tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81407358840833967292024-03-14T03:34:26.381-07:00 David Hackbridge Johnson I am a composer, performer and writer on music and other topics. Here is where you can find information about my music, poetry and more! CLICK HERE FOR RECENT ESSAYSDavid Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-19473707013265556352022-04-07T11:57:00.001-07:002022-04-09T02:19:29.297-07:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">A
VITAL TELLING:<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">On
Harvey Brough’s <i>The Sun Does Shine</i>, performed
at St Luke’s, West Holloway, London, on Sunday 27<sup>th</sup> February 2022</span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(Scroll
down to 'Older Posts' for articles on Jerome Rothenberg, Iain Sinclair, Javier
Marías, John Gawsworth, Frances Cornford, and Apocalypse poetry.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHCXw6xdF9-rNBWkfJpeTMqi4CtS7_NsOVx95APH3-qUX5l-dZBMlQOo4qy0WnMGj4FPDOkoO0JWCK_WbJEEPXbDIy_8DlaT9qVBCEvPW7e2SBjlkyDiEsSHToHAYrDxyY4J8xJkI7_jOXLK-2Kk7uWJN8xbQrp02qp53B-WIPiuJBBoLFK7xYPoUfPg/s4608/IMG_20220227_214557.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHCXw6xdF9-rNBWkfJpeTMqi4CtS7_NsOVx95APH3-qUX5l-dZBMlQOo4qy0WnMGj4FPDOkoO0JWCK_WbJEEPXbDIy_8DlaT9qVBCEvPW7e2SBjlkyDiEsSHToHAYrDxyY4J8xJkI7_jOXLK-2Kk7uWJN8xbQrp02qp53B-WIPiuJBBoLFK7xYPoUfPg/w300-h400/IMG_20220227_214557.jpg" width="300" /></a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>Wills Morgan as Anthony Ray Hinton</b></i></div><i><br /><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Returning pleasures have
characterised the slow emergence from lockdown.
Music – silent in concert halls and classrooms throughout the country, must
be one of the essential pleasures to reignite our sense of humanity. What more expressive of human failings,
resolution and redemption can there be than Harvey Brough and Justin Butcher’s
new work, <i>The Sun Does Shine</i>? Reading the true story of Anthony Ray Hinton’s
wrongful incarceration at the flawed behest of the Alabama system of justice,
is like being trapped in the worst pages of a dystopian novel – <i>Darkness at Noon</i> or <i>1984</i>. There is a Dickensian
aspect to some of the attendant lawyers charged with facilitating Hinton’s
determined challenges to his conviction – we might think of <i>Bleak House</i>: ‘The one great principle of
the English law is to make business for itself’. There is a pall of death surrounding the
entire decades-long process of legal procedure – Hinton is on Death Row in solitary
confinement and 54 fellow inmates are led to the electric chair or the lethal
injection gurney during his time there.
There is a smell of burning flesh from ‘Yellow Mama’ – Alabama State’s
chair – as another prisoner meets a terminating justice. The books of Koestler, Orwell and Dickens can
be closed, albeit that their scenarios remain indelible – yet the prison
environment, the loneliness, the despair, cannot be snapped shut and placed on
a bedside table. The ultimate
vindication of Hinton’s innocence – his original conviction was overturned in
2014 – might hide away the despair of a lost life, yet it becomes apparent that
the years in jail were not entirely lost.
Despite moments of utter desolation, Hinton finds sufficient strength to
manage his appeals, and he finds solace in reading. In starting a prison book club, Hinton,
spreads the words among his fellow prisoners.
The club, needless to say, has a steadily diminishing membership.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">The way Brough and Butcher
weave all these elements into a seamless whole is masterly; the work is
part-opera, part-musical, part-play. Aside
from the principle roles, there is a chorus that acts both as a commentarial
and as a pool from which to pick step-out roles. A small band of musicians forms the
close-knit orchestra. Brough choses a
style allied to popular and faith-inspired music of the Deep South: blues,
spirituals, soul, and funk elements abound; some songs are newly arranged
classics, many are Brough originals.
These songs form the emotive core as in the traditional ‘number opera’ –
yet the action moves freely through the songs as a way to keep the web of
feelings constantly in touch with the bitter realities of the story. What gives the first act tremendous power is
not just the dire aspects of the case, but also how the action is situated
internally in the play of intense relationships between Hinton, his mother, and
his friend Lester Bailey. His mother’s
faith becomes a bedrock to which Hinton clings; Lester’s loyalty – he visits
Hinton every month for 28 years – is another vital support. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">In the second act, where the
baffling legal labyrinth in which Hinton finds himself is revealed, the action
takes on the claustrophobic worlds of both Kafka and Harold Pinter – process as
non-process, dialogues with unseen voices.
We are taken through the zigzagging pathways of petition applications,
judicial reviews, and appeals. This
agonisingly slow legal crawl underscores the strange arena of tentative
relationships between Hinton and his fellow inhabitants of Death Row – most
notably that between him and Ku Klux Klan member Henry Hays. In an eerie miracle of the human spirit,
prison becomes the one place where Hinton and Hays can interact, without bars,
so to speak. After the U.S. Supreme
Court’s ruling to overturn his 1986 conviction, it is only a matter of time
before Anthony Ray Hinton can walk free.
He does so on April 3<sup>rd</sup> 2015, the event portrayed in the final
tableau of Brough’s work, entitled The Alabama Sky – an overwhelming listening experience
– the entire company combining in a celebration of freedom against almost
implacable odds. The cogs of justice
ground and ground, but eventually found a gear that fitted the facts and not
mere expedience.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Harvey Brough led his work
most ably from the podium. Vox Holloway
– a community choir based in North London – were the Greek chorus, and in the
finale, the co-celebrants of Hinton’s release.
The step-out roles were most tellingly done. The choir’s commitment to such a challenging
score was superb – they brought energy and passion to the music. The small band played with all the
familiarity of the styles needed for Brough’s compendium of Alabama sounds –
and they sounded much bigger than a quintet, being able to deploy any number of
effects and sonorities. The cast was splendid – I was moved by Christina Gill’s portrayal of Mama, and Michael Henry
was most sympathetic as Hinton’s devoted friend, Lester. Dale Ripley managed to project his voice into
a prison void as the condemned murderer Henry Hays – his unlikely friendship
with Hinton provided a chilling reminder of the murderous falsities that keep
people apart. Okezie Morro and Clara
Sanabras sang most finely the roles of Bryan Stevenson and Santha Sonenberg,
two lawyers who determined that Hinton’s appeals would not, in the end, be
allowed to fail. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Central to the work is the
role of Anthony Ray Hinton himself.
Wills Morgan – singing and acting almost without pause during nearly two
hours of highly-wrought and fraught drama was simply extraordinary. He combined the vocal abilities of an
operatic lyric tenor with a gospel shouter – by way of Luther Vandross. His immersion in the emotional whirlpool of
Hinton’s incarceration was uncanny – ‘method singing’ if you will – what Marlon
Brando might have done had he possessed a voice. Morgan, known, among other things, for <i>Coming Through Slaughter</i>, Mike
Westbrook’s opera based on Michael Ondaatje’s novel of the same name, <i>Jerry Springer: The Opera</i> by Richard
Thomas and Stewart Lee, and as an advocate for the music of Ronald Stevenson,
has gathered all his experience as both singer and actor to energise his
performance. He never let go of the
drama from start to finish and propelled the work to its heartfelt climax. It was an epic role triumphantly achieved.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">At the end of the show the
audience rose as one. This was a one-off
performance – all the efforts of the dedicated team were channelled into this
one showing of the work. It ought to be
staged – one can imagine the tremendous opportunities for realising the
alternatively confined and vast spaces of the prison, the scenes of despair and
triumph echoed by lighting – the dead dark of oppressive walls and the
liberating blue of the Alabama sky. The
West End ought to be in touch. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">An aspect of despair is that
which can suffer no expression – the only sounds are the calls of a raised voice
numb with pain echoing in empty vaults.
The institutions are dumb in the face of their own failure. Except that Anthony Ray Hinton made them
speak a truth they sought to deny.
Harvey Brough and his wonderful cast of performers have added to that
vital telling. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUqCJlmvHEzwZsWlcUYjbgqI0pGnFu_dEwpvj3Wpgvh8orP87kSzD8B1qU6Q2OlRJHSwXHJPMqN6roxppLrnOYAiAjnHRyYMPjBKZarWRY220E0kkA-5ToSpjQ6sycpNH_CK0CPYwySA5opedqRFyvG6aI2qlBGBil_5FZmBpKocVqGfSHTTEsucm4A/s2089/IMG_20220407_192454.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2089" data-original-width="1569" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUqCJlmvHEzwZsWlcUYjbgqI0pGnFu_dEwpvj3Wpgvh8orP87kSzD8B1qU6Q2OlRJHSwXHJPMqN6roxppLrnOYAiAjnHRyYMPjBKZarWRY220E0kkA-5ToSpjQ6sycpNH_CK0CPYwySA5opedqRFyvG6aI2qlBGBil_5FZmBpKocVqGfSHTTEsucm4A/w300-h400/IMG_20220407_192454.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">©DHJ 7.iv.2022<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-83959013870560350532022-03-14T15:37:00.001-07:002022-03-14T15:37:25.699-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">SOME VISUAL RESPONSES TO POEMS OF JEROME ROTHENBERG</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">by David Hackbridge Johnson</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF5MlJYiGv3AsrFTcrNCgmIazGBb5_PhcfmpWGP1Mtl0RxRMomGYE8RmofYE8vV2_L-71NyvQX6qMsPqoJyz66MEk-cyS9Jyv6Clbzg3DrGjfn11NGUCEjzZ7ySJYEOSABstauuCi7fCjaIKrfSREOvi1yFdJp6fzeO7AUbRqTfl3kPOaZaKXjMuqz6g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF5MlJYiGv3AsrFTcrNCgmIazGBb5_PhcfmpWGP1Mtl0RxRMomGYE8RmofYE8vV2_L-71NyvQX6qMsPqoJyz66MEk-cyS9Jyv6Clbzg3DrGjfn11NGUCEjzZ7ySJYEOSABstauuCi7fCjaIKrfSREOvi1yFdJp6fzeO7AUbRqTfl3kPOaZaKXjMuqz6g=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Sketch for the Lies of a Mad King</span></b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjV45ASOO1Iy5CS0YldFXEGm33z5SoeYgEZ1gGhPhklAQ9lSBvHQlKI2ZOutwcPCVHrogk-XGto-SShhb_Q5etNzBJcCrdnFD8SePC1Fr6i-wtcE5Pn6WSNMdcqRhz1cIwPIQO8NvzmLBGs70TzKlNIAOPzgcm9J2YLgb04_BD2ELkgfTaNm5tP_31MhQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjV45ASOO1Iy5CS0YldFXEGm33z5SoeYgEZ1gGhPhklAQ9lSBvHQlKI2ZOutwcPCVHrogk-XGto-SShhb_Q5etNzBJcCrdnFD8SePC1Fr6i-wtcE5Pn6WSNMdcqRhz1cIwPIQO8NvzmLBGs70TzKlNIAOPzgcm9J2YLgb04_BD2ELkgfTaNm5tP_31MhQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mythical Forest (actually a lady and her dog in Garratt Green, Tooting)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjP-nVxwyWZemGr5oqTXpV3K9s5_OQhvYX69RtItt0OVoCMSj7Y_wiY9Gj33T6EuiS622sNX98e4yR1vKTUNe-_DbJ2R5AGYd9ZlgAZF4AMtchvBJ2Djy1zRQFA-3t6CrhsCt826sOPLSxILW21bzZmET9Fawb2hyUDouhGs2GoDguL-v54pXWHgYih2A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img data-original-height="640" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjP-nVxwyWZemGr5oqTXpV3K9s5_OQhvYX69RtItt0OVoCMSj7Y_wiY9Gj33T6EuiS622sNX98e4yR1vKTUNe-_DbJ2R5AGYd9ZlgAZF4AMtchvBJ2Djy1zRQFA-3t6CrhsCt826sOPLSxILW21bzZmET9Fawb2hyUDouhGs2GoDguL-v54pXWHgYih2A=w353-h400" width="353" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sketch of Lies in the Mouth</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdWLvyGKBZV2u_bnBKgqa5illKdelUqEim2CEerWx2Gt-K32xRNlMSAokbUmBlP_DTJ4-z4iQpvgQCHD3gx2lSvwLUNT0oyvIVylQ-4oLpFkGMLScgZHBZahJzGpeUKq0KwNb2L8eyTdCpXlHZdFOGxrhTDug-IX8_wXEkWk9ZPE6yK8iBFV1zrbLmRQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdWLvyGKBZV2u_bnBKgqa5illKdelUqEim2CEerWx2Gt-K32xRNlMSAokbUmBlP_DTJ4-z4iQpvgQCHD3gx2lSvwLUNT0oyvIVylQ-4oLpFkGMLScgZHBZahJzGpeUKq0KwNb2L8eyTdCpXlHZdFOGxrhTDug-IX8_wXEkWk9ZPE6yK8iBFV1zrbLmRQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fallen Temple in the Mountains</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZnx6_2mHFa2p9AfOzOgo_IMPiAXQKa0z1O5sI2Br6pozkcfhXqgBlF2tbusTVuw0LwJUZPe6htc3uXxl4yJHE2iRrJ6xQbwMhscCZGG8h3AFR9Y57N88BOjP_otC2im0PZMR4n9161XdUDqWxgXRlp43QFPrP1V23PQCTIkEIVxpMNNlLXflhPX1pMw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZnx6_2mHFa2p9AfOzOgo_IMPiAXQKa0z1O5sI2Br6pozkcfhXqgBlF2tbusTVuw0LwJUZPe6htc3uXxl4yJHE2iRrJ6xQbwMhscCZGG8h3AFR9Y57N88BOjP_otC2im0PZMR4n9161XdUDqWxgXRlp43QFPrP1V23PQCTIkEIVxpMNNlLXflhPX1pMw=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Orpheus Sings in the River Hebrus</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">The above visual works are very much sketches in progress inspired by Jerome Rothenberg's unique voice, or rather voices, as he seeks a poetry which encapsulates the fault lines of the archaic and the modern. A poet 'speaking in tongues' might be an apposite descriptor for a writer who through his anthologising of the recoverable utterances of almost lost peoples, has through his own work threaded an experience of contemporary America and its churning melting pot of past and present cultures. I was very fortunate to meet Rothenberg at a conference organised by Valerie Soar and Geoff Browell at King's College, London on 12th March 2022 where he read lyrics, incantations, Dada-esque sketches, and several long poems of Blakean vision and warning - most notably his poem <i>In the Shadow of a Mad King.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">The conference also featured the work of poet and critic Eric Mottram and I will feature some work motivated by his example in a future post - most especially since my view of Mottram as poet was transformed by the inspired readings of his work given by Allen Fisher, Ken Edwards and Jerome Rothenberg. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">DHJ 14.iii.2022</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><p></p>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-76412905474181428332022-02-21T05:09:00.001-08:002022-02-21T05:09:34.660-08:00<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"><span style="font-size: large;">OUT OF HIS DISCOMFORT ZONE: </span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"><span style="font-size: large;">Fantasia On Sinclair’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"><span style="font-size: large;">By David Hackbridge Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"><i>(click </i>older posts<i> below this article to read essays on Frances Cornford, Angus Wilson, Edward Cowie, Apocalypse poetry, and other interesting topics)</i></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuo4cxuwea4yqkfzR5NfFdDSfS702lrur7wsttjhsK_7YSzwjaSoQ4QyDNAY7R6S6_8AwrMOVd2QP-kMzYgbBCJKZHSsXbrqEVX036a0Ww0V6zUB3CdlpnRlp91Ou8TDIZRdaxwqaKiqYnmKqMNvsg41P8N8WgHFjPAlXoPC5ezUyqYXAOJ6SvC5JtDA=s2015" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="2015" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuo4cxuwea4yqkfzR5NfFdDSfS702lrur7wsttjhsK_7YSzwjaSoQ4QyDNAY7R6S6_8AwrMOVd2QP-kMzYgbBCJKZHSsXbrqEVX036a0Ww0V6zUB3CdlpnRlp91Ou8TDIZRdaxwqaKiqYnmKqMNvsg41P8N8WgHFjPAlXoPC5ezUyqYXAOJ6SvC5JtDA=w400-h175" width="400" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /><i><br /></i></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">i. Escape from London<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">Sinclair in
Peru.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having seen the last of London<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
our habitual walker Iain Sinclair – as if only his relentless steps will
trigger words – seeks new vistas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
search not merely of altered scenic states but in search of a relative not
quite lost in the pages of a colonial-era travel book – a travel book with a
distinctly commercial purpose that hides much else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>London’s Laureate of Detritus, the
great-grandson of the colonialist, heads out, and has to check himself – heading
out not for London Fields or to the swollen wellington boot of Victoria Park –
but to the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Total escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up and over the city’s cat’s cradle of weird
geometry – bursting the force fields of dowsers and ley line hypnotics. </span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">But within a few pages of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i>, Sinclair’s new book from Oneworld, we are greeted
by a slew of discarded plastics and a severed head, one surely prone to
resurrection at the drop of an eldritch incantation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awaking in a house on stilts near Chupaca,
central Peru, and walking outside to find ‘a display of bright blue plastic
bottles, silver cans, oranges, black bags, broken twigs and dead leaves’<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
Sinclair might be greeting a grim dawn on Mare Street or Garratt Lane –
thoroughfares with gurgling throats greedy for rank offerings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The severed head has not been rolled out of
the pages of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lud Heat<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></i>
or from a bin liner underneath a beer-sticky table at The Blind Beggar – it is
that of Túpac Amaru the Inca rebel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is expected to grow a body and announce the next glorious Inca Empire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Find the head and administer the correct
libation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">Plastic filth and beheadings? – as if acquired
in the Duty Free shop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">en route </i>to
Peru? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We might wonder if Sinclair can
ever get out of his discomfort zone – can throw off the louring clouds over
Haggerston or banish the gently lapped body parts of murder victims as they
languish in canal depths. Will London's addled dithyrambists be thrown
off the scent by an alien climate?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will the virtuoso
alcoholics and deflowered Blakean angels miss the flight?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Has Sinclair set up so potent an array of
tawdry gods and their eager servitors that he cannot escape their influence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A perma-looped Snake Plissken movie.
Must these dire inevitables follow our most intrepid unholy holy walker as the two
cloaked figures pursued M. R. James’ hapless Mr. Wraxall, author of
travelogues, all the way from the sarcophagus of Count Magnus to Belchamp St.
Paul in pre-gangster Essex?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Won't the
whole project be strangled by a tightening scarf of fever hospitals, a sodden blanket
of medical notes from a landfill of mental patients? Won't a reignited pre-Bazelgette
honk drift westward over the Atlantic to fester the sinuses, obliterate the
heady scent of jungle flora?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quick! – let
go the gangway! - here they come! – a lemming-stampede of ecstasy zombies,
steroidal bouncers, wired poets – wannabe Hart Cranes twitching for ocean-going
suicide epics, leaking Portaloos on wheels, deliriously untethered from Thames
Gateway building sites.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">The answers to these (far too many) questions
form a series of yeses and nos. Peru is the setting of the book but London
is the bulbous glinty-eyed head that sits at the centre of radiating tentacles
of Capital. The money flows in treacly substances – coffee, rubber, sugar
– even the planter comes up from the acquired earth, fingers sticky with sap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A colonial entity inhabiting late Victorian
masonry that from dressed stone cliffs sends out its agents to surmount all
geographical impediments to progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
we miss the rheumy hangover dawns in Vicky Park, or the burst bin bag slurry
outside Brick Lane curry houses, we get compensation – Sinclair is certainly
alive to equatorial odours that would incinerate in a flash the discarded fish
papers of an East End winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he is
quick to spot the remnants of the colonial project, or the project’s
continuation by other means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We see Peru
as a photographic inversion of London – the death-grey pallor of slum clearance
zones and effluent-filled quarries now rendered in impossible jungle richness -
a drenching of vegetal greens and the hot coals of scuffed rock. Broiling
skies and absurdly eager insects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ashen
Lunar to blood-orange Martian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">ii. Different
Maps<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">In a change from previous non-travel travel
books, Sinclair has had to give way to hitherto unneeded direction – no auto-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dérives</i> of Brick Lane or Mile End Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are spared knee-jerk trauma-crawls along
Commercial Road or Whitechapel Road – those sclerotic twins to the benighted
east – spared the buddleia invasion of abolished boozers – the topers rattling
padlocked cellar access hatches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
journey lacks a willed un-mapping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
Sinclair’s daughter Farne who with efficiency and determination deals with the
practicalities – timetables, negotiations, cash-handling – at the same time
pursuing a podcast project of her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
being The Andes, Sinclair gets to do less walking as the sandpaper air thwarts
breathing; journeying is rather by mountain railway or by means of white
knuckle rides on thrashed and seatbelt-less taxis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shorn of familiar Hawksmoor or Watkins
alignments, a new set of connecting nodes are found on a map of Sinclair’s great-grandfather,
Arthur Sinclair – Aberdeenshire born, displaced from the Highlands due to crop
failure, colonial surveying and planting in Ceylon, further travels, one
last-ditch attempt to recoup vast losses in untouched Peru. </span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not Túpac Amaru’s, but Arthur Sinclair’s head
is the one that must speak by genetic connection – colonial trailblazer to
Hackney's resident composer of street fugues – he is the one that sets the route
as laid out in his 1895 book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Tropical
Lands: Recent Travels to the Sources of the Amazon, the West Indian Islands,
and Ceylon</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No territory is as
vacant as a map might show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The maps
come after the journeys and are biased by intent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Discovery is simply a form of replacement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The white spaces on maps are only assumed to
be empty for purposes already decided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thus Arthur’s directive from the Peruvian Corporation of London is to
survey land suitable for coffee cultivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The land can be assumed to be empty and ripe for exploitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prior claims by means of residence have no
appeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Iain Sinclair’s maps have always
been cluttered, pocked – the virgin lines of force obscured – and yet for a
corporation-minded entity, the clotted areas – Docklands, the Lea Valley – are
‘empty’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thrusting commercial purpose
eradicates the living and being of the target lands, reducing vast information
streams to a thin white noise easily filtered out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One map is brim-full, the other a vacuum to
be filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this sense <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i> is a true part of the
Sinclairian project – the relentless charting and recording of displacement,
how places fill up, empty, and fill up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A cyclical sluicing of poverty’s gruel for the sake of those vast repasts
beloved of the glutton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The land grab
might be a million acres of forest or a row of terraced houses in Bow inviting demolition
– failing that, arson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Covert operations
both, and a mass suppression – a culverting of the means of mobility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abolition of and egress and ingress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These outcomes are the result of, as Sinclair
puts it, ‘the never satisfied malignancy of capital’.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">iii. Stones in
Sepia<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">Some of the generous quotations from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Tropical Lands</i> will be familiar to
readers of Sinclair’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i>.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This remarkable and dizzying book from 2004, assumed
by many to be a novel, reveals splits in personality, landscape, and
narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A familiar cast of hacks,
gangsters, slum landlords, booksellers, photographers, perverts, and bent
coppers, pursue each other over the blast zone of the A13 and the south east
coast of England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barren urban lands are
mirrored in quotations from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Tropical
Lands</i> in what is perhaps a trial run for the work that might give Arthur
Sinclair, called Arthur Norton in the earlier book, an even more prominent
voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has taken Iain Sinclair 16
years to prepare for the journey that leaps from pages of a book to the living
landscape of Peru. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">Sinclair's prose in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i> is largely wrought from those exquisite
modulations that underlie a riff of low-level perils; ones that threaten at any
moment to escalate to an east end Joe Pesci going for the jugular with his biro
– the prose so honed that it makes Sinclair a dark, Baroque twin to Ronald
Firbank – the two sparring for black-comic supremacy – where Firbank glimpses a
fleeing choirboy under dim clerestory light, Sinclair comes up against a
slavering dog on a chain by every lamp-post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gobbets of text that make Hemingway seem like Proust: ‘Muscle: on the
piss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Larging it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hawaiian shirt, medallion, clenched fist,
bottle.’<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sinclair's is the more panoramic capture – garish
John Martin vistas as against Firbank's besmirched Vermeer – the depraved cardinal
may be an undignified anomaly on chequerboard floor tiles but the vom-starburst
on the pub toilet splash-backs is a more urgent millenarian warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White cliffs of soiled porcelain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is less of this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">modus operandi</i> in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold
Machine,</i> as if Sinclair can't find the audience in Peru for his one-liners.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or one-worders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">Dining on Stones</span></i><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> features many characters on the run. They know
too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mocatta (perhaps remembering
Mocata from Dennis Wheatley’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Devil
Rides Out</i>) the highly dubious head of a vast property empire, pulls the
strings of the residents of Cunard Court, the ocean liner-like edifice moored
on the south coast – an architectural memorial to colonial shipping. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Escapees of the Rachmanite tendency have seemingly
been injected with tracking devices to ensure that the psychotic hood will
enter whichever greasy spoon caff they thought was safe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Acid-shitting gulls scatter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything dries up to a ball of salt on the tongue.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don't be seen – but it’s no good, you’ve
been spotted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bedsits, cafés and squats
may mimic safe-houses but are traps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
plumbing is a conduit for slaughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Running, only means you run straight into what you were running from,
only faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Gold Machine</i> we might imagine Arthur Sinclair running from Iain Sinclair –
we can’t be sure if it is the other way round – ‘the future flows into the
past’.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
run from each other but fated to appear together – as Stephen Dedalus and
Leopold Bloom – in an unlikely setting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Old photographs are clues to possible routes for flight or congress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They show backgrounds that give away
territory and purpose – the lush flora locates you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do the figures of history run away from us or
towards us? – do they hide away with guilty secrets or rush out of albumin
pools to batter us with pleas for context – or clemency?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The photographs – formal or otherwise – might
appear mute one moment and ranting the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sepia is the tint for both a funereal shroud and a liquid of
resurrection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As in Walter Benjamin and
W. G. Sebald – both photographic conjurors – the images held up for our gaze
won’t stay still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the ancient faces
– their sandy colours bleeding out of the frame – are telling us that we are doomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look into my eye, says the camera, and you
are dead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">Both these books feature film left in a camera;
undeveloped for over a 100 years by Arthur Norton in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i> and Arthur Sinclair in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each
Arthur leaves images that cannot die until exposed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pre-ghosts on cellulose. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">iv.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atrocity Exibits <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">The ultimate focus of all the narrative strands
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i> is the
murder/suicide/truck crash on the M25 – that ring road whose narrative cannot
end – ‘a necklace of hammered metal’.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fitting point at which to begin again with
the street furniture slightly rearranged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The attention of hack authors and their doubles (or triples: ‘two Nortons
were never going to be enough’<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>),
TV crews, CCTV, the police, the gossipmongers, the hangers on for titbits of
flesh, form the composite vulture that views atrocity as a natural feeding
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dismembered vicar (head
missing, probably talking) is subjected to a similar frenzy of voyeurism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing that the murder of Rev. Freestone can
be traced in the real-life horror-demise of Rev. Ronald Glazebrook may confound
good taste but Sinclair runs up against uncomfortable truths in a way that
highlights a grim methodology: fact and fiction bleed into each other for sure
– but Sinclair shows us that this apparent metafictional game is actually a reality
– taking together events and their many versions, visionary lies if you will,
is the superstructure of human action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a mistake to see Sinclair (and writers like J. G. Ballard and
William Gibson) as piggybacking onto diluted ideas from trendy post-structural
thought –in taking seriously a thinker like Baudrillard (perhaps the most
trendy) with his view of total exposure, the pornocracy, the simulacra,
Sinclair can posit a truth about the way life is lived and regurgitated in the
21<sup>st</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fact is
captured in fiction and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vice versa</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine it, and it’s already happened, and is
ready for immediate download – ekphrastic transcripts of the CCTV phalanx that
can never be turned off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surveillance of
surveillance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Puffa-jacketed operatives
mounted on pigeon spikes.</span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i> is written on a Mobius
strip of twisting narrative, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold
Machine</i> exhibits fewer kinks in its travelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where targets are looped in the earlier book,
they are achieved in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i>
according to Farne Sinclair’s timetable: from Lima inland to Chicla, forked
journeys north and east, frustrated approaches, approaches only, to the remains
of the last Inca emperor, Atahualpa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along
the way: asides on another Arthur – poet turned trader/gun-runner Rimbaud, on
Patrick Sellar – enthusiast of The Highland Clearances, on Allen Ginsberg –
hunting for a yagé-fuelled enlightenment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Robert Mitchum – a starring role in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining
on Stones </i>– is not available for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Gold Machine,</i> but Klaus Kinski is – a lunacy-portage of the 320 ton steamer
over inconvenient jungle in search of the last rubber tree parcels.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">By the
standards of the day Iain Sinclair’s great-grandfather is relatively
enlightened – he is indignant at the treatment of Chinese labourers for example,
laying their bones down for shovels of guano in the sure knowledge that their weight
of numbers makes each one of them expendable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These ordure-harvesters lead lives as wretched as the ‘moss lairds’ of
Perthshire, forced off the Highlands to desperate jobs that barely nudge above
sea-level – inevitable diseases of the land being worked – a dry run, that is,
a wet run for World War 1 trench foot and destroyed lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The massive trade in guano, primarily from
the Chincha Islands, may have brought potato blight to Ireland and Scotland,
thereby driving Arthur off his patch of land and forcing him to seek his fortunes
abroad – colonial ironies abound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite his moments of sympathy for downtrodden workers, Arthur remains
an instrument of his employer The Peruvian Corporation of London; the essence
of his work being the surveying of land; the determination around its potential
commercial exploitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His great-grandson
comes to see the self-same dynamics still in play at places like La Oroya where
corporate-governmental enclosure and despoliation of land is as eager in the 21<sup>st</sup>
century as it was at the end of the 19<sup>th</sup> – a continuity of rapine
despite the changing logos of mining companies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sinclair links the centuries: ‘La Oroya is hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old hell like the crusading denunciations of
Zola and Dickens.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joseph Conrad and
Roger Casement in the thick of these old hells, come alive before us, as they
do in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">Iain Sinclair
has managed to avoid easy virtual signalling – he eschews bare-headed expiation
on a knee-shredding <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chemin de Croix</i>.
