intentions, but by its style? The qualities of language? Or is poetry, in some important ways, shaped by the location of its composition? Can, in fact, a rich poet be a good poet? What of Byron? What of Hart Crane? Wallace Stevens lived in a big house.

That being said, I'd recommend the anthology (co-edited by Rod Mengham), which argues for a renewal of the lyric, seen from new perspectives (ones less "empirical" and self-interested). It seems odd to have included Ashbery, Hejinian, and Howe, but not Silliman and Bernstein - but the introductions seem a little defiant on that issue, how this is not a "Language" or "postmodern" collection - when Ashbery is perhaps the postmodern poet of the last 33 or more years.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Poem by Stephen Gyllenhaal

Eyewear is very pleased to welcome poet and film-maker Stephen Gyllenhaal (pictured) this Friday. He was good enough to fly from LA under his own dime last Christmas to read for Oxfam's series in London, where he caused quite a stir.

As Eyewear often mentions, in the UK, pop culture and poetry culture don't always mix, so his credentials were as much a hindrance as a help to a fair hearing - but the audience was won over, by his charm as a reader, and, more to the point, the seriousness and quality of the writing itself. Ironically, in an age of celebrity writers, this was a writer wanting to move past that, while having to go through it. As such, the work, often political, often trained on the camera eye, or the world it mediates, resonates into a wider sphere of concern.

Raised in Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania and alumnus of Cinestudio/TrinityCollege, Hartford, Connecticut, Gyllenhaal is a film and television director – most notably of Waterland (based on Graham Swift's novel), A Dangerous Woman (with children Jake and Maggie in supporting roles), and Twin Peaks.

His poetry has been published in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod, and Apalachee Review, among other such places. He divides his time between Martha's Vineyard and Los Angeles. Claptrap: Notes from Hollywood (Cantarabooks 2006) is his first collection of poems.

Land of the Free

Can't disney this away,
can't prozac it back
into the warm sofa
of this once obedient chest.
The grand chandelier
that's turning like a satellite
demanding utter allegiance
and the closer attention
that should have been paid
to grammar, to the names
and statistics of all
the ballplayers
has lost its grip
on the color pink
mistaking it
for the space between
the first and second
amendments.


poem by Stephen Gyllenhaal, from Claptrap: Notes from Hollywood

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Review: Portishead Third

On relistening to Portishead's austere back-catalogue, Dummy and Portishead, one realises they aren't what one thought they were, at the time. They're now as dated as the scratched, tinny recordings they themselves sampled - a part of that 90s decade that liked acid jazz and all manner of trip-hop styling. Dated, but in the way a classic Bogart film is: noirish, of a moment - but also definitive within that sociocultural period. Portishead is as much a sound of the 90s as Nirvana, in precisely the other way: mannered, mediated, Brechtian, eerie - but similar to Cobain because also anguished, emotive, and linked obliquely to a past pop terrain as filtered through Scott Walker and Ballard.

Joy Division was known to be influenced by Ballard, too. I sometimes think Ballard, and K. Dick are the two major novelists, post-Orwell, to shape contemporary culture. Anyway, if the first two Portishead albums were quasi-dystopian, and quasi-Bondian (Fleming is a third key writer for our times, cold war sex), this Third is more so. Critics who suggest it isn't like the other two are victims of a K. Dick memory wipe. It's like the first two like WW3 will be like WW1 and WW2, but more so: extreme. Much has been made of it being bleak, industrial, alienating, and experimental - as if that ever stopped anyone. Music's been made that way in England at least since 1976. Indeed, some of these songs sound like they're from Kurt Weill via Joy Division, via Monty Norman, which makes sense. German Expressionism and Marxism have shaped UK music more than most would care to admit. The Brits just add cool guitars and better vocals.

The four best tracks, spaced across the album, are "Silence", "We Carry On" (a real cool anthem), "Machine Gun" (with its rebarbitive sonic rat-a-tat), and the ominous, strange, "Threads" - which is most in the espionage vein, but as if designed by Stockhausen, or maybe the vaunted Delia Derbyshire. The ending is like a buoy in a mid-Lowell Atlantic gale, a cold far-flung lostness in it. Someone should do a PhD on artifice in British culture, from Derbyshire to Forrest-Thomson - between them those two women did more than anyone else to secure an alternative cultural product. Anyway, the end is uncanny, and Third ends on a deep scary primitive twang, or a ship off the coast of The Heart of Darkness booming its foghorn into the madness, as if some primitive tribe had a midi sampler and were willing to use it.

This is one of the most challenging, artfully conceived comebacks in modern pop music history - thrilling, difficult-listening, oddly-exciting, and is one of the three best albums of the first half of 2008, no doubt.