Rather he lays out the thoughts of someone confronting past and present
realities as well as those of a searcher for a long dead relative who played a
part in the colonial age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is shame
at the appalled acceptance of history, coupled with an admiration for his
ageing great-grandfather on his perilous journeys. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having a copy of Arthur's photo with him is no
mere cosy reminder of ancestry for Sinclair, rather it forms part of an
unbidden but surely expected conjuration – this is a head that must speak from
its sepia tints. And like those snakes reported by ayahuasca partakers,
the head speaks disdainfully; there is a ‘Scottish countryman’s derision for
the shiftless cockney’.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would he view his great-grandson’s ghosting
of past journeys as merely touristic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i> presents alternative
Sinclairs treading on each other's heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or not quite – Arthur always up ahead disappearing round a corner of the
trail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is Arthur following Iain? – a
familial ouroboros – the snake eating its genes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Different lives spiralling out from a core –
as Norton's second wife Hannah puts it, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining
on Stones</i>: ‘describing biographies of my savagely repressed alternate
lives'.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Hannah through the language madness of David Cooper, may hold the key to that
book; perhaps she holds it to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold
Machine</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlocking the multiple
Nortons and Sinclairs.</span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><br />
<br />
Can two books become one?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mirrors facing
each other?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="background: white;">Soon there will be a theory that if you read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i> backwards, or reconfigure it as an onion of
interlocking Raymond Roussel parentheses, you will come up with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i>.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A <span style="background: white;">dialogue
between the real Peru and fictional Rainham Marshes then – except that the
blurry line between fact and fiction swells like a flooding river to wipe the
entire picture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole venture threatened
by prose therianthropes – narrative body parts parading willy-nilly through the
unquiet dreams of hapless protagonists. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
things can get worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the viral
nature of ‘civilised' incursion into virgin forest gathers a criminal momentum
– despoliation, child abduction and abuse, priestly incitement to murder – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i> threatens to becomes
Sinclair's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heart of Darkness</i>.
The penetration up barely navigable rivers, the gouging of pathways through
jungle thickets, the final recourse to the gun barrel as the ultimate tool of
negotiation – these are the 19<sup>th</sup> century modes of persuasion – tools
that aid a journey of souls sickened by green gold. Arthur Sinclair and
his expedition partner Ross ensure by their meticulous surveying that half a
million hectares of land with be made over by colonial dispensation to the
Peruvian Corporation of London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An act
of enclosure that would have sent John Clare on an eternal fit of rhyming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the cash-strapped Peruvian government
sells out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Peruvian tribes driven
from their land and redeployed as cheap labour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An effective slavery, where the bounty of their former lands lies beyond
the compound. </span> <span style="background: white;">And who is the
Peruvian Kurtz? The finger points at Father Gabriel Sala, religious
instrument on the ground – the mover and motivator of the colonial project – the
saver of souls by means of their capture – a wielder of priestcraft with sundry
blessings: child-abduction, exoneration for spent bullets and jungle
flesh. Who even bothered to count the bodies? Not Arthur Sinclair
who must have fled the scene before operatic levels of pillage commenced in
banal melismata.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">v. Family Ghosts<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">In emphasising
the colonial violence that lies at the heart of so much of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i>, it is easy to miss more tender moments: the
attention devoted to meals, the friendships formed, a most warming celebration
of Farne Sinclair’s birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a
real beauty to these episodes, and the nagging avatars of nightmare are silent<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If disquiet is the main thread of the book,
there remain hopeful connections almost entirely absent from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones</i> which ends in a tangle
of betrayals, threats, book deals about to go sour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unreliable views from sea-facing Hastings
hotel rooms – Edward Hopper exhaustion in pastel washes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most telling passage in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i> is near the end – the entire
archive of the Pampa Whaley coffee plantation is piled up in a room with barred
windows – you can go in but will you ever get out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here are the paper ghosts of a vast
venture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An eerie shell of commerce – ‘a
mausoleum of fiscal fingerprints and triple-entry bookkeeping.’<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; line-height: 115%;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Missing from this heap of records are the
countless human beings that fed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lives rendered as numbers written immaculately in dusty ledgers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet Peru in Sinclair’s eyes is full of
life, full of sensation, and guaranteed at least a hold on its future.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a
ghost in Africa that I would struggle to follow – the trail is cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will be a Beetz – a German engineer
working on the railways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own forbear
with an ill-researched colonial past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere
there is a photograph, last seen on my parents’ sitting room shelf – a large
imposing-looking man standing on a locomotive boiler – around him African
workers brandishing the tools of track laying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some goal has been achieved, an ‘X’ on a map – the poses are imbued with
strength, even pride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A vast machine smothered in bodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sepia print with a 140-year stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At some point in time the photograph was
removed and replaced with one of great-grandma playing a violin – the very one
that was passed to me when I was large enough to manage a full-sized
instrument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A more fitting bequest, it
might be thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "IM FELL DW Pica";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span style="font-size: large;"><br clear="all" />
</span><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"> See, Iain Sinclair, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last London: True Fictions from an
Unreal City</i>, Oneworld, London, 2017.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"> Iain Sinclair, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gold Machine</i>, (hereafter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">TGM</i>) Oneworld, London, 2021, p. 4.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"> Iain Sinclair, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lud Heat</i>, Albion Village Press, London,
1975 (and Skylight Press, Cheltenham, 2012).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">TGM</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 81.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">Iain Sinclair, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dining on Stones </i>(hereafter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DOS</i>), Hamish Hamilton, London, 2004.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">DOS</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 47.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">Ed Dorn – part of the
epigraph on page 25 of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">TGM</i>.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">DOS</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 253.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">DOS</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 370.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">TGM</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 136.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">DOS</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, p. 84.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/DHJ%20SINCLAIR%20GOLD%20MACHINE%20REVIEW/OUT%20OF%20HIS%20DISCOMFORT%20ZONE%20on%20sinclair%20gold%20machine.docx#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">TGM</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">, p. 387.</span><span style="font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-28586770164818843332022-02-21T04:56:00.002-08:002022-02-21T05:39:33.572-08:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span><b><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; font-size: large;">THE BOOKS THAT BREATHE ON
THE SHELVES: </span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">Thoughts on Mar</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">í</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">as and Gawsworth<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>By David Hackbridge
Johnson</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>(see below for </i>older posts<i> including essays on Frances Cornford, Iain Sinclair, Apocalypse poetry, and others)</i></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">With
magpie plumage, albeit frayed at the edges and missing a few vital feathers,
the seeker of shiny objects can still spot a five pence piece from the lofty
branch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The downward swoop is less
elegant than of old but the beak is sure and nabs the silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This scenario holds for a certain type of
book lover, one happy enough to go along with the author’s plot devices,
scenarios, gambits, epiphanies, as the jargon goes, yet one sufficiently
distractible by light-shafts of what lies beyond the confines of the page –
fragments of connective tissue so to speak which adhere to certain shiny words,
resonant phrases, and that by doing so set off wild and sometimes personal
digressions – the book at this point being set down as the beak nips and nudges
at the coinage to the ignoring of the overall landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">These
silvery attractions that stop the actual reading of a book have to be scrawled
in a margin or on the frontispiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each
might be enclosed by a poorly executed bubble, or emphasised by a star – or, in
very special circumstances only, marked ‘V. Important’ in heavy pencilling with
a squiggly arrow leading to a further, perhaps illegible, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aperçu</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Books riddled with
such glitter find themselves growing an additional text, a booklet of increasingly
disassociated utterance, oddly Talmudic, divorced from the structure of the book’s
entirety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certain books become so
festooned with arrows, rings and stars (or even space stations) that they might
find themselves in that pile of literary works that never leaves the bedside
shelf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must accompany sleep – must
by osmosis penetrate the skin of the sleeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Must breathe in harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Books
may pass in and out of the shelf – more due to cramping or toppling than any
sense that an item is rejected – they may merely pass from the shelf to the
stacks that surround the bed like the skirt of an hovercraft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A current sweep of spines reveals: Italo
Calvino’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Six Memos for the Next Millennium</i>,
David Gascoyne’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Collected Poems</i>,
Illeasa Sequin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collected Poems</i>,
W. B. Yeats’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vision</i>, Ruthven Todd’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tracks in the Snow</i>, Charlotte Mew’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Farmer’s Bride</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some books are available at all times:
Llewelyn Powys’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Earth Memories</i>, John
Clare’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Shepherd’s Calendar</i>, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a selection of William Blake, Ezra Pound’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Translations</i>, Edward Thomas’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Collected Poems</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A modest little volume joins them in recent
weeks – John Gawsworth’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lyrics to
Kingcup</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name Gawsworth can always
be borne in the minds of the curious.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdwLrO8CKYaCUEkN2KhDE4enL52FVL0ioVWGc_HgzMfzm6LHBwlDy1YBDyF22jZ0-RqwVQYXiKDTUfUYlnj-bWpZ2bPU-aGCkj2PZPTEasdjHOKuETqb3pSHTtkSXPElkG2LnAduDeFE2g9jYcMNztcHZrjJPfhtqpT5YoKNQtZ4X-Sp_fwt31poeFeg=s1433" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1433" data-original-width="1016" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdwLrO8CKYaCUEkN2KhDE4enL52FVL0ioVWGc_HgzMfzm6LHBwlDy1YBDyF22jZ0-RqwVQYXiKDTUfUYlnj-bWpZ2bPU-aGCkj2PZPTEasdjHOKuETqb3pSHTtkSXPElkG2LnAduDeFE2g9jYcMNztcHZrjJPfhtqpT5YoKNQtZ4X-Sp_fwt31poeFeg=s320" width="227" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Javier
Marías is a writer whose books are accruing such marginalia – several stars,
doubly-underlined passages and the odd ‘V. Important’ – so that he is liable to
find himself among the bedside chosen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Copious pencillations abound – indicating those scintillating fragments that
stand out on the ground, even from the highest branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Returning to these thin extractions one finds
a disjointed poem-of-sorts: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘you can still say not yet,
not yet’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘haunt….thread’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘banknote makers’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘a ridiculous death’
(c.f. Heinrich Böll), <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘bottomless well of
detail’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘nexus’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘less hypothetical
years’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘in usufruct’, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Toby Ryland’s laugh’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">And
culled from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow In The Battle Think
On Me</i>: ‘books….breathe….shelves’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All these annotations meant a pause in reading; ‘nexus’ stirred many
diversions into strange areas of thought not now recalled, the banknote makers
(Bradbury and Wilkinson) were thoroughly researched, with a lengthy sojourn
spent with those notable printers’ ‘Dummy Lady’ stamps; but the reference to
Heinrich Böll has now slipped the mind; there are so many appallingly ridiculous
deaths in Böll that perhaps a general point was being made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually the book may be picked up again; perhaps
Marías sympathises with the reader thrown off the scent in this way, since as a
novelist he is much prone to diversions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He encourages a reading habit that mimics his fiction.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Marías’
1989 novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i> progresses, or
rather doesn’t, via digressions of one sort or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first tableaux set the reader up for an
institutional novel (it is set among the dreamy spires of Oxford) with many of
the usual tropes: professorial boors, power-hungry lecturers, footsy under the
table at restaurant dinners, a sexually incontinent Warden, adultery on the
cusp of discovery – all very Kingsley Amis or David Lodge – the august portals
of Academe witness to an extensive footprint of the dull, the lusty, and the
damned – all frothing in billowing gowns and soiled shirt-fronts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the novel was set on this course and this
course only, it would have missed the point of its very opening – we learn that
some characters that we have yet to meet are, by the time of writing, already
dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death comes to the novel in many
ways in its later pages – by which time we reframe the academic slap-stick as
itself an elaborate diversion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Death
as a principle character – invisibly seated at High Table so to speak – is not
confined to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i>; Marías’ novel
from 1994, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow in the Battle Think
On Me</i>, starts very shockingly with the death of a married woman, Marta, as
she and her lover Victor undress to make love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are lovers that hardly know each other and she dies ‘inopportunely
– undeservedly so’ with Victor, not her husband by her side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Victor’s confused thoughts about what to do –
should he flee as if he were a murderer?, should he phone someone? – are
combined with a kind of stock taking of Marta’s belongings and her interaction
with them, like an obsessively detailed description of a still life – a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nature morte</i> as the French say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Victor’s subsequent staging of the flat, his
laying out of Marta’s body, his decision to go to the funeral, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> the dead women through that part of
her life that was forbidden to him by the nature of their illicit affair, form
the strange substance of the novel; as if Victor feels compelled to remain
attached to the woman by means of threads that connects them beyond her death –
the ‘haunt….thread’ passage now marked in the frontispiece of the magpie’s
copy.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This inability to let go becomes a meditation
on the dead lover, her actions, her thoughts, her belongings – the very clothes
she hung over a chair prior to making love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This stock-taking or inventory of property left behind after the
vacation of a body – these passages near the start of the novel are unbearable
for the bereaved reader, for anyone who in the aftermath of a death has taken
those same inventories; each item telling a story of its interaction with a
living, breathing form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Objects are
haunted by the one who touched them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Touch them again and shafts of light illuminate the dead. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">So
a theme of death can be said to inhabit both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow in the Battle</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All
Souls</i>, and the digressions, lists of objects, mind-rambles are distraction
tactics from the enclosing dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is a haunting in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Innocently enough, the unnamed Narrator of
this novel, who is on a two year contract at Oxford University and has plenty
of time on his hands due to his light workload, spends his free time trawling
through second-hand bookshops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
develops a list of neglected authors he wishes to hunt down, the most familiar
being the writer of supernatural fiction, Arthur Machen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Including Machen on his list leads to a
conjuration, for it is not long before the Narrator finds himself being
followed around all the bookshops by a man and a dog – the dog with an
amputated foot and its owner seeming to limp as if in sympathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bibliomaniac and his familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually this strange duo, the man
introducing himself as Alan Marriott, arrive at the Narrator’s home in order to
tempt him into Machenalia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One notes at
this point that ‘Alan Marriott’ was one of the many pseudonyms used by
real-life collector and writer on strange fiction, Roger Dobson.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marriott manages to extract from the Narrator
the small sum required to become a member of the Machen Company; he also asks
that the Narrator look out for two vanishingly rare books: Machen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bridle and Spurs</i>, and John Gawsworth’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Above the River</i> (with an introduction by
Machen).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The curious appearance of Alan
Marriott (he never appears as a speaking character in the novel again) triggers
a haunting in Marías’ Narrator; he is not only drawn into the Machen Company
and the quest for rare books but also hooked by the name Gawsworth, born,
Terence Ian Fytton Armstrong in 1912.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing that he learns of Gawsworth leads him to a conclusion that a
great writer has been unaccountably neglected – on the contrary, he finds the
poetry rather minor – he even eschews most of the available second-hand
Gawsworth volumes on grounds of their exorbitant price (although he does buy
the slim volume <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Backwaters</i>) – but
somehow the writer’s life and the myths surrounding it initiate an enchantment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Narrator culls information from divers
sources and builds up what amounts to a brief ‘Life of Gawsworth’, consisting
of his fugitive appearances in bodily form and in print.<a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We learn of Gawsworth’s precocious early
volumes, both as poet and editor; most notable is his rediscovery of forgotten
writers of the ’Nineties who are persuaded out of their dim abodes and back
into print.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all this when Gawsworth
was still a teenager.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the Second
World War, which Gawsworth spends in Africa and India, his literary world
gradually dissipates and alcohol takes control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lawrence Durrell spies him taking a shopping trolley of empties back to
the off licence to claim the refund needed to buy more drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then end comes in 1970, Gawsworth’s star long
since having gone out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Narrator’s
equating himself with Gawsworth – does he really think he is doomed to such a
failure? – seems weak as a reason for introducing all this factual information,
yet Marías’ purpose becomes clear and stands as a vindication of Gawsworth’s
inclusion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Towards
the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i>, Gawsworth
becomes fictional; Marías weaves him into the tragic tale told by Clare Bayes
(the married woman the Narrator has taken as a lover) as she recounts the
suicide of her mother as a consequence of a discovered affair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a tale set in India during the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a three-year-old, Clare has dim memories
(they are fleshed out by her nanny) of her mother meeting her lover Terry
Armstrong (Gawsworth perhaps?) after the break-up of her parents’
marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are on the iron bridge
that spans the River Yamuna (or the River Jumna; Clare is not sure which); they
can be seen from the bottom of the family garden; Clare’s mother is noticeably
pregnant even from a distance, and Armstrong is seemingly drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clare’s mother falls between the iron girders
into the river and drowns, while Armstrong crushes himself into those same
girders as an act of clinging on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put
like this we might be in a pulp melodrama – the marvel of the writing is the
way Marías is able to spool out the tale as a recollection of a child’s
recollection – the older Clare seeing her younger self and recounting to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> lover the threads of memory that
have survived and become embedded, woven into the emotional postures she must
now take to avoid a repetition of that tragedy that she beheld with her
uncomprehending child’s eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The adult
Clare must avoid the desperate passion that leads to a leap into the void.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child Clare waiting at the bottom of the
garden for the late-night mail train, the distressed lovers on the ironwork bridge,
her mother jumping, the lover not, he, Gawsworth, exiting fiction and slipping
into his tenuous reality, one made of fragments and myths: a cart full of beer
bottles, the Fitzrovian debauch, the lost volumes of poems, the decades of
uncertain abode – friends’ floors and park benches – all these resonate as so
many overtones, bell-ripples, baring suffering across the years in sad
concentric rings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the telling of
this tragedy which we read as one that lassoes many characters, Marías moves
beyond mere virtuosity into a realm of trance – the tragedy evolves in relived
memory like a slow-motion film that cannot be switched off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mother sinking and not rising, again
sinking and not rising, again – not rising, even though we ‘see’ her death only
once in recalled time, we cannot but re-run the film, as Clare has spent her
life doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wonder at the staggering
Gawsworth (is it him?) with his hip flask of booze, about to exit from the
appalling crisis into a featureless future, one that limping Alan Marriott and
his crippled dog will one day seek to retrieve as a crumpled past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the above is supposition of course,
since, as the Narrator conjectures, there might have been hundreds of Terry
Armstrongs suitable for the roll of war-time lover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But deep down he and reader want him to be
Gawsworth – his existence gains another layer of myth thereby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These pages that recount Clare’s story are
the most powerful in the novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
doomed love of Clare’s mother and Terry Armstrong seems to overshadow the rest
of the book. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">If
I might be allowed, there is a Chain of Yearning whose links consist of certain
books, pieces of music, poems, paintings, that set the heart in a certain mode
of exquisite pain and longing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marías’
books are some of those links, not just because of the actual longings and even
deaths that occur in his books but because it might be said that characters are
yearning for life in the midst of it – as the haiku of Basho has it: ‘Even in
Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo, I yearn for Kyoto’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is a yearning for life in the face of a death that cannot surely
be tolerated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Marías’ finicky
itemisations can be infused with longing – Marta’s belongings in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow in the Battle</i>, the Narrator’s
rubbish-bin contents in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i> –
they speak of bodies that have interacted with objects, leaving a trace on each
one; a touch, a kiss, a body inside a dress, the angle of a wrist when
depositing a bottle top in the bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marías uses time, both past and present, to project these effects of the
immanence of death, its occurrence and the remains it leaves in the form of
interrupted or abandoned content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">We
find that time (‘Time’ as it used to be intoned by the poets) as an instrument
of yearning, is acutely employed in those works of science-fiction that can
invent means by which time-travel is possible; Philip K. Dick’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Martian Time-Slip</i> is a moving example,
with its notion of fractured time and mental disturbance; in Christopher
Priests’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Dream of Wessex</i>, two young
people, Julia Stretton and David Harkman, who barely know each other in ‘real
life’ are put in a machine whereby they enter a projected future-topia, one
where their desire for love can be enacted on an island idyll separated utterly
from the dynamics of failed relationships and late capitalist politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their yearning causes this idyll to come
about and even though they realise its projective nature they choose to remain
in the dream of a Wessex literally cut off from the mainland by the
exhilarating Blandford Sound and the vast Somerset Sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When their island is turned into a filthy
industrial wasteland by the projections of Paul Mason, a man stricken with
ambition and jealousy, they can only reassert it by the convictions of their
now fulfilled longing; Priest’s description of the gas pipes and sewage pools
rolling back to reveal the beautiful bay of Dorchester encapsulates the
wonderful moment where love moulds its own landscape. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Outside
the Sci-Fi realm Marías makes his own time machines in the memories and
reveries of his characters, often by means of the obsessive fixing of details
undertaken by his narrators, as mentioned above; observations of specific parts
of faces, inventories of objects – as if time might stop as long as this fixing
continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i>, the Narrator succumbs to eavesdropping – one of several
such overhearings in the book – upon Clare, her son Eric, and her father Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Narrator comes to notice the identical
nature of their eyes – as if this one physical attribute might gain for them a certain
immortality as others fall away – another kind of time machine that preserves
an organ of looking through many generations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marías’ ultimate human time machine is Will, the almost nonagenarian
porter of the Institutio Tayloriana, who, being beset by a type of dementia,
relives a particular day of his life as if were happening again in the
present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if his entire life was a
pack of cards to be shuffled upon rising each morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is a life of disordered days that seems
random to onlookers, yet to Will seems merely devoid of remembering – if he is
living the day in 1962 when his wife passed away, he lives it with immediacy,
with all its wounds again open.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">To
return to yearning and the links of its chain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Souls</i> Narrator who
longs for Clare whenever he cannot see her, learns from her of the
impossibility of their continuing love – in a telling contrast to Christopher Priest’s
lovers in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Dream of Wessex</i>, she
gives geographical separation as her main reason why they should part – Clare
and the Narrator are not able to create a projection in which their love can
thrive beyond its confines of a strictly limiting and ultimately disposable
adultery – they make no island for their love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The short academic tenure of the Narrator delineates the reach of
passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yearning with a sell-by
date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Narrator leaves his Oxford
home of two-year’s duration with a nod to his final leavings in the rubbish bin
– those other things, albeit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">minutiae</i>,
which are disposed of – the earlier disquisitions on refuse now falling into
place by the shutting lid of the bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From happy delusion (Priest) to curtailed fulfilment (Marías) to the desperate
and doomed-from-the-start loves excited by, to give yet more examples, (and
these might be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ne plus ultras</i> of
longing) Robert Louis Stevenson’s Olalla in the story of that name, and Joseph
Conrad’s Alice Jacobus in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Smile of Fortune</i>
– these types of love and yearning are links in a chain that also bind feeling
into the intensity of a haunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
a haunting that begins when the one, must turn away from the other, leaving only
memories of Clare, Olalla, or Alice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or it
is the haunting of Terry Armstrong, turning away from the site of his lover’s
suicide, leaving the iron bridge as John Gawsworth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or in Robert Aickman’s extraordinary short
story, ‘The Real Road to the Church’ (from his collection <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cold Hand in Mine</i>), it is the desolate Rosa who sees her soul
carried by ‘the porters’ across a threshold and longs for a reuniting that will
end the hollowness inside her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The power
in these books lies in way they fire that haunting in the reader, not just for
their authors’ fictional lovers (although I do dream of Olalla’s ‘beautiful and
meaningless orbs’), but perhaps for real ones, lost in death, or far away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Javier
Marías is the ideal novelist for the magpie reader; he puts in the glinting
digressions that a distractible bird longs for – anything to get out of a
smooth-running plot – that relentless machine of fiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By opening up windows of fact inside his
books, Marías offers glimpses of fiction and reality striking each other – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">éclats</i> of strange conjugations and
speculations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His books breathe on the
shelves because he has left the threads to his characters protruding – pull on
them and they still lead to hands and eyes, to stuff thrown away, to longings
and regrets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they pull up the dead
so they might speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ_I4vIOQo0lyCg7HrpZiOfi4TwIX6VfnHkudMh9N3eSGzjUC9w0ckn1h3lG9kUCUf_mdgEq1Sw8KMAtNdqeRgq74afdHun2doC6JUC8IwOdlDRIGytNoTrAZSW6Q3rz05MNohuv7MrRkvMdGbhqSnp-v2xnJxYCC7vbHAHi8ZqFr7yoTShl7DVzfNHw=s2111" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="2111" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ_I4vIOQo0lyCg7HrpZiOfi4TwIX6VfnHkudMh9N3eSGzjUC9w0ckn1h3lG9kUCUf_mdgEq1Sw8KMAtNdqeRgq74afdHun2doC6JUC8IwOdlDRIGytNoTrAZSW6Q3rz05MNohuv7MrRkvMdGbhqSnp-v2xnJxYCC7vbHAHi8ZqFr7yoTShl7DVzfNHw=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZUX5rtkDGffky5KaK7_tItmVT9xpR8w9Rvb0HkGgG0PHOYy0oxlkaAgBDg3sI1o8mILmz1B1V-u1j3MgtVNTMAsE8ExF7p6tvlGSJMl6-FlPermUnvkPEqiVFa6X02mha58ow5qzW835AfLMrVOXjBSBvRqpYc8vy-8B-a4Rvf9lXcyiVtf8do3RDzw=s1551" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZUX5rtkDGffky5KaK7_tItmVT9xpR8w9Rvb0HkGgG0PHOYy0oxlkaAgBDg3sI1o8mILmz1B1V-u1j3MgtVNTMAsE8ExF7p6tvlGSJMl6-FlPermUnvkPEqiVFa6X02mha58ow5qzW835AfLMrVOXjBSBvRqpYc8vy-8B-a4Rvf9lXcyiVtf8do3RDzw=s320" width="206" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_3" o:spid="_x0000_i1026" style="height: 385.5pt; mso-wrap-style: square; rotation: -90; visibility: visible; width: 141.75pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_4" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 226.5pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 146.25pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">©2021
– David Hackbridge Johnson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With thanks
to Marius Kociejowski, who first called me a magpie, and who urged me to read
Javier Marías.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><span style="font-size: large;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span><br clear="all" />
</span></span><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<span style="font-size: large;"><!--[endif]-->
</span><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face="Calibri, "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Tomorrow
in the Battle Think On Me</span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">,
p. 66 – 67.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face="Calibri, "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Alan Marriott is mentioned as a Dobson
pseudonym in a short video made by R. B. Russell about the poet C. W.
Blubberhouse: </span><a href="https://youtu.be/9rWCUB1OteQ"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">https://youtu.be/9rWCUB1OteQ</span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> (last accessed 28.vi.2021).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is effectively a memorial album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Library of the Lost</i>, a selection of
Dobson’s essays edited by Mark Valentine, which includes writing on Gawsworth
and Machen, was published by Tartarus Press in 2013, with a brief memoir of
Dobson by Javier Marías.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dobson didn’t
have a dog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other pseudonyms used by
Dobson include, Donald Carlus, Robert Manchester and, one Ian Armstrong….<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/DHJ%20POEMS/AAA%20DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20essay%20marias%20gawsworth/THE%20BOOKS%20THAT%20BREATHE%20ON%20THE%20SHELVES%20on%20marias.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span style="font-size: large;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> <i>All
Souls</i>, p. 102 – p.112. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-62535279017739350612021-12-22T09:40:00.003-08:002021-12-22T10:56:33.245-08:00<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="WordSection1">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">UNEMPHATIC LAND: On
Frances Cornford’s Poetry<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Apocalypse
and After II<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">by David Hackbridge
Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">For other essays (including those on Edward Cowie, Angus Wilson, Carcanet's Apocalypse anthology <br /></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">and Iain Sinclair) please scroll down to where it says ‘older posts’</span></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtMat8WeS3BnP9IpCGj8POwZXk6S2anwGz-WJGxEYlk8TUe-SQ6p6nSpca-aezMLsztcZTZx-yNSDm6Vf1NLak3Qta83UTV6zADHjrs5RFINYWp86hqNhtiTo02ptRAOxBDM5ciOhPb0aKN7h8yXDsJ7Sgysq8OL9BaHfJIEXhELjacgsKZ9DrPArTnQ=s2042" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="2042" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtMat8WeS3BnP9IpCGj8POwZXk6S2anwGz-WJGxEYlk8TUe-SQ6p6nSpca-aezMLsztcZTZx-yNSDm6Vf1NLak3Qta83UTV6zADHjrs5RFINYWp86hqNhtiTo02ptRAOxBDM5ciOhPb0aKN7h8yXDsJ7Sgysq8OL9BaHfJIEXhELjacgsKZ9DrPArTnQ=s320" width="320" /></span></a></i></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">A trio of Cornford slim volumes</span></i></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">One
of the more surprising inclusions in James Keery’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse: An Anthology<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></i>
is Frances Cornford. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not known in the neoromantic
hothouses of Soho or Fitzrovia, she plied her peaceful trade in verses from the
placid fastness of Cambridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There she
lived with another Francis, her husband the classicist and occasional poet
Francis Cornford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There doesn’t appear
to be a monograph on Mrs Cornford, although much can be gleaned from Frances
(yes, another one) Spalding’s excellent biography of Gwen Raverat<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
the poet’s cousin (both were granddaughters of Charles Darwin) and provider of
richly wrought woodcut designs for some of her books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raverat herself wrote of Frances is her
classic book on childhood <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Period Piece</i>.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therein is portrayed a life of material ease
thanks to the generous bequests provided by Charles Darwin to his children. The
extended family (Vaughan Willaimses, Wedgewoods and Wordsworths populate the
tree) is notable for having a surfeit of talent, many of its members being
active in scientific and artistic circles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite the outward appearances of a charmed existence, there seemed to
have been a thread of illness carried from generation to generation that
clouded an otherwise serene picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Victorian illnesses can resist exactitude – there are several theories
as to what grandfather Darwin suffered from – but with granddaughter Frances
there is more detail available relating to her crushing bouts of depression;
its periodicity as adumbrated by Spalding suggests a bipolar tendency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ8d3GpoWrtkR2WME3owzphdWc8ZoP8PO12ZwjQZUlyaL1li-UDDaODl6xtl4JYsYvl_cIi3VN8tldnSDUI1vleSeWV8zXQarYywwWWPGCq7jk0_r46DJbZJdcR2KYTIFFMZld-fgdWWhwSfzbtwQ76i9edj7w2wtGYas89kskvdAk4gdxvqlR8PeoDw=s1755" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1755" data-original-width="619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ8d3GpoWrtkR2WME3owzphdWc8ZoP8PO12ZwjQZUlyaL1li-UDDaODl6xtl4JYsYvl_cIi3VN8tldnSDUI1vleSeWV8zXQarYywwWWPGCq7jk0_r46DJbZJdcR2KYTIFFMZld-fgdWWhwSfzbtwQ76i9edj7w2wtGYas89kskvdAk4gdxvqlR8PeoDw=s320" width="113" /></span></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Much
of Frances Cornford’s poetry celebrates the unchanging landscape of
Cambridgeshire – its fenland horizons, its animals and trees, together with the
rounds of family life and loves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
Cornford herself suggests in the title poem of her collection, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travelling Home</i>, she inhabits a ‘sober,
fruitful, unemphatic land’ in which the poet hopes to remain ‘undistinguished’ –
such a desire gently measures the ambition of her verse but should not allow
for her easy dismissal in the light of louder and more flamboyant voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poem ends with shadows flowing over a
dyke ‘As the Icenian watched them long ago’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– making thereby kinship with A. E. Housman’s conquering Roman through which
the ‘gale of life’ blew, and whose is now ‘ashes under Uricon’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a hint here of a binding fate that
connects the generations, and links them to landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given the largely rural tropes that garland one
of her first books, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poems,</i> and that
it appeared in 1910, just before Edward Marsh commenced his series of five books
each called, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Georgian Poetry</i>, it is
perhaps surprising that she wasn’t included in any of the five – apart from the
inclusion of Fredegond Shove and Vita Sackville-West, these were strictly
male-orientated publications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
certainly knew Marsh – the archives at the New York Public Library and the
Cambridge University Library contain holdings of letters – and in her early
work she holds her own with Marsh’s chosen poets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘The Woods of Despair’ could be a brooding
homage to her friend Walter de La Mare: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Blank and bare<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Are the Woods of Despair,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">On the goldenest summer day;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">And grim and grey<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">The trodden way<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">That leads, that leads you there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">O often trodden,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Slippery, sodden,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Lonely, loathèd way.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">We glimpse a brief vision
of Rupert Brooke, one of the bright stars in the circle of her early life, in
the brief ‘Youth’, subtitled ‘Epigram’:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">A young Apollo, golden-haired,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Magnificently unprepared<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">For the long littleness of life.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">This poem seems to be
called ‘On Rupert Brooke’ in some internet circles together with the implication
that it is a memorial to his early death; the publication date of the volume in
which the poem appears discounts this theory, although it is easy to see how
the poem became a retrospective elegy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Spalding suggests that the rather more disturbing vision of the poem
‘The Mountains in Winter’ relates to Cornford’s time spent in Bex, Switzerland,
in recovery from a severe breakdown that incapacitated her in 1904 and which lasted
for several years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poem is a sublime
(in the Burkean sense implying fear and attraction) reflection on the vast
mountains ringing the valley in which Bex sits. The entire poem goes: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Unutterably far, and still, and high,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">The mountains stand against the sunset
sky.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">O little angry heart, against your will<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">You must grow quiet here, and wise, and
still.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">A later volume of Cornford’s,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Autumn Midnight</i> from 1923, brought
out under Harold Monro’s The Poetry Bookshop imprint, the same publisher responsible
for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Georgian Poetry</i> volumes, brings
a continuation of themes drawn from nature and family life:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">When I was twenty inches long,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">I could not hear the thrushes’ song;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">The radiance of morning skies<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 108pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Was most displeasing to my eyes.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">There is nothing to
suggest any desire to respond to the seismic effect of T. S. Eliot’s </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">The Waste Land</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">, published the year
before in 1922 – rather Cornford broadens her craft with gentle satire in
‘Rhyme for a Phonetician’ and even ballad form in ‘The Princess and the
Gypsies’.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif";">The book is notable for
stunning incipits by Eric Gill, a founder with Gwen Raverat and others of the
Society of Wood Engravers.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">The aforementioned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travelling Home</i> was published in 1948, within
the prime catchment period of Keery’s anthology – he takes ‘Soldiers on the
Platform’ from this volume, a poem quite likely written during the Second World
War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cornford earns her keep among more
obvious Apocalyptics – D. S. Savage, Henry Treece, J. F. Hendry – with her
startling portrayal of the anonymity of doomed soldiery with their ‘bullock
faces’ and ‘staring sameness’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– bovine imagery that remembers Wilfred Owen’s line, ‘What passing-bells for
these who die as cattle?’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keery might have included the two poems that
follow ‘Soldiers on the Platform’ since they utilise further Owen tropes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In ‘Casualties’ we sense the morbid erotic of
bruises ‘kissed with passion’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
and the grinding action of ‘a great machine’ that uses ‘this once protected
flesh’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Autumn Blitz’ sees Cornford
alive to the irony of nature’s continuing, yet mute beauty in the face of
‘human chaos’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These poems succeed in their general relation
to the fears and stresses of war; Cornford makes a poem of specifics out of the
German Army’s use of Leo Tolstoy’s house, Yasnaya Polyana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Converted to a hospital when the Germans took
it over in 1941, the house was damaged by fire and there were reports that the grave
of Tolstoy had been desecrated during the brief occupation of the estate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cornford uses the figure of Judas in the poem
to focus her sense of cultural betrayal as the flames eat ‘the honoured
wood’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if meditating further on the
misuses of culture, Cornford follows ‘The Betrayer’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn14" name="_ftnref14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
with a poem in which the question is implied of an ‘enemy alien heart’ as to
how beauty, such as that to be found in a Schubert song, could find a place in
the minds of those so bent on destruction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cornford does not insist that an ‘innocent core’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn15" name="_ftnref15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
is to be found unchanged amid the misery caused by aggressive war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is presented the same vile disjunct
noted in the behaviour of, for example, concentration camp doctor and mass
murderer, Joseph Mengele, who relaxed after a day’s ‘work’ by playing 78s of
Schubert and Schumann.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuaHVQ5xFBMaTY7O9KhhMtPQo1_l9HbBxKFyb4dZbKsUtU5IuodZK3DLPUbeVFBgD3jg1WmwUoaPyRuTLW6I93YniqNS4Qbg6jcjGtPxJ5RAepTQAbFMiiPvMPhxb8fLG7MRkT6zaEW8f0K15YQjruxo65_4cFoGFduirkyFu_SqjXEDDQiPaKeiBPBQ=s1943" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1943" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuaHVQ5xFBMaTY7O9KhhMtPQo1_l9HbBxKFyb4dZbKsUtU5IuodZK3DLPUbeVFBgD3jg1WmwUoaPyRuTLW6I93YniqNS4Qbg6jcjGtPxJ5RAepTQAbFMiiPvMPhxb8fLG7MRkT6zaEW8f0K15YQjruxo65_4cFoGFduirkyFu_SqjXEDDQiPaKeiBPBQ=s320" width="178" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLbkWe2hYsk58wnfpzqsFg42ryF-UvBRUsbyYVxyo3wWCMbLlL_-reJ1dgdZDDRIdn2xTD0IRedIkOqeUJALZQS9opqKO128VT2kdCBB7U1V05B5D0UiXITYQuhimsblfPKZ5lfxZ5a3c9fHL9S6PrbA83cyCHkqDN3MfDspCKzCWgpt2kVEx_j_NEyw=s2304" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="1602" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLbkWe2hYsk58wnfpzqsFg42ryF-UvBRUsbyYVxyo3wWCMbLlL_-reJ1dgdZDDRIdn2xTD0IRedIkOqeUJALZQS9opqKO128VT2kdCBB7U1V05B5D0UiXITYQuhimsblfPKZ5lfxZ5a3c9fHL9S6PrbA83cyCHkqDN3MfDspCKzCWgpt2kVEx_j_NEyw=s320" width="223" /></span></a></div><p></p></div><div class="WordSection2"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p></div>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Two pages from </span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Travelling Home<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> – the delicate illustrations are by the poet’s son, Christopher
Cornford<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">If I have concentrated on
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travelling Home</i> and the poems therein
that support Keery’s inclusion of Frances Cornford in his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i> anthology, there are nevertheless two further books of
hers in my collection that merit attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mountain and Molehills</i>, dates
from 1934 and includes nature poems, recollections of pre-First World War days,
and a number of poems on motherhood that bring to mind Anne Ridler, in that
both poets are able to avoid mawkishness by tender meditations on a sense of
wonder and fragility, that sometimes evoke aspects of religious faith as a
bulwark against harm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The volume is
illustrated by Gwen Raverat in a style that suggests that she and Eric Gill
worked in similarly bold styles of execution.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB__chTBj0oodC-huTtjF5J9YYjj6jGde1HrDp84f3YKWHSkdeif1g6yLy5OpWX_9qfxFaaSoUBF5L8dkkjEt2wlV3emyUE-yS4ZIIIvQo01gGpgId5PZ8QYArCafUwRhiS3_1Ivv9FRg81DsMCWvIQhP1eVPj5e8lSzaQyXboj9LlTH5dZrnU7Wu53w=s2304" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="1461" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB__chTBj0oodC-huTtjF5J9YYjj6jGde1HrDp84f3YKWHSkdeif1g6yLy5OpWX_9qfxFaaSoUBF5L8dkkjEt2wlV3emyUE-yS4ZIIIvQo01gGpgId5PZ8QYArCafUwRhiS3_1Ivv9FRg81DsMCWvIQhP1eVPj5e8lSzaQyXboj9LlTH5dZrnU7Wu53w=s320" width="203" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; font-size: large; text-align: center;"> </span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">From </span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Mountains and Molehills<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
with one of Gwen Raverat’s woodcuts<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">For what turned out to be
her last book (she died during its proof stage) Frances Cornford worked with
her son Christopher to create a poetic-visual feast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For his illustrations in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On a Calm Shore</i>, the artist draws from a repertoire of Greek statuary,
printed fabrics, natural forms and abstract designs, to create one- or two-colour
accompaniments to the poems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That the
poet gathers the verses into sections – Time, Children, Night and Morning,
Love, Places and Seasons, and finally, Transience – shows her steadfastness to
those verities that sustained a poetic career of nearly 60 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among the many attractive poems there are a
few barbs: the masked guests in ‘A Carnival Dream’ – even the lovers ‘never
could perceive each other’s hidden face’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn16" name="_ftnref16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– brings a flavour of W. B. Yeats to the proceedings; and in the valedictory
‘Exeunt Omnes’ she makes a variation on Shakespeare’s ‘All the world’s a stage’
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As You Like It</i> by reflecting on
the varied parts that people play yet how as ‘the players take their call’ they
‘convey the evanescence of us all.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn17" name="_ftnref17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We might not agree with Cornford that she
achieved that wished for state of being ‘undistinguished’ – her poems have too
many quiet joys for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as Keery
shows, she had the claws for tackling, when she chose to, more conflictual
themes that might not otherwise present themselves in the fields of
Cambridgeshire.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">That Frances Cornford
grew up among long Victorian shadows with the implied mores of that age and the
assumed allocations of women’s place within it, I feel sure she was aware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spalding offers a most telling quotation from
one of Frances’ letters to her cousin Gwen, in which she perceives how people
keep up a life that is ‘Victorian and safe’ and render ‘continual violent
things that are always happening (because that <u>is</u> life)’ as mere
occasional intrusions.<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftn18" name="_ftnref18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[18]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is solace-giving in much of her poetry
but she does allow intrusions of the violent; their continual appearance might
have overwhelmed her often fragile state of being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her work forms kinship with that of her
friends, many of them women, who sought creative outlets away from convention –
Fredegond Shove, Gwen Raverat, Gwen John, Virginia Woolf, and Jane Harrison
among them – and as such her poems take their place within that greater body of
important work.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMsD4syB17-v2cauQj3mppP4EUtqT9lDQKYs0t8C56_tlvAJ_d9bKYQOhv08NMHIdlk3_xl32775s2RhKA1v1yrLkfAmuHhQcsakVTTvWwPl5UrjE60lMeDouLUZbhAV5hMsMxhx9lrU-Bx7zDRWm5sitS36__SN7r0UHyspHedbhGmLhxO0MDlIIdHg=s2136" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1645" data-original-width="2136" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMsD4syB17-v2cauQj3mppP4EUtqT9lDQKYs0t8C56_tlvAJ_d9bKYQOhv08NMHIdlk3_xl32775s2RhKA1v1yrLkfAmuHhQcsakVTTvWwPl5UrjE60lMeDouLUZbhAV5hMsMxhx9lrU-Bx7zDRWm5sitS36__SN7r0UHyspHedbhGmLhxO0MDlIIdHg=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; font-size: large; text-align: center;"> </span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">A double-page spread from </span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">On a Calm Shore<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> with Christopher Cornford’s designs<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: large;">Click below for a reading I made of some
of Frances Cornford’s poems:<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allow="autoplay" height="480" src="https://drive.google.com/file/d/147cI-JI7PcYkLp7X5alicUlGyVYWEFuv/preview" width="640"></iframe>
<!--[endif]-->
</span><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> James Keery, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse: An Anthology</i>, London, Carcanet, 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Spalding, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gwen Raverat: Friends, Family & Affections</i>, London, The Harvill
Press, 2001<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Gwen Raverat, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Period Piece</i>, London, Faber and Faber, 1952.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, ‘Travelling Home’, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travelling Home</i>, London, The Cresset
Press, p. 9-10. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> A. E. Housman, ‘On Wenlock Edge’, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Shropshire Lad</i>, London, The Richards
Press, 1896, p. 45.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poems</i>, Hampstead, The Priory Press, and Cambridge, Bowes and Bowes,
1910, p. 5.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid. p. 15.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid. p. 9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the late 1990s I lived further up into the
mountains at Villars-sur-Ollon (about 4 miles from Bex). The range of peaks
that includes Dents du Midi, Dent du Morlces, Le Grand Muveran, and Les Diablerets,
is like a cauldron of vast proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Having climbed several of these and nearly falling off the narrow summit
of the Dents du Morcles, I can vouch for the sublimity they inspire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, ‘The New-Born Baby’s
Song’, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Autumn Midnight</i>, London, The
Poetry Bookshop, 1923, p. 8.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travelling Home</i>, p. 32.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Wilfred Owen, ‘Anthem for Doomed
Youth’, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Poems of Wilfred Owen</i>
(ed. Edmund Blunden), London, Chatto & Windus, p. 80. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, Travelling Home, p.