The Presentation of Blogs in Everyday Life

David Wheatley has been having fun over at his clever blog about how Eyewear's claim to be a persona seems to evade responsibility for one's critical position. His response is patently foolish.

What I said was: "this blog is a text (indeed, intertextual) and full of shifting registers of discourse - not a transparent medium for the simple expression of an ego" - in order to counter the idea that blog-writing is simply a "lyric I" poem by another name. It isn't. "Eyewear" is a persona - a collection of gestures, attitudes, tics, styles, conventions - that shifts. It isn't meant to be "me" - whatever a me might mean - but nor is it "not Todd Swift", either. What I am not is James Bond, though.

Wheatley's position is foolish for any number of reasons. Students of the philosophy of identity will know that we are never the same twice. This flux is not alarming, because much of what we are appears to be the same over time - but no one who is intelligent denies anyone the right to age, or change their views, as they learn. As such, even critics alter their views on writers - as Leavis did with Eliot. Sometimes, as with Wittgenstein, there is a "later" period, as the change becomes very wide, between an early and later position.

In this way, Eyewear need not be unique in refusing to claim 100% consistency of tone or opinion, over time. That does not mean Eyewear avoids responsibility, however, for previously held views - which is why past posts are archived, and not deleted - except where revision has been deemed necessary. Auden, of course, edited his early poems, and sometimes ruined them. Sometimes, the earlier period does seem the better one.

On the question of a blog being, or having, a "persona" - well, of course they can, and often do. Using masks, as Wheatley knows, is part of the modern Irish tradition. Yeats's dialogues with aspects of his selves, and his historical counterparts, often was channeled through the mask - this much is common knowledge. It seems farcical, then, for a leading contemporary Irish poet-critic to mock me (he is after all a "Mocker") - for claiming to use a poetic device in my writing which allows for the presentation of different aspects of the self.

Further, "Eyewear", the blog, is not the work of one person - but many hands. Eyewear is a magazine, as much as a person. Does the TLS have but one critic, or one view? No. Yet, it has a house-style, and a tendency.

Eyewear's tendency (sometimes mocked, but never proven indefensible) is to search for areas of connection, rather than division, among poets, in poetics; to argue for the existence of an original creator for the universe (the entire set of sets); to encourage writers of poetry to publish; and to argue against closed-shop nationalism in poetries, and on behalf of a more global awareness. Eyewear is broadly suspicious of capitalism's tendency to reify, but is not Marxist. Eyewear does enjoy a good movie on the telly. Eyewear knows it has, inherent in its system, divisions. Eyewear has sympathies with Liberation Theology. Finally, Eyewear believes that, at the end of the day, men and women should seek to be kind to one another, and to place love above self-interest - and that goes for poets, too, who, sadly, in their struggle, often lose sight of that, and are sometimes the most selfish, and self-directed agents of all.

This last ethical perspective is sometimes deemed amusing, even impossible, to a certain kind of "lone wolf" poet - usually a middle-aged male - who valorises the rugged-individual-as-artist stereotype above all others - and likes Larkin's model of "get stewed". To them, writers are inherently flawed people - as if trying to be kind to each other was inherently anti-creative. Yes, some self-interest, some "ice in the heart", may be required of the editor, the critic, even the creative writer - yet many great authors and texts have been directly engaged with concern for others. Poetry is an isolated act, yet it need not be isolating.

The British model of things in the last 100 years has been to create "schools" of poetry, and schisms, and forge ahead as best one can. This has often lead to marginalisation of (many) writers who do not fit in. This Darwinian, ruthless, Alpha Male, approach, is outmoded, beastly, and not inherently related to art or poetry - but mirrors the savage and untenable social and patriarchal divisions that still damage Britain today. Britain, after all, has its power from commerce, industry, and former imperial trappings - and none of these is gained, or held, without force. This brutishness has seaped into the culture - for the culture of the UK tends, with its prizes, and its lists, and its clubs, and societies - to be endlessly based on exclusion and inclusion, who's up and down, in or out. It's all more than a little sad.

The pipsqueaks can use satire as they like (which is always flattering, to both the target and the satirist) to marvel at my locquacious tenacity and naive overflow of expression - but what they really don't like is a gadly in their inkwell who doesn't care about their coterie or the cut of their suit - who finally asks, ah, but what kind of person are you? Are you kind? For kindness, friends, is a decision to be good, and attentive, to another, to others - and never stales, is never out of fashion, and is beyond theory. It is the rock on which the very act of writing and reading is based - generosity. Unkind writers are, at heart, writers who loathe themselves.

Man Prize

Eyewear would like to congratulate Man United on their paper-thin victory over Chelsea last night in Russia. It was moving that the win came on the 50th anniversary of Man United's air disaster. The question of whether evenly-matched contests between strong sides should be determined by penalty shoot-outs has long been debated - as everyone says, it becomes a lottery. But then again, maybe not. The side who wins this way has slightly a) more luck; b) more skill; and c) a depth of manpower able to confront the elements, and the pressure of the moment. That set of gifts will always belong to the better team, on the night.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Never Say Never Again Tomorrow!