33.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
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<div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref14" name="_ftn14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid. p. 35.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
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<div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref15" name="_ftn15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid. p. 36.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
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<div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref16" name="_ftn16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Frances Cornford, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On a Calm Shore</i>, London, The Cresset Press, 1960, p. 92.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
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<div id="ftn17" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref17" name="_ftn17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ibid. p. 95.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
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<div id="ftn18" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/FRANCES%20CORNFORD/UNEMPHATIC%20LAND%20on%20francis%20cornford.docx#_ftnref18" name="_ftn18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large; mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[18]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> Frances Spalding, Op. cit. p. 304.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-62533187317585540642021-11-06T11:52:00.044-07:002021-11-06T14:10:41.297-07:00<p style="text-align: justify;"><span> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #201f1e; font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>BIRDSONG WHILE WE CAN: </b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>On Edward Cowie’s Bird Portraits</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">By David Hackbridge Johnson, </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">with Xiaowei Liu’s photographs</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span>For other essays (including those on Angus Wilson, Carcanet's Apocalypse anthology <br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span>and Iain Sinclair) please scroll down to where it says ‘older posts’</span></span></i></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>I. The Performance</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Edward Cowie joins a list of composers who have populated the musical aviary and have shown a highly sensitive awareness of birdsong, birdflight and feather; a list that includes among others: Vivaldi (his seasons), Beethoven (his birds by the flowing brook), Delius (his cuckoo),Vaughan Williams (his lark), and Messiaen (his vast catalogue). Cowie’s large scale work for violin and piano, Bird Portraits, written in 2020 and performed in public for the first time last night at Deptford Town Hall by Peter Sheppard Skaerved and Roderick Chadwick, might be considered a catalogue of sorts, but unlike Messiaen’s pieces in his <i>Catalogue d'oiseaux </i>of the late 50s, whose individual parts are often played separately, Cowie’s portraits operate as a whole; it is hard to imagine any of the 24 pieces having a separate life beyond the confines of the variegated sky the composer has made for them. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Cowie signposts the work severally: the scales in the piano tumbling downwards – like a sitar sounding a raga, the chains of chords laid out in the piano – sometimes for the violin to mimic, sometimes to ignore, and the insistent rhythms of certain birdsongs that cause the two instruments to lock into conflictual dances – a bizarre ballet of flapping wings and raucous distress calls. Between these signposts the violin often provides an ostinato of birdsong as if suspended between landscape markers: trees, hills, farm buildings, a standing stone perhaps. Virtuosity of a high order is required and both players rose to the challenge magnificently; it should be noted in respect of the violin part that although the writing is often fiendish, it is not ‘against’ the instrument, with most passages having the lie of the fingerboard in view for their execution. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">After more than half an hour’s playing, the midpoint of the work was reached: a skylark in wildest delirium of flight and song. With hindsight this is felt as the point of maximum height and light in the three-dimensional sphere of listening required by the piece. The subsequent movements chart a very slow descent into darker clouds and into habitations for more plaintive cries; the curlew’s for example. And there is the gradual dominance structurally of the chord-chains – often in locked 4ths or 5ths – as they set up alternative time-frames for listeners that run counter to the florid eloquence of the birds – like a partially hidden passacaglia trawling the bottom of an increasingly inky lake. This undertow, a magnetic core, diurnal, comes to dominate the last piece as if we are at journey’s end, having travelled from brightly populated skies to heavy clods of earth and the deeper plates that move beneath with inexorable geological tread. Over this ground bass the violin is reduced to long-held keening notes as if drawn out from the body like a thread. The end is a premonition of tragedy that marks the work's ecological standpoint in musical, if not polemical terms; it is all the more urgent for that. The Great Northern Diver cries dolefully in an empty heaven as the darkest piano chords mark a clock that measures aeons, and yet might still grind to a halt. The falling curve of this bird’s call is a lament. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Cowie spoke to me of the feeling of sadness he felt as he composed these last pages, as if all the ebullient air might soon be wiped of its song. That such an ending closes a work ringing with such joy at the love of nature and its creatures, filled me with the sense of both a celebration and an elegy, or even a warning. Cowie is no mere nature lover wishing to paint a sentimental watercolour of something ‘out there’; rather he knows that nature is in him and he in it; I am put in mind of eco-philosophies as propounded by Wendell Berry and Mary Midgley. It is this feeling of being inside nature that struck me as profound; the work of a composer who as he said to me, didn’t want to ‘write music about music’ but wanted music to be part of something outside itself. At the close of the tremendous performance, and after the quite rightly prolonged applause, I had the shuddering thought that we should listen to birdsong while we can – but this implies its imminent demise and is a council of despair. A work as important as Cowie’s Bird Portraits ought to make us at least pause at that possible, horrific outcome and rethink our relationship with something loved but taken for granted. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>II. A Poetic Response</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Bird-Landscapes</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Not so mute the water,</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">and there the dazzling white among peat beds</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">a dagger at tunnelled earth</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">the lake a sky-mirror.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Rough rubbing the grebe</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">a dive to a scatter of fish</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">ornate in sun’s glow the orb</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">at mid-morning frost a shaken crown.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">The field is a low firing rim</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">seed by wide-wing broadcast</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">and there a distant hammer flinting at bark</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">the woodland of buff versets.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">A curlew spiral - </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">can it reach the vault or will it fall? </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">and the slow gong of the earth - </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">will it still let ring its shimmered coil?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">III. Some Photographs by Xiaowei Liu</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPpKHfQxRhX8KnrCn27B9mILpSLTKWMwyXnFfFsDoR2J8yKhRcvp8l7vUHmI3MI38UMID4ioFf8n-4mJIq0n3JrAw439Q6C_YYl8p9FMgkUwmdqX4k-dRm5FxfiiJNLK5_rK-JU1ZsgIb/s1355/ed+cowie+dhj.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1355" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPpKHfQxRhX8KnrCn27B9mILpSLTKWMwyXnFfFsDoR2J8yKhRcvp8l7vUHmI3MI38UMID4ioFf8n-4mJIq0n3JrAw439Q6C_YYl8p9FMgkUwmdqX4k-dRm5FxfiiJNLK5_rK-JU1ZsgIb/s320/ed+cowie+dhj.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Edward Cowie and DHJ</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vRKChjWBgJH_o5JN_gTaIbAi8AEJp-KfmtS04MTZOiTlezyYbKZgqJx4u2d-BFdvLT5g_fqAtDGkva6qTaZL7Q-jfNKXrZnF7-UpMeII-8yTaeIEMVeDpy174p5YMwSsreKRG5HiKoe-/s1600/peter+ss+roderick+chadwick.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vRKChjWBgJH_o5JN_gTaIbAi8AEJp-KfmtS04MTZOiTlezyYbKZgqJx4u2d-BFdvLT5g_fqAtDGkva6qTaZL7Q-jfNKXrZnF7-UpMeII-8yTaeIEMVeDpy174p5YMwSsreKRG5HiKoe-/s320/peter+ss+roderick+chadwick.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Peter Sheppard Skaerved and Roderick Chadwick (with page turner)</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-12937512255024760702021-05-22T04:38:00.000-07:002021-05-22T04:38:00.557-07:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">CAMP
FOLLOWERS – On Angus Wilson’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hemlock and
After</i><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By
David Hackbridge Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuo1-CEATm84_STiwR2dDguHSB301lENPIcYW8ZvALfiLr02o2DYe7SQFYFHpxHlAL9SbG1DJFbHZWmiT79dVSWPOkp-qChDQcH5bDHH43CH_36YV64rxD6QwI8iNrIijvRUoezAmF_VwT/s1693/wilson+hemlock+and+after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1693" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuo1-CEATm84_STiwR2dDguHSB301lENPIcYW8ZvALfiLr02o2DYe7SQFYFHpxHlAL9SbG1DJFbHZWmiT79dVSWPOkp-qChDQcH5bDHH43CH_36YV64rxD6QwI8iNrIijvRUoezAmF_VwT/s320/wilson+hemlock+and+after.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Virtuoso writers and their
well-honed craft – and don’t we know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are meant to know it as a confident display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will be directed outward – to an Eliotic ‘Bloomsbury
lying embalmed in its Sunday death’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can sniff if we wish, ‘scarlet and lemon
dahlias, the heliotrope carefully tended’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will be directed inward – to such
complexities as, ‘So distant did the care-ridden, dangerous, tight-rope world
of her sick life seem to her that it was impossible for Ella not to feel that
this was the beginning of the famous ‘cure’, the well-known ‘recovery’ –
abstractions which, after years of discussion and contemplation, had become
personified as the familiar yet remote personalities in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cause célèbre</i> followed each day in the newspapers.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So thinks Ella Sands – or rather so thinks
the author through her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As all of the characters in
Angus Wilson’s 1952 novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hemlock and
After</i> get spoken through in the way that Ella Sands does, there is a
suspicion that the virtuosity is the platform on which another platform sits –
the author himself topping the arrangement with a glittering prize in prose; the
reader, this one, swept away by dizzying topographies of a person’s hapless
mind – the Wilsonian probes running to deep centres of grey matter; sometimes a
delving into the analysand that lasts a page or more – as if the outstretched
hand of Henry James were resting on the author’s knee: ‘keep going, keep
going’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can the characters breathe on
that stuffy couch?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Wilson lets them
they can, although when they utter they tend to in as perfectly formed
sentences as their narrator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A performance
where a Mandarin style (to follow Cyril Connolly’s term)<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
threatens to crowd out any serious differentiation between the verbally
polished protagonists.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More examples of virtuosity
abound; we discover that juicy epithets tempt the cherry-picker – just as the
over-facile pianist is lured by fleet-fingered filigree divorced from
structural or harmonic meaning – to fanciful constructions that tease out
pre-echoes of the British Poetry Revival: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">albinoid flora<br />
some canting usher<br />
dead mullion <br />
his porty flush<br />
poured into his suit<br />
by machinery<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A poetic half Iain Sinclair half
Martin Amis; BPR prophetics dropped like shiny pebbles into a far from Mandarin
pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As might be suspected from an
author capable of such coinage, Wilson can approach Firbank (he gets
name-checked on page 104) in a seemingly effortless but surely patiently
constructed wit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he can stage a
superbly farcical set-piece, again with Firbankesque overtones – the disasters
that unfold at the opening ceremony of Bernard Sands’ pet project, the writers’
retreat at Vardon Hall, are the fruits of emotional exposure – political, social,
sexual, and moral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That such rawness is
attended by an almost knockabout humour makes this chapter a triumph of
ambivalence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ultimately the novel does much
more than present staged antics but its underlying themes (if we can suffer
such reduction) come quietly into focus behind the stage props and
histrionics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bernard Sands, his sister
Isobel, his brother-in-law Bill Pendlebury are all writers – Sands the famous
author of humanistically nuanced novels, Isobel of tired lecture notes for her
English Literature courses, Bill of hack biographies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their lives are attended by ‘vices’, the
first two are gay (we should remember the societal condemnation of gayness
enshrined in law in 1950s Britain), the third a sot and gambler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if to symbolise the precarious nature of
these hidden lives, Wilson gives us Mrs Curry, a near neighbour and strong
objector to Bernard’s plans for Vardon Hall, who spends her time both
encouraging the peccadillos of those drawn to her peculiar parties and taking
payment for such services as she is able to provide through her network of
sexual facilitators, chief among them, sharp-suited cockney-in-the-village Ron
Wrigley – a sort of Wildean ‘panther’ perpetually given to ‘feasting’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As these figures come into view, perhaps
seeming dated in their manner and sensibility, we have to remind ourselves that
this is 1950s England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angus Wilson,
himself openly gay, perhaps the first English author to publically declare
himself so, presents all the dilemmas of the double life – the gay life forced
by law into clandestine arrangements and compromises – and does so in such an
outwardly vibrant and witty way as to partially cloak the very real dangers
faced by sexual transgression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
village setting, with all its provincial snobberies and pretentions is really
an arena for blackmail and hypocrisy as Mrs Curry ensnares as many as she can
in her ‘loving world’ of kitsch furnishings, and parlour games that, ‘went
further than strip poker, really, and looked less ludicrous than postman’s
knock.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That ‘really’ with its knowing wink, is the
Wilson wit in action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The most modestly drawn of the
characters is Ella, the neurotic wife of Bernard Sands, who walks on a
tightrope of sanity with perils and fears appearing to her as, ‘the tunnels,
the caves, the icebound oceans’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her breakdown, having taken place some years
before the novel opens, is the excuse given for various ways in which she is
manipulated by her own family, her husband included – as if they hadn’t wished
her to recover so as to inconvenience their way of dealing with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her reasons for neurosis focus on her
feelings of failure as a mother, the boredom of her day-to-day tasks, and a
sense of disconnectedness with Bernard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We don’t know until the end of the novel as to her knowledge of
Bernard’s homosexuality.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Most immodestly drawn is the group
of gay men that Bernard meets when he comes up to London – his intention is to
set up his new friend Eric Craddock in a flat there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson gives us a rather glorious set-piece
of camp interactions – the chapter title, ‘Camp Fire Cameos’, is a giveaway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not for nothing that Bernard’s friends
gather at the theatre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The repartee of
the men is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tour-de-force</i> of wit,
with its innuendo, catty remarks, and dips into cockney – although Polari is
not used, we do get a pre-echo of Julian and Sandy from the 1960s radio show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Round the Horne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Might Wilson be giving us a glimpse of
his own outward persona?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
flamboyantly dressed effeminate man presenting an essentially humorous outlook
to the world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bernard Sands doesn’t
really fit into this world of fashion magazines and theatre design; his
pursuits are rather more to do with – as he tries to put it – the soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His feels imperilled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This imperilment is no more
apparent than in the core episode of the book – an episode as far as is possible
from the cheery, spiteful camp of the preceding scenes; whilst waiting for Eric
in Leicester Square, Bernard is approached, ostensibly for a light, by a man,
‘smiling in confident, sexy invitation.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a few moments later, the man is pinioned
by a policeman and to be charged with importuning, Bernard for a blind moment
finds himself ‘ready to join the hounds in the kill’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– gripped by a sadistic desire to beat the terrified young homosexual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson clinches this short but vital scene
with: ‘A humanist, it would seem, was more at home with the wielders of the
knout and the rubber truncheon.’ – that telling ‘it would seem’, no longer the
pinch of wit but the lance of withering irony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This internal revelation, so horrific to Bernard, overshadows the whole
book, emanating as it does from its centre to all its far reaches.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bernard’s deeper concerns only
really find an outlet in his relationship with his sister Isobel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet here again there is conflict; although
they form a compact of understanding in relation to their gayness, they clash
over the looming Cold War crisis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bernard can’t agree to the political solutions offered by Isobel and her
young friend Louie Randall, instead giving only hope and compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A retiring humanist hoping for the best
before a political radicalism that, as he teases out of Louie, will not stop
short of liquidation as a means to an end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Try as they might, Isobel and Louie can’t persuade Bernard into
fellow-travelling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As mentioned above, the final
set-piece at which all Wilson’s ‘themes’ coalesce is the disastrous opening of
Vardon Hall – a mad-cap Carry On movie with the drunken lurchings of Bill
Pendlebury, the spitting acrimony of the younger Sands generation, the riotous
gallivanting of the gay set as they enter the forbidden upper rooms ‘like so
many mating mice’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
the political row of Bernard and his sister, the final revelation that Ella has
known all along about Bernard’s ‘fancy boys’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet these explosions of distaste in what was
intended to be a grand formal opening are the ways in which such overly-hopeful
events are punctured; Bernard’s idealism is laid out in his bafflingly received
speech after which misrule takes hold, almost as a reaction to so many
finely-wrought appeals to the moral order, the soul, the immutable values, and
so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this kind of satirical
performance everyone is a target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
don’t get the whole text of Bernard’s speech – it is hardly needed, for Wilson
can give its flavour through disbelieving reaction to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also tells us what it ‘should’ have been
but was not; nothing of ‘what was best in English life to-day’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn14" name="_ftnref14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
or other such high-minded afflatus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead we learn that Bernard offers such things as: ‘better failure
than deception, better defeat than a victory where motive was wrong.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn15" name="_ftnref15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His speech is somehow made comical by
unintentional reference to ‘what one picks up in the Charing Cross Road’ – he presumably
means books from the second hand bookshops there but his remark is greeted with
screams and titters from the gay guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reflecting perhaps on the Leicester Square incident, he says, ‘that our
most heroic self-sacrifice – and the conviction when it comes is a horrible one
– may only be a comfortable evasion of duty.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn16" name="_ftnref16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson remarks that Bernard, seeming to reach
a solely personal level, can no longer communicate with his audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At his moment of triumph, Bernard only
appears as the ‘tattered humanist’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn17" name="_ftnref17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In a way Bernard’s removal
from the book – he has a heart attack and dies shortly after the opening
ceremony for Vardon Hall – gives room for a shift in behaviour in those most
close to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ella suddenly seems saner
and active in intent to carry on in some way the hope Bernard had for the writers’
retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eric is bereaved and embarks on
loveless encounters before finding in the Rev. Bill MacGrath his most promising
companion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But compared to Bernard he is
a limited person who merely gives rein to a potted history of homosexuality
from Achilles and Michelangelo to Edward Carpenter and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Shropshire Lad</i>, with much discoursing on the ‘harmony of body and
spirit’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn18" name="_ftnref18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[18]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson gives us a glimpse
of a readjustment of the moral order – Mrs Curry and Ron are sent to jail; once
his paedophilia is discovered, architect Hubert Rose hangs himself in the
‘functional desert of his studio’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn19" name="_ftnref19" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn19;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[19]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet too pat an ending is resisted; we soon
learn that Mrs Curry and Ron are a success in jail, leaving them in a position
to restart their ‘business’ upon release; we learn that as Bernard feared, the
running of Vardon Hall is to pass into the hands of those who would plead
financial reasons for the undermining of its purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There seems always a way back for evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bernard’s leaving of the world provides no
solution to the very problems he wrestled with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The ending of the novel is ambiguous, like so much else in the
novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We only have hope for Ella as she
embarks on an aeroplane trip to Nice with her daughter Elizabeth, and where
clouds, ‘moving above and below like great golden snowdrifts’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftn20" name="_ftnref20" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn20;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[20]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
have replaced the rock and ice-choked seas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What emerges from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hemlock and After</i> is the awareness of a
great performative art in full swing yet one which despite its virtuosity
cannot overthrow the deeper concerns that underpin the novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For sure, Angus Wilson has it all his own way
– he has style to burn – but the moments of repose where he is at one with a
character’s mood without elbowing him or her into it, allow him the sympathy he
needs to make a thoughtful, funny, and given the social mores of the time, an
important novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">9/10.iv.2021<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">All page references are to the Penguin
edition, 1956.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 67.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 67.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 47.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> See, Cyril Connolly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enemies of Promise</i>, Part 1.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Variously pp. 13, 20, 94, 22, and 112.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 45<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 49.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 107.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 108.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Alan Sinfield tellingly links the
spiteful jibes of the gay theatre set with the sadism revealed in Bernard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See Alan Sinfield, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Literature Politics and Culture in Postwar Britain</i>, (new edition),
The Athlone Press, London, 1997, p. 76.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 156.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 184.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref14" name="_ftn14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 153.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref15" name="_ftn15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 153.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref16" name="_ftn16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 154.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn17" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref17" name="_ftn17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 219.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn18" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref18" name="_ftn18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[18]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 241.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn19" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref19" name="_ftn19" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn19;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[19]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 233.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn20" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/CAMP%20FOLLOWERS%20essay%20on%20a%20wilson%20hemlock.docx#_ftnref20" name="_ftn20" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn20;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[20]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> p. 246.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-22221000526435350702021-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:002021-03-23T09:18:27.858-07:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">PARABELLUM, PARADISE, OR
PARASITE<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">By David Hackbridge
Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">I<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
synopsis is: lots of people die in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John
Wick III</i>.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death is above the title and above the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slicings, garrottings, axes in the back,
machine-gunnings, knifings, neck snaps, grenadings, rocket launchings, maulings
by Rottweilers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comic book deaths in
droves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cascades of the hewn and mown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The anonymity of death you might think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the main we don’t see faces
grimacing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Masks, veils, helmets,
preserve the indignity of having facial characteristics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even so, aren’t all the deaths coded in some
way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As cannon fodder for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lack of faces helps this notion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do see the faces of the Chinatown
gangsters dispatched in an antique weapons museum near the start of the film –
all sorts of axes and knives meet their targets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is one of the most stylish scenes; star
Keanu Reeves at his heavy-breathing best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But we never see the face of a dead person again unless it is a main
character meeting their end in a culminating scene of the drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What faces are behind the masks?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
central tableau of carnage in Chad Stahelski’s action romp, to which I must
give a guarded welcome if only on grounds of the sheer energy it packs, takes
place in Morocco, where John Wick (Keanu Reeves), Sofia (Halle Berry), and her
attack dogs, take on over a hundred henchmen of cardboard cut-out villain
Berrada (Jerome Flynn).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All are
dispatched, mainly by head shots, although the dogs provide welcome variety by
delivering castration to those foolish enough to get in their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see bloody crotches – but no actual gored
genitals in drooling canine mouths – a missed opportunity one feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mind-numbing repetition of slaughter will
get thumbs twitching on invisible consoles – for it is clear that we are no
longer in a film but locked into a duel-to-the-death with an endless computer
game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spurts of blood from necks and
the cartoon catapults of the spectacularly shot are familiar from such
entertainments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But all those sinister
looking people dressed in weird costumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They look like foreigners to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here
is where gaming meets xenophobia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All foreigners
must be coded in this anonymous way as inhuman; drones indistinguishable from
each other but distinguishable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">en bloc</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expendable ‘towel-headed Arabs’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final festive sequence of gore in the
Continental Hotel – scenes which even weary Ian McShane as the hotel’s manager can’t
lift into any sense of Valhalla-esque camp, the operatives sent in to kill John
Wick are also coded as evil and ‘other’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They only miss Darth Vader to lead them, since otherwise they are
near-fits for Death Star Stormtroopers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So we don’t see their faces either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We can assume nothing about their ethnicity but they are nevertheless
coded as foreign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore killing them
all, in exchange for a few scratches on John’s body, is the desideratum of the
film – its motivating force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One might
argue that by anonymising individuality, a free pass might be given to claims
that the film contains racist undertones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wouldn’t wish to attribute anyone involved in the film with that
abhorrent epithet, yet I found the experience of watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> ultimately rather repulsive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The message was one of unadulterated fear and
contempt of other races, fear which seeds violence as the only response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plot is merely an excuse for the grimmest
and most decadent forms of hatred towards people with funny accents and weird
clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all done to brilliant
effect. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">As
an antidote to this xenophobe’s wet dream we get a pitiful attempt to ennoble
John with Belarusian traits – is that what is going on?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me – it is hard to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a scene with some real feel for style, we
get Angelica Huston as strict ballet mistress, The Director, schooling her willow-limbed
charges with fake-Soviet ruthlessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a relief to hear brief snatches of Tchaikovsky – a balm amid a soundtrack
infected with the usual inane tattoo of thumping synth-drums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder what Belarusians make of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The deals done in blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ludicrous apostrophe of John’s revealing
of his true allegiance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say
there seems no purpose to this interlude; I am afraid it didn’t make any sense
at all, other than as a clumsy, even insulting trope of ethnic ‘belonging’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
erasure of different peoples continues apace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a while, repulsion changes to utter boredom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The outcome of these battles is a foregone
conclusion; we know from the start that John Wick will defeat all before him –
it matters not if he faces one or a thousand enemies, they will all meet their
doom with a shrug of Keanu Reeves’ tired shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do people really cheer in the cinema when
this number of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘black-hats’ get
wacked?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or are they numbed into a coma –
popcorn balanced on frozen lips, fizzy drinks pooling in their laps?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Many
other things bore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does anything mean or matter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh! but I haven’t watched the first two
films!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not convinced that in doing
so I will find any reason for the ludicrous displays of mass extermination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those cool-looking coins that get pushed
knowingly across the counters of hotel reception desks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A receptionist called Charon?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something about a dog?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that
it? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something mythological to be teased?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these hints are not followed up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was intrigued momentarily by the tattooed
steam-punk typists but I didn’t care enough to find out what they typed and why;
something no doubt made clear in either <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John
Wick I</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick II</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh! you haven’t seen those?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The script writers, such as they are, have
self-lobotomised to produce a series of barrel–scraping clichés, delivered with
flat dependability by the likes of such fine actors as Asia Kate Dillon who
surpasses most measures of preposterousness in their role as The Adjudicator of
whatever nonsense is being adjudicated – no, it doesn’t matter – nothing does
in this trip to Bafflesville; as Halle Berry the assassin with dogs (they are thankfully
fitted with ballistic vests); and as Keanu Reeves himself, the star, strolling
through his monosyllabic ‘lines’ with about as much interest as if he were checking
a shopping list before the vegetable counter at Lidl <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘carrots,
parsnips, potatoes, peas’ – actually yes, that is already more expressive of
something, even in a Reevesian deadpan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
splendid Laurence Fishburne can’t raise his role as the Bowery King to anything
like the level of Isaac Hayes as The Duke in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escape from New York<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></i>
– although this might have been fixed had director Chad Stahelski accessorised
the character in a way to rival Hayes’ chandelier-festooned Cadillac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishburne handles his racing pigeons as lovingly
as Brendan Gleeson playing Irish folk-hero/criminal Martin Cahill in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The General</i>, or, as Kenneth Mars as the
washed-up Nazi, Franz Liebkind in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Producers; </i>‘not many people knew it, but ze Führer vos a terrific dancer’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes – I get these references and
applaud them in a way – but they are rather lame compared to their originals;
one gets the impression that the film lurches forward on a series of
over-budget homages to better-made scenes from earlier films.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call it meta-film if it helps to elevate the
attempts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishburne survives seven cuts
of a nasty looking sword in order to have a completely incomprehensible scene
with half-dead John Wick near the end of the film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big hitters of Hollywood battling a dead
script in the re-consecrated sewers of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Third Man</i>.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">What
also palls about this display of cinematic art is the utter humourlessness of
it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I miss the jokes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve tried to find the droll delivery of
Clint Eastwood, the Amer-Austrian one-liners of Arnold Schwarzenegger, even the
knowing grunt of Sylvester Stallone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The actors look
bored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Wick himself is a cypher for
boredom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fulcrum through which all
boredom passes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the film wasn’t so
noisy one could nod off and dream of tame Rottweilers and holidays in
Casablanca without grenade launchers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">In
all other respects the film is brilliant: fast, virtuosic, action-sequenced to
superb levels; Stahelski manages the resources of his small army of fighters
with aplomb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dizzying display of
pyrotechnic film-making.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is even a
mirror room fight scene to rival if not match that which ends Robert Clouse’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enter the Dragon</i>.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crucial difference is one which makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> a gripping adrenaline rush
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enter the Dragon</i> a knuckle-whitening
masterpiece. Violence in Kung Fu films?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in a film that in many ways
is a tribute to past Kung Fu classics (although Reeves is a somewhat leaden
dancer of the moves) one tries to look for links across the decades, especially
in this well-achieved set piece: Wick versus Zero in the mirror-room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Essential to the plots of the best Kung Fu
movies is the way that an inherently peace-loving person (albeit possessed with
the lethal weapons of his or her art) is brought to despair by the attacks to
loved ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is only after atrocity that
the dish of revenge can be served, cold or otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Examine the self when watching the best Kung
Fu films – physiologically and emotionally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Isn’t there an appalling tension that ratchets up, until the moment when
all hope of compromise is vanquished at the murder of a father, daughter,
sister, old Kung Fu master?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the
very veins on Bruce Lee’s, or David Chiang’s arms bulge with despair and rage.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> lacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At no
point are we presented with a thread of resistance to revenge, that finally
snaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The paste-board hero and his
would-be assassins utterly lack motivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even plausible cause is lacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I understand the 14 million dollar bounty on Wick; something to do with
unsanctioned killing – a mythological theme there for sure, but so ploddingly
laid out as to barely register before frothing villains hurl themselves into
the fray once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furthermore, the
deaths of hundreds are cost-free; there is no regret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bruce Lee’s realisation that he must act in
ways ever more brutal simply to stop the evil that feeds on society, is of no
solace to him; it is his second level of despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final spine-chilling fight scene of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enter the Dragon</i> between the Bruce Lee
and Shih Kien characters, the mirrors multiply this evil and Lee must destroy
all its copies – remember how he smashes all the mirrors with hand and foot
before sending Shih Kien onto the fatal spear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> we get a
myriad lethal slivers, a glitzy advert for crystal jewellery perhaps – (I was
reminded briefly of the Swarovski-sponsored production of Harrison Birtwistle’s
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mask of Orpheus</i> which sparkled
expensively at the English National Opera in 2019) – but the idea of an evil
replicated in glass is not explored in anything like the same sinister way as
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enter the Dragon</i>; one simply hopes
the cleaners had big dustpans and brushes and wore protective gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Wick strolls off set his mind already
stirring tea in the trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
motive there is no tension or release in the emotional chains that bind
character to inexorable action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mere
blood-nonchalance survives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> sometimes feels more like product-placement
for video games or armaments than a serious or even comic attempt to put
violence in any other context than one of sheer indulgence.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">A
few scenes apart, those with decent Kung Fu choreography, those with Dillon and
Huston, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i> felt like a cinematic
near-nadir; depressing despite its lavish display and lavish cost benefits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A digital hell-hole masquerading as harmless thrills.
But if you like drinking copious draughts of quasi-fascistic rocket fuel you
will love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">II<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">From
the hells of parabellum to paradise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
Parasite.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For in Bong Joon-ho’s film of that name, like
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i>, released in 2019, one
can discover a cinema of heavenly treats laid out on a wobbly lazy-Susan full
of twists, turns and mythological <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">éclats</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is violence too – not the piles of
corpses offered by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III,</i> but
individual acts of desperation that project an upstairs/downstairs drama onto
something sinister – along the lines of Ron Reiner’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misery<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></i>
– both are films of entrapment albeit in radically different ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The traps in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise</i> are economic and psychological.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor Kim family are trapped in dire
housing at the bottom of the city and can’t get jobs, while the Park family
live in luxury on a lovely hillside and are able to afford a driver, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>housekeeper, and private tutors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr Park, the breadwinner, leaves the house
and children to his wife, whose ability to pay for the running of everything
meets the requirements of her neurotic and as it happens, gullible
temperament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus the Kims are able to
dupe her into replacing her current paid servants with, one by one, themselves,
masquerading as linked but unrelated service professionals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A beautifully paced and acted comedy of
deception unfolds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">We
are also being shown a film about vast differences in wealth and opportunity
and how people are trapped in their social groups for better or worse –
economic marriage without hope of divorce – something that Bong wanted to
outline as of current concern in modern Korean society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bong choreographs all aspects of the film to
show at micro and macro levels the sorts of emotional and social forces in play
that drive these differences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most
obvious contrast between rich and poor is in living conditions; the Park’s
house is architect designed, whereas the Kims make the best of things in a
cramped basement flat of peculiar awkwardness, obviously a dwelling hewn out of
a larger property by unscrupulous builders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Its low ceilings and tight corners are oppressive, and the bathroom
features a toilet perched on a dais.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
looks very wrong up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Bong lets
us know about hygiene in subtle ways – the way Min, the friend of the Kim son,
lifts his feet instinctively from the sticky linoleum floor when he pays a
visit – a microsecond of distaste; the way we later learn that the rich can
smell the poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The basement smell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
plot moves from comedy to something darker and takes fully rounded, sympathetic
characters along with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since nobody
in the film is played as a cliché the violence when it comes, and it does come,
is all the more shocking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Parks and
the Kims are likable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Kims, of
course, are outrageous in the way that they dispense with the servants <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in situ</i>, but can salve their consciences
to a degree by claiming that they are still performing important services for
the Parks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs Park or ‘Madame’ as her
Korean name, Choi Yeongyo,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>translates
as, is first seen slumped in a sort of stupor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We rarely see her doing anything except planning a meal or a party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is clearly suffering from some sort of
upper class <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ennui, </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is
ripe for exploitation by the deviously clever Kims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is happy enough to allow the Kim brother
and sister, called ‘Kevin’ and ‘Jessica’ for the purposes of their subterfuge,
to take her children, also a son and daughter, in charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parallelism of this arrangement is
obvious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kevin and the Park daughter, Park
Da-hye, immediately embark on a cheesy teen romance once he has wowed her with
hastily learned pop-psychology exam techniques, while Jessica convinces Madame
that the dark shapes the boy, Park Da-song, produces in the corners of his
flamboyant crayon drawings are indicative of disturbing personality traits that
must be exorcised by means of 8 hours of art therapy per week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Park children, with the collusion of
their mother are trapped and made dependent on their much lower status
teachers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">What
becomes clear as the movie progresses is how carefully Bong has staged the
arenas for the interaction and separation of the two families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We see a gradual takeover of the Park space
by the Kims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By appearing to master the
richly endowed domain of the Park family, the Kims seem to have achieved their
dual aims of satisfying their financial needs and of occupying a hitherto forbidden
zone of luxury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But their triumph is
short-lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their fall at the hands of
the equally downtrodden former house keeper, Gook Moon-gwang, is what lifts the
film into other areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It transpires
that Gook has been hiding her debt-ridden husband, Oh Geun-sae, in a basement
unknown to the Parks, since they had both formerly been servants of the
architect of the property and had never revealed the existence of the subterranean
depths to the Parks, the new owners after the architect’s departure abroad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something is being said here about the rich
not even noticing the poor even when under their noses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, has lived underground for four years and
is clearly not of a healthy mind-set. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">It
is worth looking at how the two poor families’ power grab of the Park riches is
undercut, by sampling Bong’s use of thematic structures to press home
differentials between the opposing groups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Firstly, rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a battle
between Gook and Oh, and the Kims, seems to have been momentarily won by the
Kims, they are then surprised by the Park’s early return from a camping trip
due to pouring rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now desperate to
escape, since they inadvertently gave themselves away to Gook as family
plotters rather than unrelated servants, the Kims find themselves trapped under
a vast coffee table as Mr and Mrs Park make love on a nearby sofa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tellingly, Mr Park desires Madame more if she
wears ‘the cheap knickers’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the
no doubt pungent effect of their exertions, the Parks can still smell the Kim’s
basement odour even though they can’t see them sandwiched together like
sardines under the coffee table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
when one is pondering on these olfactory fruits that one suddenly thinks, ‘oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> cheap knickers!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is – the knickers that Jessica slipped
off when returning home in the Park’s chauffer driven car, after having
delivered her hokum art therapy session to the little boy, in order that the
said chauffer be implicated in casual sex in the vehicle, not with Jessica of
course, but with woman, or even women unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which delicious sleight of hand allows Mr Kim to become the highly
recommended new driver after the sacking of the old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also ponder Mr Park’s desire for fantasy
sex with a lower class or even ‘cheap’ woman in the guise of his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to return to the rain; it is rattling the
windows as the post-coital Parks drop off to sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the coast is clear we see Mr Kim sliding
like a snake out of the Park’s living room – an Edenic reject going on his
belly; then, in one of the very few outdoor scenes (the film is essentially a
stage play) we see the bedraggled, drenched Kims descend from the Park’s exalted
suburb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lower and lower – down to where
they belong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A major portal along the
way is the Jahamun Tunnel in Seoul reached by a steep and jagged staircase; a
mock-archaic setting for descent. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down
they go, sodden – as full of despair as Orpheus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The inundated alleyways and gateways narrow
and the air is mephitic – uncollected rubbish sacks are everywhere; we might be
reminded of Avernus and other toxic springs of Ancient Greece so marvellously
adumbrated in T. R. Glover’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Springs of
Hellas</i>.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or we are reminded of another variation on
the rejection from Paradise. When the Kims reach their home, that eccentric structure
now recognizable as very similar to the rabbit warren (or Cretan labyrinth)
under the Park’s house, it is awash with floodwater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some sort of culmination of the dismal is
reached here, symbolised by excremental excess; the sewers have burst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earlier we have been treated to the
reoccurring urination of a drunken neighbour outside the Kim’s window, but now
the full force of pent up sewage is let loose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We hear how good the rain is for the Park’s garden from Madame, as
scenes of her luscious, saturated lawns are contrasted with Mr Kim up to his
neck in effluent, trying to salvage his military medals and other keepsakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cooling liquids that revive Madame’s
shrubs spell doom for the ill-conceived structures of the Kim house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is the class contrast sought by Bong at
its most graphic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jessica sits atop the
toilet on its absurd dais as it spits filth; she lights a cigarette in
resignation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Parks have everything,
including their fashionable neuroses and perfected boredom, yet the Kims scavenge
their own possessions from a swill of slapping shit and piss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have graduated from basement to open
latrine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Secondly,
food; another indicator of social class, one that be analysed as to the varying
competence of its acquisition or preparation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Kim family celebrate success by feasting on alcohol and fast-food snacks
– they upgrade from beer to whiskey when they find themselves ‘in charge’ of
the Park household when the Parks have departed for the camping trip, yet the
snacks remain more of less the same in whichever venue they choose for
eating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In their own oppressive flat
they huddle round their small kitchen table with crisps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the first Park pay check comes in, they
upgrade to pizzas, pizzas whose boxes they were too incompetent to fold
properly at the start of the film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
they have elevated themselves, literally by altitude and by class, they can no
longer be contained in the same camera shot as they loll and lounge over the
expansive and expensive furnishings of the Park living room – they only lack
the cliché of Roman slaves lowering grapes into their mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They celebrate the apex of their achievement
in this indulgent feast yet they more or less stick to their culinary
roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Parks on the other hand talk
of tasty dishes much of the time – food is prepared for ‘Kevin’ as soon as his
first lesson with Da-hye <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course the pampered yet neurotic Madame
prepares none of this food herself – the most amusing shot of her household
incompetence is when, having sacked the old housekeeper, she is seen in turmoil
by the dishwasher – ‘my wife has no talent for housework’, as Mr Park says,
thus cueing the next part of the Kim’s plan to get Mrs Kim to take on the
housekeeper role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The surprise return of
the Parks as the two poor families fight, is announced by Madame’s phone call
requesting ram-don in eight minutes, a dish she probably never cooks and one
which Mrs Kim hasn’t a clue how to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
food is also a potential killer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earlier
in the film Gook is sacked since Jessica, firmly embedded in her role as art
therapist, makes her ill by deliberately triggering her peach skin allergy,
later passed off by Mr Kim as tuberculosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the Gook/Jessica fight later on, the latter gets a whole bag of hairy
peaches and smears them all over Gook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food
also frames the two episodes of the little Park boy’s anaphylactic shock
responses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is while gorging himself
on a huge cake that he first sees the ‘ghost’ – actually Oh emerging from the
hidden basement on a food raid – triggering a near fatal shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the awful climax of the film set in the
gorgeous Park garden, a very similar cake is brought to him by Jessica for his
birthday, when she is fatally stabbed by the same ‘ghost’ finally risen into
the light in order to wreak vengeance for the death of his wife – yes, Gook has
died due to a combination of allergic reaction and head injuries sustained when
Mrs Kim kicked her down the stairs into the dungeon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little boy is seen passing into shock
once more, as cake and blood foam all over the high-society guests, the
exquisite couples, their pampered children, the hired soprano and basso
continuo, gathered on the idyllic lawns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We never see any of the Parks again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">A
film in three acts then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
aforementioned feast where the Kim’s imagine themselves in possession of all that
the Park’s stand for, is really the last time we see them basking in the
rewards of their clever sequence of ruses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So far so entertaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A two act
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amuse-bouche</i> with no further
ambitions for a main course – the first act showing the humiliations of
poverty, the second showing a fraudulent rise to the heights of the exclusive Park
villa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sprightly tale of mischief with
a pleasant ensemble cast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The film might
have ended there – perhaps with comic-glum faces as the Park’s catch the Kim’s
at the whiskey by returning early.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Naughty but not a sackable offence; the Kims cover would appear intact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Parks do return early but by then all
has changed for the worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">volta</i> is at a precise point – it is just
after the 1 hour 3 minute mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
Gook, so brilliantly played by Lee Jung-eun, who triggers the tragedy to
follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doorbell rings and in the
video intercom we see the face of the former housekeeper. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know at once that something is wrong,
something that sets up a third, unexpected act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For the sacked housekeeper is barely recognizable; gone the tight bun
and tight-lipped demeanour, gone the silent assent to the wishes of
Madame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She now appears deranged,
grinning wildly and peering crazily through huge fish-eye glasses; she is
dripping wet from the rain and babbles almost incomprehensibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t look right at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has the kind of smile that Kathy Bates
perfected for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misery </i>when ensnaring
James Caan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">The
unity of lower class demise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The husband
of one poor family on the run is replaced by another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh had been on the run from debt collectors,
Mr Kim is now in fear of arrest for murder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To summarise: by the end of the film, Jessica is dead, Kevin barely
alive, Oh is dead, and Mr Kim has killed Mr Park, driven to it by the final
insult of Mr Park smelling the basement in him even as people are being
attacked by the deranged husband of Gook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two poor men forced to choose the warren of dank dungeons under the
upper class family’s house – they would be too easily caught in their own poor
neighbourhoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr Kim is Oh’s
replacement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must live under the feet
of the wealthy German family that take over the house from the tragic Parks,
having no idea of the horrific deaths that have taken place there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor cowering in plain sight – except hidden
by tricks of architecture – for this reason the very buildings of upper and
lower classes are interleaved and yet their respective populations are kept
forever apart by a crank-handle-operated cupboard that only Gook, Oh, and now
Mr Kim, know about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This open sesame is
never really open and the light can never trickle down, except in the form of rain
and sewage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recovering from the braining
he received from Oh, Kevin dreams of buying the Park property so that he can
lead Mr Kim up from the Underworld.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
a dream is all it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">I
think I’ve said enough on how well meshed this film is, although I’ve only
touched on a few aspects of what is a deeply rewarding and thoughtful viewing
experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What in the end makes Bong’s
film live on past the credit roll, is the way it makes the viewer think about
how all the aspects of the film can be seen to weave, coalesce, or split.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seamless plot, as intricate and ‘mechanical’
as a Brian Rix farce, nevertheless contains within its black comic structure
deeper cultural meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To make
terrific entertainment whilst going beyond it, is a mark of true excellence in
film-making. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">©David Hackbridge Johnson
2/3.i.2021 <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> More properly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Henceforth <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parabellum is Latin for ‘prepare for war’, as
Keanu Reeves explains in the film.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> John Carpenter, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escape From New York</i>, 1981.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> John Boorman, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The General</i>, 1998.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mel
Brooks, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Producers</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must also mention Ken Stott as Martin
Cahill in Kieran Prendiville’s excellent BBC drama, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vicious Circle</i>, 1999.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Carol Reed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Third Man</i>, 1949.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Robert Clouse, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enter the Dragon</i>, 1973.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> I am thinking of the Cheh Chang’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vengeance</i>, 1970, where David Chiang
fights in a series of brutal scenes and where desperate faces are seen in
close-up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> For those that like to collect such
information, the following weapons were used in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wick III</i>: Pistols: Arex REX Alpha, Bond Arms Texas Defender,
Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless, CZ 75B, CZ 75 SP-01 PHANTOM, Glock 17, Glock
19, Glock 19 (TTI Combat Master Package), Glock 19X, Glock 34, Glock 34 (TTI
Combat Master Package), Heckler & Koch P30L, Kimber Warrior, SIG-Sauer
P365, TTI STI 2011 Combat Master, Walther CCP, Walther PPQ. Revolvers:
Remington 1875, Colt 1851 Navy, Colt 1860 Army (Denix replica). Submachine
Guns/PCCs: Angstadt Arms UDP-9, CMMG MkGs Banshee, CZ Scorpion Evo 3 S1, PTR
9CT, SIG-Sauer MPX, SIG-Sauer MPX Copperhead, TTI SIG-Sauer MPX Carbine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rifles/Carbines: AR-15 variants, Veritas
Tactical VT16 PDW.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shotguns:, Benelli M2
Super 90 (TTI M2 Ultimate 3 Gun Package), Benelli M4 Super 90.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have omitted grenades and weapons in
various armouries, and those in the antique weapons museum. </span><a href="http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/John_Wick:_Chapter_3_-_Parabellum"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Garamond","serif";">http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/John_Wick:_Chapter_3_-_Parabellum</span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> – last accessed 3.i.2021. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Perhaps the presence of ‘para’ is the
only reason I’ve grouped these two films together.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> Ron Reiner, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misery</i>, 1990.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/DHJ%20Poems%20nov%202020%20to%202021/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE%20essay/PARABELLUM%20PARADISE%20OR%20PARASITE.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> T. R. Glover, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Springs of Hellas</i>, Cambridge at the University Press, 1945.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Avernus is described on p. 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-88219410891824861612020-12-29T02:51:00.001-08:002021-01-04T12:33:47.113-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>APOCALYPSE
AND AFTER<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>By
David Hackbridge Johnson</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">James
Keery’s splendid anthology, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>,
was generating waves long before publication; rumours are now dispelled at its
publication by Carcanet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keery’s essay ‘Schönheit
Apocalyptica’ from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jacket 24</i> way back
in 2003, although ostensibly about J. H. Prynne, laid out the groundwork for an
appraisal of poets caught out between, say, W. H. Auden and Philip Larkin as
having shown too sullied a hand to fit into the tighter aesthetics of Thirties
irony and Fifties doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Forties
must be made to disappear, said those who might give a qualified pass to Dylan
Thomas, but shudder at the mention of Nicholas Moore or Edith Sitwell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even prior to Keery there was some digging
down by Peter Riley – his wonderful essay on meeting Moore in the 1980s set up
the chance to republish work that had fallen from favour and into the
niche-expense of rare-as-hen’s-teeth second hand copies.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some Apocalyptics have retained a firm foothold
in poetic histories; Thomas of course, but also George Barker and David
Gascoyne. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKUSe0Z-6FLEy5ypx0ICHtxuD_lZeSbb7l9tVEYC7oQZzENpK8oTJQji1rq0XwQciUX973w84cQVzeOA4f0qqc9xkQbOX-eav5L-fc8nvF0Mt4n0YnaUmKUBgD0j8qNHyhJxEInUSvGPK/s1834/IMG_20201227_103042.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1834" data-original-width="1225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKUSe0Z-6FLEy5ypx0ICHtxuD_lZeSbb7l9tVEYC7oQZzENpK8oTJQji1rq0XwQciUX973w84cQVzeOA4f0qqc9xkQbOX-eav5L-fc8nvF0Mt4n0YnaUmKUBgD0j8qNHyhJxEInUSvGPK/s320/IMG_20201227_103042.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">What
is Apocalyptic poetry?</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">The flippant
answer might be to suggest that a congeries of images to do with blood, skulls,
and fervid genuflections, gives an overheated concoction barely clinging to
sense – a kind of </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">guignol</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> version of
Surrealism.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Keery finds firmer ground
when he relates the </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">ironic modernism</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">
of Auden to the </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">visionary modernism</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">
of the Apocalyptics.</span><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">In addition Keery seeks to broaden the reach
of poetic capture in the number of poets chosen for the new Carcanet anthology
who weren’t included in the three key Apocalyptic anthologies of the 1940s, and
to widen the time period out from that narrow alleyway in which visionary
modernism might normally considered to be kettled; the first poem in the book
by date of composition is John Masefield’s ‘C.L.M.’ from 1910, and the last is
C. H. Sisson’s ‘A Letter to John Donne’ from 1973.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Pre-echoes and aftershocks.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For
this reader A.T. Tolley’s book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Poetry
of the Forties</i> gave a first introduction to the core decade where
Apocalyptic poetry reached its high water mark; it is from Tolley that Keery
borrows the terms ironic and visionary modernism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other tuition into this neglected area came
from Barry Tebb (himself described by Keery in a book blurb of a Tebb
publication as ‘keeping the Apocalyptic flame alive’, but not in this book by
virtue of being born rather later than all the poets in this anthology) who
introduced me to the work of James Kirkup and Thomas Blackburn (both included
here), and from Andrew Duncan, himself no stranger to the rooting out of
forgotten voices, from whom I came to know and love the work of Kathleen Nott,
Peter Yates and Audrey Beecham (all included).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Needless to say these recommendations sent me on ravening raids to the
basements of Any Amount of Books and Quinto (late lamented) in Charing Cross
Road where sure enough many of these poets and others would show up – usually
at floorboard level.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Given
Keery’s broad church of inclusion there are many more poets than J. F. Hendry
and Henry Treece found to fill the pages of the three Forties anthologies: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The New Apocalypse</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The White Horseman</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Crown and the Sickle</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I count 201
poets in Keery’s new book and many poems have not been published since the
Forties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wealth of talent on offer
is simply extraordinary – time and time again I found myself reading a poem and
saying, ‘who on earth is this!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
happy to confess ignorance followed by joy in the wake of reading Seán
Rafferty, John Gallen, or Barbara Norman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John Gallen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Keery is at a
loss as to his birth and death dates – he gives them as circa 1920 – 1947.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With some delving I can say that he was a
Captain with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and was killed in action in India.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name being on the Queen’s University War
Memorial for World War II may cast doubt on Gallen’s date of death as stated by
Keery – perhaps he died in 1945 or earlier, or perhaps died later as a result
of wounds after fighting in Burma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in
whichever years John Gallen lived, he graced them with: ‘Not hard as hard is,
but hard as soft is, / but red-berry pulp lapped in no-spored glistering – /
dreams, my child – those were lips in a dream.’ – whose second line brings a
telescoping of sensation that hints at Gerard Manley Hopkins – himself a
visionary of language with a pre-Apocalyptic bent.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Certain
threads emerge from a reading of the complete volume – airplane imagery is
quite common, not surprisingly perhaps, given that the true horror of war from
the air became apparent to many during the Blitz – some of these poems remind
me of the stories my mother used to tell me of her time in Bow before she was
mercifully evacuated to Kilvedon Grange in Essex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Religious imagery there is of course – John
of Patmos appears more than once, not just in the Edward Thompson poem I
mention below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are also powerful
meditations on the senselessness of death and suffering – Susanne Knowles’ poem
speaks of a ‘criminal mis-channelling of the brain’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– Alan Rook asks from the perilous viewpoint of Dunkirk Pier a series of
desperate questions: ‘What was our sin?’, ‘Failure to suffer?’, ‘What hope for the