Never Say Never Again
7 Poets For Oxfam 2008


Tuesday May 20th, 7pm
Oxfam Books & Music
91 Marylebone High Street
London, W1

Featuring Seven Poets:








&



The evening is expected to be popular, so please reserve your places in advance.
Call Martin on 0207 487 3570
Admission is free. Suggested donation £8.

The Next Poet Laureate?

For those aware of the "divide" in British poetry, between a mainstream and a less main one, nothing is as likely to provoke gnashing of teeth than the Poet Laureate position - and those opposed to the Monarchy and British-Empire trappings might also be known to wail, too. One of the less-attractive elements of the world today, is that the media feeds us little literary stories we don't need, all-too-often, as if to remind us that we still love poetry (though "we" don't: there is no mass consumer interest in serious poetry anymore by contemporary figures).


The latest travesty in this department issued from The Observer yesterday (which, in the 60s really engaged seriously with poetry), who weighed in on the imminent retirement, after a good decade, of Andrew Motion as Blair's laureate. One wants to sigh, the "nice decade is over". Of course, Blair torpedoed Carol Ann-Duffy's boat last time, we are told in this creepy article, because of her lifestyle (lesbian, with a young child) - and it is somehow suggested all is forgiven, now - not because Brown has different values, but because Duffy is no longer in such a high-profile relationship - all spurious, too-personal, and rather offensive. Though, sad, if true - no laureate should be deslected, obviously, due to their sex, gender or faith (well, they no doubt would have to convert, like lovely Autumn Kelly from my home town of Montreal). Motion retires in 2009, so this is hardly a story now. But the article goes on to suggest the three front-runners are Duffy, Simon Armitage (44, ages are provided for some reason), and James Fenton (59). All three read for the Oxfam Life Lines series and CDs, and write very well. It's hard to suggest these are not worthy candidates. Other "popular" "female poets" are then mentioned, like Wendy Cope and Jenny Joseph. However, the part that struck me as overstated was this: "many of Britain and Ireland's reigning literary titans are men, among them (Craig) Raine, Seamus Heaney, Don Paterson and James Fenton". I am not sure Paterson, still relatively young, is a "literary titan" (yet) - and his colleague Sean O'Brien would, I am sure, have thought that list might include him too.

But, rather more glaringly, the list removed any sense of controversy, debate, or uncertainty as to the current UK canon - the sort of annoying "naturalising" that happens when the mainstream press treats poetry like horse racing, or celebrity chef TV. Where, for instance, is Geoffrey Hill, in this list? He actually believes in God and England, doesn't he? Well, maybe too much. Where is J.H. Prynne - isn't he titanic, too? Too left-leaning, one supposes, for The Observer's tastes. Where are Britain's superb Asian and Black poets? They haven't yet made this odd little titan list. Oh, well. In the meantime, having a female Poet Laureate would be a good thing.

Guest Review: Turner on Stanford's Day-Lewis

Simon Turner reviews
Cecil Day-Lewis: A Life
by Peter Stanford

There are too few reviewers out there willing to admit to their own shortcomings, the gaps in their literary knowledge. I want to buck that particular trend by admitting to an almost total ignorance of Cecil Day-Lewis – both of his life and of his work – before embarking upon Peter Stanford’s new biography of the poet. I was aware that he had been Poet Laureate, though I could not have confidently placed him within a chronology, but beyond that, I knew little aside from the fact of his siring a certain celebrated actor and part-time cobbler.

Why should Day-Lewis have fallen so comprehensively off the literary radar, when the other poets of the ‘MacSpaunday’ gestalt – Auden, MacNeice, Spender – remain fixtures in the 20th century literary firmament? Ian Hamilton, in Against Oblivion, suggests that Day-Lewis’ day in the sun was chiefly a matter of moving among the right literary circles, and whilst this is true to a certain extent – Auden (more on Wystan later) looms large in ‘Red Cecil’s’ life, and Day-Lewis made friendships and associations with a number of leading lights of his day (which included having a passionate extra-marital affair with the novelist Rosamond Lehmann) – this theory tends to downplay the quality of Day-Lewis’s verse.