future?’ – in the knowledge that the poet has only ‘puny words’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is
true, and Keery warns us, that there are not a lot of laughs; the reoccurring
themes of death and despair militate against humour, but there are rough-hewn
lines from W. R. Rodgers that give words themselves the jostling glint of banter:
‘Needle-flute and thimble-drum / Stitched the way to kingdom-come, to Derry,’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– and arch anti-Apocalypt Kingsley Amis has some fun with the genre and manages
to reference Kid Ory into the bargain: ‘O Muskrat, ramble through the living
grass / And coil the leaves on the abandoned bone / Bring to the midden your
eliding grease / And load the summer zephyrs with your bane.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– which might not be parody until you read the title: ‘Something Was Moaning in
the Corner’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far in truth from
Stella Gibbons’ nastiness in the woodshed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There
are quieter voices – poets like Anne Ridler who might seem to be on the very
thin edge of the project if one recalls her magical meditations upon childbearing
and rearing – but here Keery can justify her inclusion by her bringing of an
acute feeling for landscape to the idea of distant conflict: ‘And the Pentland
howling psalms of separation’ – and later in the same poem: ‘Cold knives of
light / Make every outline clear in a northern island,’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– the way she intimates violence from afar is as chilling in its own way as the
tumbling masonry threatening those under more direct lines of fire.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Of
course Keery includes the big hitters of the 1940s anthologies – the known
practitioners of the livid purple patch – MacCaig, Spender, Treece, Hendry,
Barker, Dylan Thomas, G. S. Fraser, Dorian Cooke, Moore – but in keeping with
an obvious desire to expose the unknown, Keery gives them a modest amount of
space so that they in no way dominate the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite this, it is good to have Hendry, Fraser, and Cooke, perhaps the
least known in this group, given several poems each.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hendry can generate fevers of clotted energy:
‘Frozen in the fright of light chilled skull and spine / Drip
bone-shriek-splinters sharper than the Bren: / Starve franco stroke and stave
the hooves of bulls. / I am the arm thrust candle through the wall.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This enraged stanza is how ‘Picasso – for
Guernica’ begins – the reader surely feels something of the horror this
notorious event during the Spanish Civil War instilled; the language clings to
a bewildered sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fraser’s is a calmer
terror – he presents aftermaths rather than the fear-struck present: ‘All that
has fallen is what may befall / and that is all // and hell not ours alone is
also these / befell the world and our its miseries’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– which in its trapped cycle of words perfectly encapsulates a sense of defeat
and exhaustion and yet links personal suffering with a collective grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cooke seems so obscure now that it is hard to
find out what he did poetically after the Apocalypse anthologies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His work on the showing here eschews the exhilarated
terror of his confrères, going for a cooler aesthetic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pays dividends in two quite simple and
moving elegies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how ‘Poem in
Memory of Theodora Hendry’ ends: ‘Tides move to battle – parable or flame. /
The patchwork of huge faith / Died too; and we are outlaws / Watching from the
last, live room. / But her body only shows / The miracle of the forgiving
earth.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which makes me want to know a lot more about
Dorian Cooke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The MacCaig poems are all
early works which he later disowned; excepting ‘Stone Pillow’ they are all
absent from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Poems of Norman MacCaig</i>,
the large volume of his work published by Polygon in 2005.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given that the poems rescued from oblivion by
Keery are both deeply thoughtful and shot through with startling images I am at
a loss as to why they have remained out of sight; perhaps even a whiff of the
Apocalypse was enough, once the powder had dispersed, for MacCaig to repudiate
the work however strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can we see here
a result of a backlash against visionary modernism as the poetry world closed
in for the killing zones of the domestic? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have here as additional evidence for this
conjecture some beautiful lines from the plays of Christopher Fry, someone who
hardly abandoned his style but was simply outmanoeuvred in the later 1950s by
the drama of the kitchen sink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here are glimmers
of light on how far the Apocalyptic stock had fallen only a decade or so after
its peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MacCaig’s two early, disowned
volumes – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Far Cry</i>, and, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Inward Eye</i>: could the poet’s shade
not be persuaded that they be reprinted?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Lacunae
in the poetical record, reputations winnowed to chaff by changes in fashion,
failures of generosity as critics nurture amnesia; all these absences Keery
seeks to repopulate with this heartening and magnificent volume in which vivid
varieties of voice and utterance abound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What
happens after you read a book such as this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>James Keery has given us a clue; since no biographical details of the
poets are included (I imagine these would have extended the book by at least 50
pages) the onus is on the reader to follow up any such trails as might lead to
deeper appraisals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suffice it to say
that a hoovering up operation has now begun from a hidden base in Tooting –
there are so many poets here whose slim volumes must be sought from the usual
and unusual places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First to be had
after a bit of searching is Edward Thompson’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">100 Poems</i> – a lovely, simply produced book from Oxford University
Press, dated 1944.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now which Thompson is
this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not Dunstan Thompson, some of
whose war-haunted love lyrics might well have been included in Keery’s
anthology, since despite being American born he was in Britain by 1947 – (I’m
thinking of ‘What vision of violence can I plead for pardon? / I walked the
streets, a stage star hearing cheers / From blackout boys, whose lucent cat’s
eyes – in the garden / Later at leave taking – ran me through like shears. /
Guards! Guards!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blood on the white rose,
death by thorns.’)<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– but Edward Thompson, the father of the historian E. P. Thompson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keery chooses ‘In Patmos I’ from Thompson’s
1942 Secker and Warburg volume, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New
Recessional</i>, but might just as easily have been attracted by this, the
opening stanza of ‘Skull and Stream’ from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">100
Poems</i>: ‘Beyond Damascus, where the air blew chill, / Snow-boding, and the
whistling wintry flaw / Round rock and crevice rang, a skull I saw / Facing the
plain, chance-tumbled in a rill.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– an opening that might head for ‘Ozymandias’ territory via Henry Treece, with
the qualification that much-travelled Thompson is not describing a scene
entirely from the imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCe8SemR-EvvykmdA_AKwHdOm-Xj3fu9AjnRl1kxV0E1gKYPGmZN7-saKvbDqjgdIkE22RypcCiba7OPlofhQ6tOx7ZYAplDgDTHk4s4mHLtr9RPECeA4lyRdzTl6kLIVHPI9vi7B1_q-O/s2048/IMG_20201223_222807.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1435" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCe8SemR-EvvykmdA_AKwHdOm-Xj3fu9AjnRl1kxV0E1gKYPGmZN7-saKvbDqjgdIkE22RypcCiba7OPlofhQ6tOx7ZYAplDgDTHk4s4mHLtr9RPECeA4lyRdzTl6kLIVHPI9vi7B1_q-O/s320/IMG_20201223_222807.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
other volumes are on the way; Frances Cornford and Valentine Ackland soon to be
installed by the armchair. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Budget
allowing, there are many more desirable books to be had; so that the question
‘who reads Wrey Gardiner?’ may one day be answered by a few hands going up at
the back of dim halls.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In a
book such as this there will still be those crying out at the injustice of
omissions, almost because of, rather than in spite of, the incredibly generous
space devoted to neglected work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What
about X?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What about Y?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The forgotten breed the forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt Keery had to choose from a much
greater body of work and he had to make a book that didn’t break wrists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One would have liked the complete text of
Sheila Legge’s ‘I Have Done My Best For You’ – only about a third of it is here
– another page might not have hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
this is a minor quibble and the full text is accessible elsewhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Might not the Apocalypse label be extended
beyond Keery’s cut-off point of the early 1970s?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An annex to the main body of text might
include the aforementioned Barry Tebb – something like this vision from Book
Two of his ‘Bridge Over the Aire’ might suffice: ‘I am grounded in Chapeltown
from dawn to dusk / Curfewed by my body’s husk I dream of ‘Swan Lake’ / Car
after car swan after swan across the stage / The mad conductor’s baton raised
dying swans / Flying from the wings fading on the last chords / In the hyaline
air by the crystal river where / We surrendered to its flow.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn14" name="_ftnref14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tebb’s first wife, the late Brenda
Williams, opens ‘The Fordwych House Extract’ with: ‘I drew a fire at Fordwych
House which burned / From my mind to a pale sky, consuming / In its wake, after
and before, and turned / Now into the end a shadow smoking / Dissolving deep
within the splintered wall / Of a high endless orange controlling / Flame,
overturning irretrievable / And huge once with youth’s unbroken meaning.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn15" name="_ftnref15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– which has a hint of the congealed imagery of J. F. Hendry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A poet with some claim to having an
Apocalyptic provenance is Jeremy Reed; as a teenager he wrote to George Barker,
who replied to the effect that the Muse had bitten Reed on the thigh and that he
should appear at once with his poems – shades of Verlaine to Rimbaud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early Reed is certainly packed with a riot of
the visual that could be derived from Barker, yet without the older poet’s
propensity to stand too close to the reader: ‘We’re silver, disinherited from
gold: / the trompe l’oeil of the girl’s cosmetic brush / delineates
fritillaries for eyes – / a russet-tangerine linered with black, // the donna petrosa
implacably / resisting metamorphosis, her cold / scrutiny relieved by the
decorative; / the ersatz putto snaps a lighter flame’<a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftn16" name="_ftnref16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
– this could almost be a Sitwellian off-shoot, yet one already revealing Reed’s
fascination with the masks of modern fashion and identity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How
universal or local you want your Apocalypse to be in the end doesn’t
matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ironic and the visionary
don’t always have to be separated by walls of mutual distrust – the poetry wars
are over, aren’t they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What Keery does
show, regardless of labels, is a wealth of almost unknown work – work of such
high standard that history books of poetry with their neat categories and vast
omissions might need extra chapters that tease out the sheer quantity of good
poems, rather than assuming that what has fallen through the cracks of time is
best left there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0mm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">©David Hackbridge Johnson 27.xii.2020 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
See, Nicholas Moore, (ed. Peter Riley), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longings
of the Acrobats</i>, Carcanet, Manchester, 1990. <o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
His italics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See James Keery, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse: An Anthology</i>, Carcanet,
Manchester, 2020, p. 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hereafter, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
See, Eve Patten and Richard Pine, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Literatures
of War</i>, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, Newcastle upon Tyne, 2008, p. 156.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are a few other dates worth checking:
Elizabeth Daryush died in 1977 not 1997 (I don’t think she made it to 110!),
Maurice Lindsay died in 2009 not 2005, and if John Waller is the Cairo poet he
was born in 1917 not 1922. Peter Hellings was born in 1921 not 1924.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 149.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 140.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 135.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 318.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 158-159.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 163.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 201.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse</i>, p. 218.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Dunstan Thompson, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poems</i>, Simon and
Schuster, New York, 1943, p. 7<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Edward Thompson, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">100 Poems</i>, p. 32.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref14" name="_ftn14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Barry Tebb, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Collected Poems</i>, Sixties
Press, Sutton, 2016, p. 120.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref15" name="_ftn15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Brenda Williams, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Selected Poems</i>,
Sixties Press, 2016, p. 73.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Admin/Desktop/Poems%20nov%202020%20inc%20fragiles/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay/APOCALYPSE%20AND%20AFTER%20essay.docx#_ftnref16" name="_ftn16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Jeremy Reed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Engaging Form</i>, Jonathan
Cape, London, 1988, p. 51.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
</div>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-54945649571229375342020-08-27T02:46:00.000-07:002020-08-27T02:46:55.107-07:00<p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">SINCLAIR, BICKNELL, LOST AND FOUND IN WHITECHAPEL<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHogUUa4ELpQGUklsqRDjHkNOWC_Scf_QX6V5Bc6SW6rjbEXO7R7_buRI5yNu7LRXDt_Hp-EljYUmxYBFtUZuMH0CBqqAgWxSWn9EfOKW8ejytunjCoiBaMoEjQz4SgwA02Te_SBmzMLDq/s2048/2017-09-17+16.41.02+front+page.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHogUUa4ELpQGUklsqRDjHkNOWC_Scf_QX6V5Bc6SW6rjbEXO7R7_buRI5yNu7LRXDt_Hp-EljYUmxYBFtUZuMH0CBqqAgWxSWn9EfOKW8ejytunjCoiBaMoEjQz4SgwA02Te_SBmzMLDq/s640/2017-09-17+16.41.02+front+page.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">David Hackbridge Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Private Printing MMXVII<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">SINCLAIR, BICKNELL, LOST AND FOUND IN WHITECHAPEL<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">By David Hackbridge Johnson<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Prelude<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Insufficient attention or too much distracted lurking may
have been the cause for a prolonged failure to locate Gallery 46. Yet an art space so curiously hidden, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">(where searchers must hesitate up and down Ashfield Street –
no obvious signage for a gallery, rows of Georgian houses perilously wedged
between grey blocks of razor wired anonymity, where no thrown up awning of
Perspex illuminates Art Biz conjugations with dubious branding architects), <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">seems to invite furtiveness – is it here? No.
Here? No – <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">until the toing and froing narrows to a mere shuffle at the
doorstep, a strange jig that foots its own insecurity – and then you knock in
half hope of entry. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And luckily, after warm welcomes, a treasure trove awaits;
two of the fine Georgians given over to an art space, whose rooms have in recent
months held some extraordinary archives – most particularly those of Iain
Sinclair and Renchi Bicknell. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As it happened I nearly missed the show; the arrival of the
artists to de-hang their work was imminent.
So perplexed had I been on my perambulation of Whitechapel that I became
quite disorientated; my quest to find old haunts such as St. Boniface and the
East London Synagogue had been successful but then I became mesmerised by the
Legoland behemoth of the new Royal London Hospital, only to find I was but a
stone’s throw from the gallery. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Withal, I did manage to see the artwork before it became
bubble wrapped and boxed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNKr_XoGFvkQt3Y8QOVRRv2W_oIPRGV5E92JQhiskrDGtAIQO0FJ2bg4eYG88Tg_ukQRoYxpCphKQENTUUDbLQzZrMQ-y3XHYizIVNt8GRmpkSvYGCWcwRdlLUhP46iiP5dVALhTxUKWF/s2048/2017-09-17+16.46.52+new+london.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNKr_XoGFvkQt3Y8QOVRRv2W_oIPRGV5E92JQhiskrDGtAIQO0FJ2bg4eYG88Tg_ukQRoYxpCphKQENTUUDbLQzZrMQ-y3XHYizIVNt8GRmpkSvYGCWcwRdlLUhP46iiP5dVALhTxUKWF/s640/2017-09-17+16.46.52+new+london.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i>New Royal London Hospital</i></b><i> <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">One<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Anonymous Bosch’s pin
hole camera record of a Sinclair journey– this excited me; my friend, Paul Allen,
a wonderful photographer himself, first captured my interest in this medium
with his experiments in pin hole camera work over 35 years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Part of the radical geographer’s work seems to (does it?)
hinge on the half-buried past, the memories of forgotten alcoves or pathways,
the under-map of our present day, yet also there might be a more urgent
concern, less to do with lost visions and cultural nostalgia, more to do with a
frantic tracing of the present in its moment by moment erasure. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">No better is this erasure hinted at than in the artefacts relating
to the river journey undertaken by Sinclair and Andrew Kötting during which a
fibreglass swan pedalo is discovered and becomes the means of conveyance along
the rivers of the South East, the journey commemorated in Bosch’s photographs;
shots taken with a matchbox camera (also displayed) and then blown up into
dizzying, misty perspectives. The
weirdness of these blurry images is instant nostalgia round the edges, also quirky;
the chance happening upon the swan contraption leading, I suggest, to high
spirits. One imagines along the way foil
wrapped sandwiches crumbling in sudden gusts, thermos flask toasts to wheeling
birds, dithyrambs on habitat encroachment, instamatic poems on desolate tracts
of distant scrubland, more beverages (something stronger?) – a riverine tea
party of delirious mad hatters, their nobly moulded cobbe proudly riding the
current; undoubtedly the whole effort as unusually compelling as the walk in
the footsteps of John Clare featured in Kötting’s film <i>By Our Selves</i> – and yet like that journey a vital re-treading of
old quests whose recall is now fragmented, lost in a junking of the past, diced
by the ‘Cutting Edge’, post Blakeian visions replaced by ‘Vision’, borderlands
succumbing to board rooms. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">For all these attempted recreations or re-navigations come up
against the insurmountable present, their points of erasure or disjuncture: the
straw bear that accompanies the Clare walk (perhaps a manifestation of the
poet’s bewilderment) stumbling amid bemused locals onto new builds that bisect ancient
woods and pathways, the fibreglass swan dragged overland as rivers dwindle, are
drained, are built over. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And finally the chain rope stretching from bank to bank, the post-Olympic
helicopters on aerial prowl, the threat assessment teams in Hi Vis, the river
as a no-go area other than for official parties and post-games legacy
carpetbaggers. Journey’s end in hollow
stadia and freshly, brutally sculptured walkways leading – where? Another vision of stakeholder inclusion? That excludes fibreglass swans? The journey charts its own demise, and these
wonderful pin holes of Anonymous Bosch are the remains. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwFWSpr18-JgstVZvnNnKRYIsY0xpBkDCihGgRYcPqGlM63xd4nzR5WuxAv91fVicr4wbuNg44-TKQoFVEm4Bcns2wiBs0hn0FEv0eol6_DBVeJeJtepjuzIPXPusDI-0OS0hp3Ni_z0b/s2048/2017-09-17+18.22.04+ashfield+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwFWSpr18-JgstVZvnNnKRYIsY0xpBkDCihGgRYcPqGlM63xd4nzR5WuxAv91fVicr4wbuNg44-TKQoFVEm4Bcns2wiBs0hn0FEv0eol6_DBVeJeJtepjuzIPXPusDI-0OS0hp3Ni_z0b/s640/2017-09-17+18.22.04+ashfield+street.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i>Ashfield Road, Gallery 46 towards
the end of the street on the left<o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Part of Sinclair’s recent trajectory as a writer explores the
notion of the city of disappearances.
Disappearance might be expected as new replaces old but Sinclair sees
the galloping erasure caused by many recent grand schemes as so definitive and
final as to brook no remnant. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">His writing on the Olympics (again) springs to mind in this
context; work which caused his local library to ban him from delivering an advertised
lecture. This particular Sinclairian
achievement speaks of a radical geography that won’t wait for cosy reflections
and pie charts; in challenging the raving and obligatory optimism of the
Olympic message, Sinclair put himself beyond the pale of Leisure Service
functionaries and pre-pumped olympio-librarians eager to dump Dewey Decimal for
interactive hub design. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The names of gold medallists might be expected to fade into
the annals of their exertions but what can be recalled of entire stretches of
the River Lea now subsumed by such attractions as the ArcelorMittal Orbit; that
promise of 4 by 4 relay adrenaline nostalgia?
I wonder if Sinclair shares with me the irony I feel when I read of ‘Lea
River Park: A New Landscape for London’, as if it was only discovered as a landscape
after its obliteration. Well, the
survival of the Three Mills could be viewed as a blessing but why the rigid
gouging celebrated in so many plastic walkways? the Velcro-sculpted remouldings
of utterly lost river meanders – aeons of quiet sediment dredged and bulldozed
in a matter of weeks? why these puny homages to the discredited Dome – (oh
look! there it is!). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And is the Permanent Poetry display a redeemer of this
landscape in any way? Will the aerobic
endeavours of 2012 have their just Pindarics?
Sinclair doesn’t make the cut, although Tennyson squeezes in. And the stadiums (all of which had iconic
status guaranteed at the blueprint stage) echo ever more faintly with two lactic
acid drenched weeks of straining musculature and frenzied flag waving, and must
now support themselves by means of sparsely attended athletics meets and
corralled school children on day trips. As I’m sure Sinclair has said this is
regeneration at the cost of, not the benefit of what existed before. In <i>Hackney,
That Red-Rose Empire</i>, Sinclair laments the uprooting of allotments to make
way for the Olympic temples; the ghost of Richard Jefferies came to my mind at
once, allotments being both ‘excellent and noble’. Their cultivation, Jefferies goes on, ‘cannot
be too widely followed or too much extolled’.
Any amount of extolling makes no difference when the diggers move
in. Velodromes for vegetables, podiums
for potatoes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I think it is the ‘given’ that all must be swept away without
question that alarms Sinclair; all dissent an offense to the positive thinking
mantra gurus, even a quiet query seen as somehow betraying the Good-for-Britain
three line whip, somehow undermining the medal tally that all this investment
must justify, so that all and only all can pump their fists as a nation united
when gold is won. Somewhere on the River
Lea, snared in a thicket of oblivious selfie-sticks, a worse-for-wear
fibreglass swan rams its beak persistently against chains; the clanging of its
effort a silver voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaQo_0J3EO3m_ruwC4xPqpf-GY_iAtzSC1BSgaXJ3ZkDkpPwa6rixEENN_2imSlPCqLbgx_6HPd_TqjF6jWppJSeX97eIJKXkl0Qd0RMqvCjPzuKtiRPZ49Mm4JerwDPgwKHht3l0XQFn/s2048/2017-09-17+16.53.14+kept+in+or+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaQo_0J3EO3m_ruwC4xPqpf-GY_iAtzSC1BSgaXJ3ZkDkpPwa6rixEENN_2imSlPCqLbgx_6HPd_TqjF6jWppJSeX97eIJKXkl0Qd0RMqvCjPzuKtiRPZ49Mm4JerwDPgwKHht3l0XQFn/s640/2017-09-17+16.53.14+kept+in+or+out.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i>Kept in or out<o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Two<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Maps, photographs, posters, sketches – there are many threads
to the Sinclair archive. Also books – I
came away with two: <i>The Last London</i>
and an excellent collection of poems <i>The
Firewall.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Sinclair has claimed that <i>The
Last London</i> will really be his last look at the city that he has lived in
for more than forty years. The book has
some tremendous set pieces, some previously published as such: on the Boris Bikes
(now Sadiq Cycles) and swimming in the high rise pool of the Shard. The Olympics still feature – an itch that
Sinclair cannot resist scratching. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Heroic walks abound, mock heroics of motley character. Kötting is often present as Lord of the
Madcap but also drummers, sound dredgers, an Edith Swan Neck impersonator –
walks that re-enact history with pin hole vision, lines of force retraced in
the hope that their ever fainter marks might survive in the triangulation of
old churches, buried kings and locked ossuaries. Sinclair’s walk to Barking where
disorientation beckons seems to bring him to the limit of endurance, the walk
to Tilbury likewise. All these walks are
adorned with a poetic ‘wildfire’ (Alan Moore’s word), a diagnostic probe of
words that delves into brick dust, memory, loss; roots around in rubbish and
comes up with gold, both real and fool’s. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Vignettes of friendship appear often, a common ploy with Sinclair;
he feeds on the shared footfalls of long journeys. The walk to Croydon with poet and translator
Stephen Watts leads via a series of Italian creameries to West Croydon in
search of Watt’s grandparents; a coffee sustained pilgrimage that slips within
my own borders and recalled for me my somewhat desultory, jejune rambles in the
shadow of Taberner House.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Always displacement is near, whether it be the removal of
Margaret Rope’s stained glass windows from the church of St. Augustine,
Haggerston, the social housing cleansing policies of aspiration junkies in
local planning (the last hangers on in doomed flats banished to the hinterlands
of Essex), the threatened seizure of homes to make way for the deep coring
machines that must gouge the earth for HS2 like a mechanised Pluto ravenous for
Persephone, or more insidious forms of displacement like the mental collapse of
Sebald’s Jacques Austerlitz, feeling that his true life had been displaced and that
he can only achieve birth at the point of death. The ultimate displacement is of body parts;
the journey to retrace the steps of doomed King Harold as he force marches his
army from Stamford Bridge to Hastings.
Legends of his burial and the dispersal of his body parts fascinate
Sinclair and his fellow travellers; the journey becoming a quest for England’s
Osiris, the displaced funeral rites of the Anglo-Saxon world. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Yet the whole effect of the book is not as gloomy as it might
have been; Sinclair is always seeking out allies, or not even seeking but happening
upon them and seeing where they go. From
curious tramps to activists, poets to book runners; even the Vegetable Buddha,
a man beached on a bench in Haggerston Park, becomes an ally, or at least a
means by which Sinclair can meditate on an imagined field of view. It is these interactions that make the book
oddly hopeful; that despite the pitiless encroachment of those whose hollowed
out culture leaves them utterly amnesiac to what they wreck, there might just
be enough fellow walkers and mappers to keep hold of the thread.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Three</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Ancient ley lines connecting former mental hospitals, bridges
and walkways, ribbons of Hindu mantras that hold localities in a cat’s cradle
of perilous perspective, glassy vestiges of Blakeian figures – snouty, peering through raptorine, glaucous eyes – topologies
where Victoria Park becomes a blue whale, where the M25 becomes a reptilian
slither through fields, where star maps hang luminously above ancient promontories,
as avatars of Krishna hover and give blessing – just some of the astonishing array
of layered reference to be found in the work of Renchi Bicknell on show at
Gallery 46. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I was most fortunate to meet the artist – he was packing up –
and was thereby able to discover from him how these layers interact. As I see it, the paintings are, in a sense,
memories of journeys, but of many journeys overlapping in different timescales:
the slow shaping journeys of hills and rivers, the changing landscapes of man’s
journey, the procession of constellations through equinoctial time, and look! –
there is Iain Sinclair entering a gateway at the start of another patient exploration
of lost avenues and abolished edgelands sucked into Total London. There is a delight in finding these maps that
jostle for time’s attention, a playfulness that nevertheless doesn’t distract
from what I take to be Bicknell’s central vision of connectedness. This vision can be gleaned from two
beautifully produced pamphlets: <i>Relations</i>
and <i>A Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. The centrality of Blake becomes clear not
only in Bicknell’s combination of image and text but also in a cosmic vision
that draws on universals from Neo-Platonism.
Linkages of kinship, landscape, memory and beauty. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The threat of the severing of such linkages forms an
underlying tension to be perceived in the sheer vertiginous detail present in
Bicknell’s work; the bird’s eye view that he sometimes favours keeps topsy-turvy
perspectives in play with a sudden leaping out of figures in proportions
deliberately out of scale with their surroundings that suggest the <i>area centralis</i> – the visual kill-zone of
the vigilant bird of prey; a falcon’s fovea alert to tasty anomalies on the
ground. Sinclair has spoken of the
helicopter as an emerging topos of modern landscape surveillance; perhaps the
highly colourful and perspectival disordering of Bicknell’s aerial views is his
way of both recording and commenting upon landscape change as the blades whir
overhead, plotting irresistible removal of such records. From the distance of a few metres the surfaces
of the larger Bicknell paintings, although apparently flat, have a luminous
texture to them which upon close viewing reveals the manner by which the images
are formed: the use of glass shards, grit, threads of schmatter and what I took
to be lentil seeds. Again at a quick
glance the paintings are decorative (and much pleasure is already to be had at
that stage) but the more one looks the more deeply the images become weighted
with meaning, and I felt curious gasps of delight quickly followed by slower
reactions where I caught a glimmer of profound connectivity. This trajectory of looking I noted in myself
again and again in these joyous but profound images. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I couldn’t resist an etching called ‘M25 Passion of the North’
part of <i>The Pilgrim’s Progress</i> cycle;
the Medicine Buddha, the asyla of Shenley and Napsworth (both now redeveloped),
star maps, and at the crux of the Golden Section, Sinclair entering a hedge
gateway to St. Albans with Bicknell just below; all moulded into an intricate
pattern for eye and mind to explore. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></b><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Epilogue</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Journeys and maps. We
make our own if we can recall enough of our movements; the best maps woven from
wrong turnings, loops and returns. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">So, my own diffuse superimposition on those lines and cradles
of Sinclair, Bicknell made that day, 17<sup>th</sup> September 2017: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">first to Highgate, but off the train
at Archway to test my haunches (ached after 2 minutes), up the hill to see
whether the ancient bookshop half way up really had closed (the bell on the door,
the alcove at the back with a sliding window – empty until approach when
suddenly the venerable, bald, diminutive proprietor is revealed (the spitting
image of Billy Fine my father-in-law), as if suddenly he’d descended by
fireman’s pole from an upper floor, an homunculus guardian of faded first
editions and impossibly obscure pamphlets, several of which on the industrial
architecture of tin mining, or by slim volume poets, I was sure to purchase), –
it really had closed, ‘long gone’, said the denizen of an interior design
emporium nearby; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">to assorted charity shops at the top
of the hill for further scavenging (2 beautiful LPs – Mercury Living Presence,
but suspiciously light; inside it’s Peters and Lee and Your Hundred Best Tunes,
not Dorati’s Minneapolis engraved on heavy vinyl – , a few paperbacks, a hardback of selections
from the Greek Anthology with lovely yet uncredited line drawings), (knees gave
out stooping for art books);<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">to The Woodman to meet composer Steve
Elcock and his wife Anneke; we symphonists (cranking them out in silence until
Martin Anderson took us up) must stick together since renewed pronouncements
over the death of the form erode our stock, fish and chips, humus salad, curry
surprisingly good despite its grey oil slick, trading the symphonies of
Havergal Brian until we agree the 8<sup>th</sup> is the best, what would you do
if you had four bassoons? – no it’s not the opening line of a joke but it
should be, forced outside by bar staff driven mad by gastropub-itis, barking
orders for artichoke compote across the yawning counter, bargaining loudly with
phalanxes of late-arriving prams; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">then on my own to find Gallery 46, Underground
connections, city boys in shiny suits complaining of the latest cock-block in
the fiscal jungle, Whitechapel, temporary exit in Canal Street, blue painted
bridge where a man sleeps almost covered with open umbrellas, parasols of
impermanent lodging; folk have left gifts: some fruit, a sandwich, the contents
of a pencil case – he will record himself in prophetic books hopes the donor; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">then St. Boniface – the German
Mission Church, modern, </span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">Plaskett Marshall & Partners,
with a magnificent bell tower, the old church (not as envisaged by Pugin whose
design was never built) bombed by, well, the Germans – mission accomplished?,
and where my mother sang and my father directed the choir in the masses and
motets of Mozart, Haydn, Bruckner, and sentimental marvels from the lower
leagues: Erb, Nussbaumer, Methsfessel, where I sat aged 7 or so, listening to
the splendid organ, thrill of the reed stops, catching the lengthy sermons in
German, knowing that the English version followed, Father Felix Leusacke’s
musical voice like a planate Schubert Lied, bells and beer, sausages and
sauerkraut, impossible German jokes with words like ‘bembissy’ and ‘bumfuss’
that dissolved all to helpless hilarity;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">and to the relic of East End Jewry: the imposing edifice of the
synagogue; we always passed it on the way home from St. Boniface, Dad always
slowing the car and craning his neck, telling us about the waves of immigration
and long beards, all a mystery to me until I married ‘in’ much much later,
stunned by love, Lithuanian survivals, borscht and gefilte fish in Bloom’s;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">and then sent spiralling into a dance between two hospitals, old and
new: the Royal Londons, one fenced off in all-to-familiar blue hoardings,
computer forecasts of regeneration, civic hub trumpery, disclaimers in tiny
print, the usual buzzwords not recorded here for fear of exhausting the scare
quotes quota; the other a monster of blue patchwork, stamping out the forlorn
terraces below, the hope of the sick and the wonder of walkers;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">and finally, after a brief pause to capture graffiti and wire fencing in
the fading sun, where <i>is</i> that gallery?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhTHGGqcstG_tbtIBH-hQBuH1hSjMpF1ujGKj0z_dOZ115r-_MU8ANAV55v6Zf-Jm0ovMAO735X9q5bw-2sJ2ijtRlfEYM3-QFLpyVmiEKqE2WyD27wQhcwVwW3bckLmJokIRgGA8x0zw/s2048/2017-09-17+16.41.20+glimpse+of+royal+london.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhTHGGqcstG_tbtIBH-hQBuH1hSjMpF1ujGKj0z_dOZ115r-_MU8ANAV55v6Zf-Jm0ovMAO735X9q5bw-2sJ2ijtRlfEYM3-QFLpyVmiEKqE2WyD27wQhcwVwW3bckLmJokIRgGA8x0zw/s640/2017-09-17+16.41.20+glimpse+of+royal+london.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Glimpse of the old Royal London Hospital<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5H4eTRGSmfNmnR1LD-n1AjGJ0iMSHVDXi4X4G6shdhG3bmnmE5b6DvetLu6CxlaSNq2T9_rnD4bBIpKI5kEiwiOYhrhTfaDd1dXX4la5TPbv-WEvK37kazWO-kZt_kb3qGiwF_efLt1Z/s2048/2017-09-17+16.44.53+graffito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5H4eTRGSmfNmnR1LD-n1AjGJ0iMSHVDXi4X4G6shdhG3bmnmE5b6DvetLu6CxlaSNq2T9_rnD4bBIpKI5kEiwiOYhrhTfaDd1dXX4la5TPbv-WEvK37kazWO-kZt_kb3qGiwF_efLt1Z/s640/2017-09-17+16.44.53+graffito.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Nearby graffito</span></i></b><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwpgONhwFzlUyTEPOijeeaMZguDBLBsUkdpfXto2sav1_sDOBZ4AUnGr7XlXbCb057vzKu4Q6PIuzn9RqatYx_LIGOnmTyh6-vOzi7fTdzK_0cPKLu102Q6KEWkWOhCvXbdLPqbZSl-Ln/s2048/rune1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwpgONhwFzlUyTEPOijeeaMZguDBLBsUkdpfXto2sav1_sDOBZ4AUnGr7XlXbCb057vzKu4Q6PIuzn9RqatYx_LIGOnmTyh6-vOzi7fTdzK_0cPKLu102Q6KEWkWOhCvXbdLPqbZSl-Ln/s640/rune1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The previous, treated<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">Notes<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">Gallery 46 can be
found (it really can) at 46 Ashfield Street, London,</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <span style="background: white;">E1 2AJ.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">The Jefferies
quotation is from ‘Wiltshire Labourers’ in <i>The
Toilers of the Fields</i>, 1892.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">On page 170 of Sinclair’s
<i>The Last London</i>, the bookshop I used
to visit in Highgate is mentioned: Fisher and Sperr; I had completely forgotten
the name but Sinclair’s description of it chimes with my memory.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">The Last London</span></i><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"> author’s photo has the new
Royal London Hospital as a backdrop, the very building that had mesmerised me
with its blue squares on my way to the gallery. (Actually it isn’t the Royal
London ‘but ought to be’ – communicated to me by the author)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">I haven’t written
about the work (but hope to) of the other contributors to the exhibition: </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">Effie Paleologou, Barry Burman, John
Bellany, Chris Petit, Brian Catling and Susanna Edwards, </span><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"> all fascinating; I really ought
to find something to say about Catling’s egg tempera paintings which put me in silence,
hence….. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: white;">Words and pictures: ©David Hackbridge Johnson 2017</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p></p>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-12834584855207056212020-05-13T05:41:00.000-07:002020-05-13T05:41:36.444-07:00<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">HIGH-WIRE ACTS AND LETHAL SYNTAX:
Recent Ragged Lion Journals<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By David Hackbridge Johnson ©11.v.2020<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Two Ragged Lions at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The months telescope and April and May arrive
in one envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reading them one after
the other gives a distinct pleasure of continuities – albeit in work that often
emphasises the disjunct, the conflicted, even the liminal hovering over the
abyss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The editor, E.A.D. Sellors has
not burdened the journal with lengthy justifications in the form of an
editorial; neither has he offered biographies of the writers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This saves me the trouble of having to
regurgitate such information as can be found elsewhere – on the web for example
– something I haven’t done yet as I wanted to plunge into the work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some poets are better known to me than not at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence, for this reader, the
freshness of discovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The works
published are all of merit – if I talk about some and not others it is simply
that some pieces struck a few sparks off me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Others are works in progress for me as a reader and require a groping
towards response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both issues (which are
#2 and #3 of the Ragged Lion Journal) contain poems, short stories, prose-poems
and valuable pieces of criticism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">If I take (from RLJ #2) – Scott
Wannberg (an arch re-telling of the Hamlet story), S. A. Griffin (many
image-yokings in a nod to, perhaps, Breton and Ashbery in equal measure), John
Dorsey (two poems of apparently simple nostalgia that belie a fear of imminent
disappearance), A. D. Winans (a superb gangster poem), Neeli Cherlovski (a
tragedy of compressed lives), <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– as a
group exhibiting a quasi-Beat flavour I hope this doesn’t do too much damage to
their individual voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an
admixture of the New York School; something of O’Hara’s ‘Personism’ – a
willingness to let ‘everything’ into the poem even if that is not what we
get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a laconic stance that
appeals by means of demotic syntax; a rolling-barrage of imagery (especially in
Griffin) that gives the impression that the words are searching for the form
they will take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, work that cannot
be second guessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So my assumption is
that these are American writers – but I haven’t found time to check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps they hail from Oxford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or Tooting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Perhaps Erika Krouse fits in this
group too – but I rather see her work as a condensed and fragmented family
saga; a family hampered by generational distance, disappointment – a
miniaturised evocation of dissolution in relationships as we find writ large in
Jayne Ann Phillips’ <i>Machine Dreams</i>, or in John Williams’ <i>Stoner.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Krouse provides not a panoramic view but one
of snapshots – or vignettes, each one sutured to the next by the linkage of
word chains that meld the 14 sections together – a ‘prose sonnet’ form as she
calls it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most moving is the scene where
the mother, whose daughter can't express love to her and vice versa, has had
her luggage ransacked at the airport; we observe her sitting beside the empty
suitcase: ‘She cried, not loud, but thoroughly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing to give.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hollow space
opens up here – one of hopelessness and defeat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Bill Meissner’s short story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Balancing: Karl Wallenda’s Watch</i> is
alarmingly vertiginous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A relationship
is in the balance due to the fact that two lovers can’t tell each other the
things that really matter – and these tender refusals are played out against
the backdrop (I shouldn’t have used ‘drop’) of the death of Karl Wallenda, the
dynastic head of the high-wire act The Flying Wallendas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conclusion unites both fear and
dependency in an image of falling: ‘They balance there together, as if it will
always be this way between them: catching each other, then falling, then
catching each other again.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Derek Adams gives us a résumé of
work by Pascale Petit and Matthew Sweeney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just note that Sweeney has a high-wire poem called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wobble</i> (see the Wallendas, above –
yes, hopefully they always remain above….), and that another of his poems,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reading</i>,
has a man in court explaining why he was reading in his car on the M1, but that
it was poetry and ‘….they’re mostly short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can look up/between them….’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ll chip in here with the thought that the arraigned driver must have
been reading Ed Dorn who wrote poetry at the steering wheel of his car in short
bursts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adams informs us, among much
else, that a poem of Petit’s features a mask of fire ants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This striking image makes me very much want
to read her work, which I do not know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom Bland is in both RLJ #2 and #3,
so he is the link poet if you will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
a young boy gets run over in a poem (not a frequent happening) I immediately
have in mind the image of the road death in Robert Altman’s movie based on
Raymond Carver’s tales and poems, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Short
Cuts</i> – ‘Casey didn’t make it this time….’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In Bland’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The pottery eyes</i>,
the death is not a pointless tragedy but a willed thanatos of
celebrity-inspired suicide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Lana Del
Ray lyric appears emblazoned on a bakery lorry and the obsessed boy hurls
himself under the wheels – his dream fulfilled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a Ballardian gesture – a pedestrianised version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crash</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The leap into metal, glass and plastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An erotics of collision – Del Rey’s creamy baritonal lament as
soundtrack, the roaring vehicle mistaken for her glossy image.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More of a homage to than derivative of
Ballard, the poem treats the incident as, incidental to buying a fridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fridge is nevertheless a ‘work of art’,
made so by its associations with the ultimate creative act – that of creative
expungement by suicide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poem allows
in other fetishized behaviours including necrophilia and incest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the lover in a sexual interlude is
playing dead it seems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A poem both funny
and alarming, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The pottery eyes</i> tells
us much of obsession and realised fantasy, and the pay-off of potential
destruction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">RLJ #3 has such themes of violence,
to others and to self, at its heart – one may say that the central work here is
R. J. Dent’s fine translation of the 2nd Canto from Count de Lautréamont’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Chants de Maldoror</i> – the canto
featuring the appalling ship wreck culminating in the copulation of Maldoror
and a shark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#3 might be subtitled
‘Under the Sign of Lautréamont’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Count, that proto-Decadent, can be felt in the work of Jeremy Reed (who wrote
the splendid <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isidore</i> – his
novelisation of Lautréamont’s life), in the work of Audrey Szasz, and in that
of Lana Durjava, whose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Francis Bacon: A
Corrosive Kind of Love</i>, describes an abusive relationship predicated on
some form of violence in order to release sexual and spiritual energy – the
type of relationship that occurs in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maldoror
</i>in the heightened form of the lurid-baroque.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To find Trakl, Daumal and Stanislas de Guaita
– all expanders of consciousness by any means available, although usually in a
jar, brings further voices to the Maldororian chorus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That de Guaita is mentioned at all (in
Durjava’s other piece) is a sign of what I hope is a resurgence of interest in
this figure, whose works I can boast of having read at least in part, and to whose
flat in Paris I have made pilgrimage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These authors form an occult congeries worthy of Edmond Bailly’s
bookshop in rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin! – (now an Apple Store….).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Bland’s boy suicide feeds a theme
deeply adumbrated in Durjava’s essay <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Self-Destruction
in Art and Life</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are given a list
of the six famous suicides of the Dada/Surrealist groupings and the
intellectual journeys that led them there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also explores the idea of disease as a
gift, illness as the ‘intention in life’ – her quotation from Svevo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was put in mind here of H. P. Lovecraft’s
almost disembodied descriptions of his own decay during terminal illness – the
observing body outside the dying body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Durjava’s approach to such taboos is unflinching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Disembodied violence finds
apocalyptic expression in Paul Curran’s dystopian poem <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Generation Bloodbath</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
world of the ‘we’ is under constant assault by poisoning, torture, firebombing
and dubious therapeutics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sequence of
regimes – ‘old’, ‘neo’, ‘new’ – come and go, each one often strangely absent, their
traces left in weird products that are tools of repression masquerading as
benefit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, they ‘retreated for the
weekend’, they ‘vanished from our screens’ – as if once set in motion the
grinding down of the populace can be managed by remote access.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their acts of repression are trade-marked and
copyrighted: ‘Atrocity®’, ‘Pseudo-Regime™’, ‘SnuffCorpus©’ – as if even murder
is a commodity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any nods to the
Orwellian must be gratefully acknowledged as the message is still pertinent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">To return to Bland – his exhilarating
style already recognisable from just two poems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The mixture of the philosophical and the popular strikes home again; this
time it’s Slavoj Žižek and Kate Winslet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why I Didn’t Fuck Zizek</i> ends
in a drag competition where the poet lets everything hang out – and I mean
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The violence is more comedic
than in Curran but the sketch-like scenes encapsulate thoughts of extreme
violence nevertheless – even if they are things thought and not acted out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The death-drive that overshadows much of
RLJ#3 is still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might mention an
affinity between Tom Bland and the work a young poet Caspar Heinemann where a
similar deeply serious yet very funny aesthetic is on display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ease with which such poetry teases the
notion of the post-modern might be enough to label them ‘post-post-modern’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Theory is not disbarred but left in play at
the mercy of rapier wits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Two poets to end this brief
survey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeremy Reed needs no
introduction to lovers of counterculture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is, among much else, Soho’s poet-laureate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sights, smells, colours, and above all,
the people of the West End are everywhere in Reed’s work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">flâneur</i>
of the old, yet new school – the streets he wanders through, the bars he writes
in are changing every day; he himself changes with the volatility of the
environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But his sensual eye always
prepares a sting for the unwary – like much of the work here, he is unflinching
in his revelations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crack</i> we see a life crushed by addiction
– even the syntax is crushed: ‘I catch one phrase in three’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reed makes this person real and yet he knows
that the life is on a knife edge – ‘until without warning you terminate’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Devil in Red Velvet</i>, Reed glories in the luxurious colours and textures of
Liberty fabrics – a feast of colour words on show like a swatch of vivid
flashes that catch the poet’s eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
an ‘ammonia smell’ instils fear and there is ‘a hammered red’ figure that is
‘dislodged from the dark’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">flâneur</i> has met his malicious Doppelgänger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The glamour-syntax of Reed
can be found in the poems of Audrey Szasz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is the same fascination with dressed and adorned figures – a
specificity by ‘sequins’, ‘lashes’, ‘zippers’, ‘sables’ and ‘minks’ – these
words can be descriptive or used as similes; indeed such is the visual
vividness that it hardly matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Szasz’s work appeared in RLJ #1 and by now, like Bland’s, it is
instantly recognisable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whereas Reed is
often celebratory or elegiac, Szasz plays on more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">grand guignol </i>tropes – there is violence in the colourings and feel
of clothes – as if threat is latent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anger comes through, cutting but not severing the curiously delicate way
in which the verse in structured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
knife is poised, but as in Ballard (again) the prosody is poised too, in a
different way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The knife is finally
wielded in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New Mutations</i> – here a grim
murder which cannot be random since it must be staged: ‘the victim’s
precision-crafted smile’ – the technique in this line is lethal! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br />David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-67211851848295653952016-08-13T05:44:00.002-07:002016-08-13T05:44:36.755-07:00Poetry by Barry Tebb<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
BARRY TEBB<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
THE VOID YOU
LEFT: POEMS FOR BRENDA WILLIAMS<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By David
Hackbridge Johnson <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>(16.vii.2016)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The poet
Brenda Williams died in July 2015 leaving a body of work that often combines
poetry with protest and social action.
She campaigned on many issues, most notably those related to mental
health provision. Poetry was for her a
natural mode of expression that allowed a channelling of sometimes bitter
attacks on the clumsiness of large organisations, by showing the deleterious
effects on individuals in her work. This
she did not in the rambling or the incoherent but in the intense strictures of
the sonnet form. In her large sonnet
cycles such as <i>Lament for the Day
Hospital</i>, the reality of her long protest outside the Royal Free Hospital
in 2000, which included many episodes of harassment and abuse, is given a
poetic reality in the fourteen line structure.
It focuses the anger in this short form but still the poet finds freedom
within its bounds. An even larger
sequence of sonnets, <i>The Pain Clinic</i>,
charts her own troubled psyche and those of her family members in an epic of
over 250 poems that holds the reader in a kind of trance of revelation and
candour, presented in often simple but hypnotic lines; there is a sense of a
mind continually exploring itself, looking for a way out, perhaps. Her poetry is what she gathers together to
make some sense from trauma; as in the opening poem of another sequence, <i>The Poet</i>; she speaks of retrieving the
‘Known and significant, from disarray.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/DHJ%20POEMS/TEBB%20the%20void%20review.odt#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Sixties
Press produced a Collected Poems in 2009 and a Selected Poems, which contains
more recent work, in 2016. As a companion
to these volumes, Sixties Press has just issued <i>The Void You Left:</i> <i>Poems for
Brenda Williams</i>, by her ex-husband and fellow poet Barry Tebb. This small pamphlet collects some older Tebb
pieces with new work written since Williams’ death. It reveals many facets of their relationship;
their family life, the struggles with health and of course the protests, in
which Tebb often played a supporting role.
Finally and most poignantly there are poems about grief, that final
relationship we have with another human being, who can now only answer in
memory and dreams. Tebb is a powerful
poetic voice, one that was silenced for over a decade by work as a carer and
writer on mental health, but which has for some time now been in full flow once
more. Tebb was brought up in Leeds and
studied there, where his student days coincided with the Leeds Poetry
Renaissance; Gregory Fellows such as James Kirkup, Martin Bell, Peter Redgrove
and Thomas Blackburn formed the poetic backdrop and Tebb met many of these
figures and remains engaged with them, particularly the neglected Bell. Geoffrey Hill was a formidable presence in
Tebb’s later student days and Tony Harrison was also active there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tebb
combines nostalgia with candour but in a different way to Williams; whereas the
latter lulls with iambics, Tebb’s lines are more volatile and his structures
open to jumps and digressions. Sometimes
codas of aching beauty will close a poem of coruscating emotions; the best
example is ‘Plea for a Working Class History of Leeds’, one of my favourite
Tebb poems, where after brutal attacks on ancient and egregious families of
Leeds; De Lacy and Gaunt and their vast histories, the poem narrows to the
magic of ordinary lives, chiefly the magic and intimacy of sex. After a lovely stanza on ‘the mysteries of
periods/ and the revelations of working class brides’ Tebb ends the poem with: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
‘I want a history of family outings<o:p></o:p></div>
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To Temple Newsam where I saw an ass<o:p></o:p></div>
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Eating straw from the steel manger<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of Christ.’<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/DHJ%20POEMS/TEBB%20the%20void%20review.odt#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> <o:p></o:p></div>
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Only in this
last stanza does Tebb bring in his own intimate memory of Leeds, which is at
last found to be sacred, albeit in a steel manger; the Christ-child softening
the steel of Tebb’s opening onslaught.
These changes of register are common in Tebb’s work; they work like jump
modulations in music where no pivot chord sets up the new key; the music just
jumps. I am thinking particularly of
Schubert who slips to the submediant with a slight of hand. Tebb has achieved this in poetry and it
constitutes an important aspect of his success.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
‘Cut
Flowers’, the opening poem in <i>The Void
You Left</i>, shows many such jumps. It
follows a swift but packed narrative of the more than fifty years of their
relationship; what could be a more telling way of suggesting the swiftness of
passing time than: ‘Decades of war with truces and battles neither/ Won nor
lost, now you are sixty-six with cancer/ And a future measured in
months.’? Life is collapsing ‘like a
bridge of planks.’ Typically without
saying as such Tebb brings us into the present with the final couplet; we are
given a glimpse of what the poet is doing as he thinks the poem out for us:<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘My foxes howl in the alley and at
the stall<o:p></o:p></div>
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The girl cuts flowers and words are
stones.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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With this
final jump to a previously unheard key, the poem ends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Cut
Flowers’ was written 5 months before Williams died. Many of the poems in <i>The Void You Left</i> have appeared in various volumes of poetry
published over the last 15 years. ‘Song
for a Mayday Morning’ switches from the briefest of sketches about Williams’
troubled parents to her protests and finally to a lament for forgotten poets
and their ‘soaring sonatas which remain unread’ and here Tebb can’t resist a
stab at the ‘poetry establishment’ – often a target for scathing attacks in his
work. Such intensity, whether in the
service of love or hate is typical of Tebb and it leads to so many surprises,
not least the jolts of register already mentioned. From raw exposure that perhaps stems from Robert
Lowell, a favourite poet of both Tebb and Williams, in the same poem a lyricism
will emerge which is in itself shocking in context. He combines both protest and lyric in ‘To
Brenda Williams on her Fiftieth Birthday’; one of Williams’ long protests, this
time at Oxford, allows the poet to see her as becoming Oxford as the weeks of
silent dissent accrue. She becomes
‘Magdalen’s grey gargoyles’ and ‘the cement buttresses of Wellington Square’
and finally ‘Balliol, Balliol in the rain’ which acts as a gentle refrain for
the poetic conceit. The quiet voice of
protest is in contrast to the lambasting that stalks other poems about
Williams’ campaigns; the most potent of which is the long poem ‘Guntrip’s
Ghost’, co-authored by Tebb and Williams where in a dizzying array of verse
forms the whole flavour of official obfuscation is evoked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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‘The Road to
Haworth Moor’ is a long poem that has appeared in earlier Tebb volumes; it is
always powerful and I can see why Tebb wishes to reproduce it again since it is
his most important meditation on his life with Williams. He is frank about the difficulties they
encountered in their marriage (Lowell perhaps again in the background) yet he
writes about their life together as inevitable if baffling:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
‘A double helix on the heels of both
that made my south<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Your north and jerked the compass
till we knew<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Not day from night nor wrong from
right.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The poem,
which runs in long lines and varied rhythms, seems obsessed with place, or
rather the instability of place. The
many moves of house and town are charted through the poems course; hints of
restlessness and a desire to try to come to terms with what appears to be a
relationship doomed from the start: ‘We
were wrong from the beginning, you always said,’. We hear of Philip Hobsbaum’s view: ‘It was
the place’s fault’ as if somehow the problems could be shifted to
locality. Parenthood is again explored
in unforgettable lines about Williams’ father:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Cyril Williams,
gravedigger at Killingbeck, buried among<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
The graves his own
hands dug, lay beside your mother.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There are
lines as grainy with truth as can be found in the poetry of W.S. Graham, a
truth born of struggle, not only with poverty but with a sense of deep regret
that the working class life that both Tebb and Williams knew was disintegrating
within their time; the homely intimacy of back-to-back nostalgia being swept
away for the sake of ‘machines for living’.