For if Day-Lewis is not quite the equal of Auden in matters of technical range and complexity – and let’s face it, who is? – his work is consistently heartfelt (too heartfelt, in some regards), where Auden’s poetry, at its most formally accomplished, tends towards an epigrammatic irony which all too easily slides into somewhat glib and detached formulations. Spender, meanwhile, is by no means the technical equal of Day-Lewis, and his reputation rests mostly on the prose works he published later on in life: the autobiography World Within World, and the fascinating Journals (fascinating as much as for what they tell us about other people as for what they teach us about Spender himself). All of which points to a single, undeniable fact: that, whatever his shortcomings, Day-Lewis has been unfairly neglected by the critical establishment, and by the general poetry readership, although the latter, already a chimera, has been dwindling steadily for some years now. Standford’s remit, then, is not simply to write a biography of Day-Lewis, but to rescue him from the ignominious oblivion that literary history seemed to have cast him into.

If nothing else, Day-Lewis’s life and work offer fascinating cautionary tales as to what can happen when a poet allows the wider forces of his historical situation to overtake his aesthetic considerations as a writer. Indeed, the most gripping segments of Stanford’s book concern Day-Lewis’s association with the Communist Party in the 1930s, and his often anguished efforts to match his output to some putative notion of ‘political’ poetry which might do some kind of good in the public arena. The watchword in this period is ‘synthesis’ – synthesis of modern and traditional components in poetry; synthesis of the political and the personal; synthesis of ‘pure’ and ‘impure’ poetry elements into a unified whole that would address the issues of the day in new and innovative ways, but which would, nonetheless, also be written in such a way as to avoid alienating the common reader.

A tall order by anyone’s standards, and Day-Lewis’s work, more often than not, failed to live up to these high ideals, lapsing at its worst – as in his polemical modern mystery play Noah and the Waters (1936) – into a dogmatic reassertion of Comintern rhetoric, rather than adhering to the stricter standards of poetry. Stanford, in his consideration of Day-Lewis’s poetic output in this period, paints a compelling picture of a man struggling to come to terms with the essential contradiction between his political commitment on the one hand, and his commitment to his art on the other.

Struggling, too, with the figure of Auden, which brings me to one of the central flaws of the biography – a flaw which, I should point out, is by no means of Stanford’s own making. As I noted above, the book is at its most compelling in relation to the political and aesthetic debates of the 1930’s, a period in which Auden loomed large. All of the MacSpaunday poets struggled to escape from under his shadow, though it is Day-Lewis who has perhaps suffered most in this regard. The problem is that, without Auden, and the political and aesthetic debates which he embodies, much of the drama would be absent from Day-Lewis’s biography. Fascinating as his personal life is – a childhood dominated by figures of almost fairy-tale proportions (his mother died young, his father was over-bearing and unpredictable, his step-mother was loathed), a tempestuous domestic situation (tempestuous because of Cecil’s tendency to stray outside of marriage) – it is at those moments when the outside world, in the form of Communism, the Spanish Civil War, and the seriousness of World War Two, impinge upon the personal sphere that Stanford’s book is at its most gripping and vivid. A drawback is, of course, that many of these events, from Day-Lewis’s perspective, also revolve around his relationship with Auden. If Day-Lewis struggled to get out of the shadow of Auden, then this is a problem that the biographer of Day-Lewis must contend with too.

Another drawback is that Day-Lewis’s second career as a mystery writer, under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake, is given relatively short shrift. Of course, the primary remit of Stanford’s biography is to rescue the reputation of Day-Lewis as a poet first and foremost, but there is a sense that a certain hierarchical thinking – high versus low literature – is creeping into proceedings. Perhaps a biography is not really a place for such considerations, but I would like to have seen the Nicholas Blake books considered as literature, pure and simple, to a greater extent than they were. Stanford notes that Day-Lewis saw his mystery novels as a means of reaching a greater readership than his poetry afforded, so it is a shame that he sidelines the novels in favour of the poetry, rather than considering the various ways in which their concerns and approaches might have intersected. As it stands, the mysteries are treated chiefly in terms of the autobiographical material which went into their production, and their commercial prospects. Stanford’s close critical reading is good in all cases, but it would have been interesting to see something more done with them.

These are, however, minor quibbles. This is an excellent biography, which succeeds in getting the balancing act between a consideration of the writer as a man and as an artist just about right. Moreover, it succeeds too in its underlying aim: to rescue Day-Lewis from obscurity, and to place his poetry back in the public and critical eye. Stanford’s primary achievement is to create a compelling narrative of aesthetic development, as Day-Lewis’s work runs from late-Georgian lyricism, through a politicised modernity in the shadow of Auden, and out into the plainer diction of his mature work. That this final triumphant stage in Day-Lewis’s career also represents, at least in part, a Bloomian overthrowing of Wystan, and an escape from his perceived influence on his own work, is no coincidence.

Simon Turner's first collection, You Are Here, was published by Heaventree in 2007. He co-edits the blogzine Gists and Piths. He lives in Warwickshire, and is currently at work on his second collection. His own blog is Difficult Second Album.

Friday, May 16, 2008

The Shuffle