In work such as Tebb’s this decline is documented in personal poems as
well as in more polemical attacks along the lines of ‘Plea for a Working Class
History of Leeds’. ‘The Road to Haworth
Moor’ has a coda and typically for Tebb there is a jump modulation; Tebb is
alone and visiting the Bronte museum.
The experience is desultory and he feels divorced from the surroundings
– clearly a main theme of the poem. The
poet’s thoughts cannot find a solution to the difficulties laid out in the
previous sections of the poem and within the context of a plea for a renewal of
desire, he drifts into an ethereal description of girls on the way to a night
club:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
‘One wore a veil tacked round with
sequins<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like scruples on the hem: there is
no beauty like that girl’s<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whose naked feet touched heaven in
their swirls.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Again, a
change of key with no attempt to return to the tonic if we can imagine a poem
in musical terms, and I think we should.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A number of
poems are set in hospital waiting rooms or wards. ‘Cancer Clinic’ once more shows us Tebb
musing in a number of images; the prints on a waiting room wall, memories of
protest, and a sense of time being frozen as the patient waits to be
called. It reveals the curious way the
mind fixes on things when in a state of stress and fear, one which I can attest
to as a frequent gazer on waiting room prints.
Tebb’s attempt to engage the art historian on the painter of a print (is
it Claude or Poussin?) is met with the same frozen stare that in the ends comes
to the poet and the patient. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
‘Intensive
Care’ is almost unbearable in the immediacy of its concerns: the cannulas and
drips, the drugs and pain; yet Tebb can make poetry out of the heartfelt
simplicity of ‘Are my cats alive?’ and suddenly you know these utterances are
precious for being so near the end. I
have not read a poem that attempts this with such honesty and lack of artfulness,
it speaks from the heart and goes to the heart as Beethoven would wish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Towards the
end of the book a small cluster of short lyric poems lies; these were written
in the months after Brenda Williams’ death.
They feel like dreams; they are sad but peaceful, as if when the
protests and the pain are over a core relationship remains in grief. We see Williams in a Russian dacha, on the
steps in the market place; Tebb is always waiting for her in dreams. ‘Save Our NHS’ begins with: ‘I see each day
come riderless/ Over the horizon’ – and since the days are riderless,
directionless, Tebb once more gives a tiny poetic resume of Williams’ life as a
mother, wife, protester, as if like Williams herself, Tebb must re-run the
events from which there seems no escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The last
word is left to Brenda Williams; her last poem written just 12 days before her
death ends the book. In two complex
sentences and in her beloved sonnet form, she ponders her existence and the
strains of memory still invading thought as death approaches. Her determination to express even at this
late stage is remarkable: ‘always the poem, always the unheard’. In compiling this book of poems Barry Tebb
has given voice to the unheard that emerges into poetry, so that despite
Williams leaving ‘with nothing this world understands’ there is a chance to
connect with words and memory. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div>
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<div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/DHJ%20POEMS/TEBB%20the%20void%20review.odt#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Brenda Williams, Selected Poems, Sixties Press, Sutton, 2016, p.278.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/David/Desktop/DHJ%20POEMS/TEBB%20the%20void%20review.odt#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Barry Tebb, The Nostalgia Bus, Sixties Press, Sutton, 2007, p.66.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-75900054244385223722015-01-13T10:18:00.001-08:002020-12-29T03:10:37.583-08:00DON REDMAN<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Below is a short essay that touches on some performance aspects relating to Don Redman's work. My thoughts arose out of my study of Redman and resulted in me writing a jazz suite.</span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">David
Hackbridge Johnson </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Suite:
Hommage à Don Redman </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Opus
196 </span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>McKinney’s
Stomp </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Piedmont, WV </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Henderson's
Chant </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Memories of the Greystone </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Blues for Don </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More Plain Dirt</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Introductory
Essay and Performance Directions</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Who was Don Redman? It is amazing how
even many professional musicians I meet have not heard of this important
musician.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was born in 1900 and died
in 1964.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is perhaps the first great
arranger for medium sized and big bands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He first came to prominence in Fletcher Henderson's Orchestra where he
was able to write tightly structured arrangements that nevertheless allowed
room for hot solos by the likes of Louis Armstrong and Coleman Hawkins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he left Henderson in 1927 it was to become musical
director and alto saxophonist with McKinney’s
Cotton Pickers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1931 he formed his
own band which featured some of his more modernistic compositions like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chant of the Weed </i>(1931), a work that
contains pre-echoes of Sun Ra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept
his band going for a decade before becoming freelance, working with Count
Basie, Jimmy Dorsey and Pearl Bailey among others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Redman's main instrument was the alto
saxophone although as a child prodigy he could play most instruments by the age
of 12!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His playing bears comparison with
other great, early alto players like Benny Carter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact it is possible that Carter was
influenced by Redman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However it is perhaps
as an arranger that Redman is better known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His scores abound with wonderful orchestrations and sumptuous harmonies
and voicings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like all the best
composers he often confounds the expectations of the listener by doing
something surprising or even disturbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is probably true to say that the Ellington and Lunceford orchestras
owe much to the example of Redman's work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My suite pays homage to a great jazz
master.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not used any of Redman's
compositions but I have written the music in the spirit of his bands from the
1920s and 1930s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The movement titles
refer to aspects of Redman's career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McKinney's Stomp </i>refers to William
McKinney, the founder of McKinney's
Cotton Pickers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piedmont</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, WV</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>is the small town in West Virginia where Redman was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henderson's
Chant </i>refers to Fletcher Henderson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Memories of the Greystone </i>makes
reference to the Greystone Ballroom in Detroit
where the Cotton Pickers held a residency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blues for Don </i>requires no
explication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More Plain Dirt </i>refers to the C. Standon composition <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plain Dirt </i>that Redman arranged for an
exhilarating Cotton Pickers recording of 1929.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The suite is scored for 2 alto
saxophones, tenor saxophone, 2 trumpets, trombone, tuba, drums, banjo and piano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This unit is somewhat smaller than the
standard big band of the 1930s and 40s but was a common size for the 1920s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No amplification of any sort should be used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amplification distorts the sound of the
instruments and everyone ends up playing fortissimo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loud bands like this don't swing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The musicians themselves must balance the
music using their natural musical sensitivity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The drummer must be particularly careful not to drown out other
instruments in these circumstances, using wire brushes if necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tuba is an essential instrument in these
arrangements as it was commonly used in big bands of the 1920s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The use of the electric bass is completely
forbidden and constitutes a breach of copyright! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The saxophone section should adopt the
tonal characteristics and playing style of a 1920s big band.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If possible vintage instruments should be
used since many modern saxophones produce a piercing, nasal tone completely at
odds with the style of this music (or any music for that matter!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The section should try a fast quivering
vibrato on sustained notes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ascending
scoops may be used towards notes at the peak of phrases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A close study of the saxophone section work
in records by McKinney's
Cotton Pickers or Don Redman's own orchestra can facilitate the required style
for this suite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have included written
out solos for both alto and tenor saxophones although musicians are welcome to
make up their own, indeed this is preferable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I would recommend listening to the solos of Redman and the tenor
saxophonist and clarinetist Prince Robinson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Redman produces a beautiful, clear and open tone on the alto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is certainly a hot soloist but never
produces an ugly sound on his instrument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of his best solos is on the recording of Ellington’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sophisticated Lady</i> that Redman made with
his own orchestra in 1932.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robinson is a
neglected figure but his solos show him to be a worthy rival to Coleman Hawkins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed Robinson may have been influenced by
Hawkins' earlier work with the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Trumpeters used by Redman include John Nesbitt
and Langston Curl in McKinney's Cotton Pickers and Henry 'Red' Allen, Rex
Stewart and Sidney de Paris in his own orchestra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their solo styles are worth listening to for
trumpeters who wish to make their own solos in my suite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stewart’s playing is well known from his work
with Ellington.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He takes a fiery, muted solo
with Redman’s orchestra in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rocky Road</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (</i>1931).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of the most outstanding trombonists during this period was Claude
Jones; listen to his</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">marvellous</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> work on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plain Dirt</i> (1929) or the irrepressible
bounce of his solo on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Milenberg Joys</i>
(1929).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He blended great agility with
elements of the tailgate style and his playing should be better-known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above all he embraced the characteristics of
the instrument rather than trying to make it sound like a different one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Finally, great care and attention must
be given to the rhythm section. Other writers have been somewhat dismissive of
the two in a bar rhythm sections of this period, seeing them as somehow
transitional towards the emergence of the walking bass lines of the swing
era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This notion is mistaken in my
view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feel provided by these rhythm
sections in uniquely pointed and springy and traces its ancestry back to the
marching bands of New Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a therefore a style in itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The much scoffed at banjo is actually a
crucial part of rhythm sections during this period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dave Wilborn's playing with McKinney's Cotton Pickers is bouncy and quite
aggressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the relative size of
the band his playing is picked up quite well in the early recordings and his
presence can be felt throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pianists
used by Redman included Todd Rhodes, Fats Waller, Horace Henderson and Don
Kirkpatrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is vital that pianists
do not adopt the comping style used in modern jazz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They should provide a bass line in
conjunction with the tuba and use offbeat chords with the right hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In soloing an awareness of stride techniques
is desirable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Listen to Rhodes' solo on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will
You, Won't You, Be My Babe? </i>(1929) for an example of stride playing that
perhaps doesn't require the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ne plus ultra
</i>technique of Waller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Redman's early
groups often used either Billy Taylor or Ralph Escudero on tuba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Redman had played with Escudero during his
years with Fletcher Henderson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a
mistake to imagine the tuba as a lumbering, heavy instrument; it is possible to
play it with lightness and agility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vaughan
Williams' <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Concerto</i> and the brilliant
modern jazz playing of Bob Stewart are good examples of the instrument's versatility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Redman's tuba players really swing when
playing a basic two pulses per bar in common time and when the instrument is
used for sustained notes it provides a</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">marvellously</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
rich bass to the ensemble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With regard
to drumming, we are so used to the modern style of playing it is difficult to
find players who are adept at New
Orleans and swing drumming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This problem is made more difficult by the
fact that the work of drummers is often obscure in recordings from the 1920s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However the excellent work of Cuba Austin is
quite discernible in the McKinney's
Cotton Pickers recordings of the late Twenties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Drummers should pay particular attention to the fact that he does not
drop bombs with his bass drum and he doesn't play a swing pattern on a ride
cymbal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There doesn’t appear to be a
hi-hat on off beats either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His basic
rhythmic pattern often consists of press rolls on offbeats with occasional use
of the cymbals for accents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His use of
this technique in a slow tempo can be most clearly heard after the vocal chorus
on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gee! Baby, Ain’t I Good to You</i>
(1929).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The band really sounds
astonishing at this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
aforementioned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will You, Won't You, Be My
Babe? </i>(1929), Austin’s
choppy snare patterns are very audible and his preternaturally tight choke
cymbal work on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Milenberg Joys</i> (1929)
is superb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally Austin plays wood blocks or cowbells and
their use is to be encouraged provided it doesn't become a gimmick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I have made these copious remarks not to
stifle creativity but to encourage players to find new things in the recreation
of some nearly forgotten styles and techniques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am particularly interested in stimulating group performance of this
style of music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early jazz was always
such a collective experience; a metaphor for communal living, at once an
uplifting art but also one that in the case of black musicians meditated on the
sufferings of a people under oppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If modern jazz has now focused on the star performer as soloist that is
because the purpose and role of jazz has now shifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My view is that a re-acquaintance with
ensemble jazz of the 1920s can invigorate musicians of any stylistic
persuasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the very least, if my
suite can stimulate discourse between musicians and jazz lovers, I shall count
it a success.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">©</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">David Hackbridge Johnson, 2006</span></div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-37007723678723469252014-09-14T05:01:00.002-07:002014-09-14T05:01:36.907-07:00More Symphonies <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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This year I have completed one symphony and started
another. The 12th is in 4 movements and uses some unusual instruments
from South America and the Far East. The work developed from a short
fragment for alto flute, viola and harp. From this small acorn a large
tree grew! The 11th is actually the one that is still being
written. Like my 10th Symphony it is one movement but of a completely
different character. Whereas No.10 developed weighty dramatic material in
a quite strict way, No.11 throws caution to the wind. It might be a
musical portrait of Dante's 'Inferno'. At the moment it has the subtitle
'Tragic Overture'. I have used a larger orchestra than usual for this
work, with a particularly big wind section. Four bassoons may seem extravagant
but I want that eerie sound you can get from them that some French composers
have found in the past - I'm thinking of Berlioz right now. I am also
thinking of my 13th Symphony - I have the first half of it in my head.
The sonority is dominated by strings and harps. Interlocking harmonies on
three harps are oscillating while violas lament. Despite all this stuff
going around I still have a 'Gryphius Sinfonie' in my head, but that has been
there for 20 years and never written down.</div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-5102044650967837492013-11-19T03:30:00.002-08:002013-11-19T03:30:50.748-08:00Some new videos....Last month I made some videos called Soliloquies. There is one for violin, one for sona and gong and a third one for clarinet. The sona is a rural Chinese oboe type instrument. I love its raucous and unstable tone. I have used it a lot in my H.P. Lovecraft and Klingon inspired works. Someone has nicknamed the Clarinet soliloquy 'Insult to Benny' but actually it was supposed to be a homage to the late David S. Ware.<br />
<br />
Try these links - they might work!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1713555000">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf0FgJ9SiAw&feature=share&list=UUu28tMmob45gvNIjPm6uCcg</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1713555000"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1713555000">http://youtu.be/UEKn6cRbon0</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1713555000"><br /></a>
<a href="http://youtu.be/MdHrR5Do5Pc">http://youtu.be/MdHrR5Do5Pc</a><br />
<br />
If they don't a search for 'Dave Hackbridge Johnson' in you tube should bring up some stuff!<br />
<br />
<br />David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-19954190628802741492013-06-18T10:36:00.001-07:002013-06-18T10:36:43.103-07:00Symphony No. 10 finished and Symphony No. 11 started....My 10th Symphony is in one movement which contains within it the 4 movements of a traditional symphony. The main tonal focus is F minor with subsequent sections hinging on the tertiary relationships around F. The first movement is rather heavy and tragic in tone and is followed by a funeral march. Not much of a laugh so far. A fleeting scherzo provides some relief before an epilogue recapitulates some of the opening material in a different form. None of the above will give you a clue about how the music actually sounds; such is the nature of writing about music. The music will only live in performance and perhaps one day this tough nugget of a symphony will get a hearing. Until that time it seems an 11th has been started....<br />
<br />
The Klingon opera is on the way to completion and I have realised some more music featuring the Ghost-Piano - a new piece called Shamanic Incantation No. 5. This features a piano being distressed by tuning wrenches in real time with the results being layered into a multi-piano work. After 7 minutes the portals of inner-consciousness will open. If you are lucky!David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-73094509292556513112013-03-28T13:22:00.002-07:002013-03-28T13:22:58.826-07:00Frank Merrick<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Frank Merrick
Archive at Bristol
University </span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">An Introduction by
David Hackbridge Johnson</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A chance purchase of 2
LPs led to my visiting the Special Collection department at Bristol University
Library to view a new deposit of scores, letters and memorabilia relating to
this Clifton
born composer/pianist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought the LPs
on the strength of my having heard Merrick
mentioned by two composer/pianist friends: Michael Garrett and Ronald
Stevenson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Garratt had been a Merrick student in the early 1960s whilst Stevenson got
to know him in the early 1970s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon
seeing the two LPs I eagerly seized upon the chance to listen to Merrick’s music for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two piano concertos are on the LPs as is the
slow movement of a piano sonata.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After being so impressed
by the music I found what few biographical details exist on Merrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was born in Clifton in 1886.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He studied with Leschetitsky and taught in Manchester and later at
the Royal College of Music<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During World
War One he was imprisoned for his beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He later had a distinguished teaching and performing career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He won a competition to complete Schubert’s
Unfinished Symphony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His book
‘Practising the Piano’ was published in 1960.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He died in 1981.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After making contact
with Stephen Banfield and Hannah
Lowery at Bristol,
I made a visit to the archive on 20<sup>th</sup> October 2008.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What follows is a brief outline of what the
archive contains thus providing an overview that should lead to further
research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at many Merrick compositions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The music has already been sorted to a certain extent, but Merrick presents problems for the scholar in that he does
not provide opus numbers and at most only half of the works at Bristol are dated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A chronological worklist is therefore someway
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was obviously keen to find scores
of the piano concertos and the piano sonata; the works on the Merrick LPs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are not at Bristol (the piano sonata at Bristol is clearly a work other than that
which Merrick recorded) so more searching will
have to be done to locate these and perhaps other works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tantalisingly there is a 2 piano version of 3
movements of a Symphony in D minor, but the full score is not in the
archive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Despite these missing
works there are many riches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I examined
over 20 songs set to Esperanto texts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merrick was a keen student of this synthetic
language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many songs for voice
and piano as well as several for ‘a cappella’ choir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the latter were clearly written for
Esperanto events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the most
significant Esperanto work is the cycle ‘La Kvar Sezonoj’ (The Four
Seasons).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That Merrick
thought highly of it himself is hinted at by the fact that he made 3 versions
of the work: for voice and orchestra; voice, clarinet, piano and strings; and
voice and piano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All 3 versions are in
the archive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chamber groups may one
day relish the challenge of playing 2 important scores by Merrick:
Piano Quartet in G minor and Piano Trio in F# minor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The latter work is represented in the archive
by 2 exquisitely written copies – the days of photocopying were some years off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a number of scores these copies have the
composer’s address on the front enabling a picture to emerge about the his
movements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This information might prove
useful in dating undated works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many
other chamber works exist including an important sounding Sonata for Cello and
Piano.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In addition to the
music (of which the above is but a taste) there are a large amount of concert
programmes, photographs and hundreds of letters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found many striking photos of the composer
including some fine studio portraits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
concert programmes show the breadth of his repertoire; many concerts seem to be
modelled on Anton Rubinstein’s historical concerts of the late 1800s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Works by the Tudor keyboard masters lead to a
classical group, followed by Chopin or Liszt, then Debussy, Bax or Ireland to
represent the modern school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of the
letters only a cursory glance could be made in the time I had, but by chance I
came across a letter in German from Glazunov to Merrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is also a large amount of material
relating to Merrick’s first wife, fellow composer Hope Squire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her charming Edwardian ballads are here and,
most intriguingly, an atonal pastiche that Merrick
describes in a marginalia as being Schoenbergian.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The most startling find
of all however relates to Merrick’s First
World War experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an unassuming
little box I found a whole series of letters, trial transcripts and documents
that reveal the saga of Merrick’s military
life in detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From these it can be
deduced that upon being called up he did not refuse as a conscientious objector
straight away, but when ordered to remove his civilian clothing in order to don
the uniform of the Lancashire Fusiliers, he refused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was subsequently arrested and arraigned
before a military court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This resulted
in court martial and imprisonment at Wormwood Scrubs and Wandsworth
Prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many documents relate to an
appeal process that was pursued on the grounds that Merrick
would not fight on moral grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
appeal was refused and he remained in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hope Squire-Merrick’s letters to the prison authorities include
impassioned protests against the fact that her husband’s wedding ring was
forcibly removed from his finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is also a polite note from the prison chaplain that lists the extent of the
vegetarian diet the prison was able to provide for Merrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point in the drama it is clear that Merrick’s behaviour fell short of the required level that
would allow him to receive letters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However
he was allowed manuscript paper since there is a booklet containing works
written in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition, on the
back of a short sketch in D minor, there is a letter head for the United
Suffragists, Manchester Branch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merrick is listed as Hon. Treasurer for the branch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merrick was
finally released from prison in mid-1919; this would seem to be a date chosen
to coincide with general demobilization.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The archive at Bristol clearly
represents a vital store of material that illuminates Merrick
both professionally and personally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look
forward to more research into this neglected musician. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-84636448588048676412013-03-28T13:08:00.002-07:002013-03-28T13:08:10.721-07:00Denis ApIvor<h2 class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">AN UNSUNG MODERNIST</span></h2>
<h2>
</h2>
<h2 class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">An Introduction to the music
of Denis ApIvor </span></h2>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Recently I met the
composer
Denis ApIvor at his home in Saltdean.
Earlier in the year I had played the violin part in a performance of his
Violin Sonata and so together with my
accompanist on that occasion, Yeu Meng Chan, I drove down to the south
coast in
order that Denis might hear the work as he had been unable to attend the
concert in person. Before we played the
Sonata we were treated to some of the composer’s musical reminiscences
which
stretch back to the 1920’s. He
frequently spoke of people who had meant the most to him throughout his
career
particularly Constant Lambert, Warlock, Edward Clark, (who was
responsible for
putting on the concert that featured the Violin
Sonata’s first performance at the Wigmore Hall in 1947), William Glock
and others. It was quickly clear that the other arts have
played an important part in his life. He
mentioned the importance to himself of Dylan Thomas and Paul Klee. The
fact that he knew many of these artists
personally gave his reminiscences all the more force. A few weeks later
Denis sent me a tape
consisting of extracts of his works.
Although they are in the main old recordings presumably from broadcasts
enough of the music shines through to give an impression of an
individual
composing voice. As I listened, I was
struck by the music’s originality, vitality and it’s often exploratory
nature,
a nature which nevertheless arises from the source of inspiration, which
is
often literary or painterly. Rather than
embark on a survey of his entire output, a task which would require a
book in
itself, I have set down a few brief notes that represent my reactions to
the
wide variety of music on the tape, in the hope that other performers
might be
inspired to programme them in concerts or recording projects. The very
fact that ApIvor has written for a
wide range of different instrumental and vocal groupings should allow
all sorts
of performers to find something to play from his work list.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">1. Clarinet Quintet (2 excerpts) op.
60. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">These short excerpts show the
composer writing in a style influenced in part by the work of Webern.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">2. Harp-Piano Piano-Harp, op.41</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This is clearly a remarkable
work of contemporary keyboard music. The
excerpt presented is in the manner of a moto perpetuo.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">3. Orgelberg, op.50</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Part of an organ work
inspired by Paul Klee. Highly dramatic
chordal writing is much to the fore in the extract. Denis became a practitioner on the organ
during his time at Hereford Cathedral and this is clear from the idiomatic
writing for the instrument. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">4. El Silencio Ondulado, op.51</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This is a wonderful hushed
and shimmering work featuring a solo guitar supported by the extraordinary
sound of flutes, percussion and strings.
The composer has written much for the guitar and these pieces taken
together with those by Reginald Smith Brindle form a major contribution to 20<sup>th</sup>
century guitar writing.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">5. Concertante for Horn and Piano, op.71</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">A slow excerpt of quiet and
richly expressive music. Given the relatively small amount of music for this
combination of instruments it ought to be in every horn players repertoire.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">6. Overtones, op.33</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Here are three pieces from a
cycle of 12 based on paintings by Klee. Twitter Machine is utterly amazing music.
High pitched instruments flit and flutter through space without
pause. It might bare interesting
comparison with Searle’s most ‘advanced’ work; his 4<sup>th</sup> Symphony as well as Maxwell Davies’s take on the same painting from his Five Klee Pictures, the
first version of which dates from the same year as ApIvor’s work, 1962. Sun and
Moon Flowers also present wonderful
textures of sound. Uncomposed Objects in Space brings lower brass to the fore and
features a prominent piano part. If the
whole cycle of 12 pieces is as good as these selections the whole work ought to
be commercially recorded as a matter of great urgency as it could emerge as a
classic of British modernism.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">7. Psycho-Pieces, op.55 for
clarinet and piano</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">A gentle piano part of rolled
chords supports a melancholy clarinet melody.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">8. Crystals, op.39</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This is again very original
in style. The composer finds some
fantastic sonorities with guitar and Hammond
organ featured with extensive percussion.
The excerpt is another moto perpetuo.
I was sometimes put in mind of Boulez’s later orchestrations of his
early piano pieces, Notations,
although ApIvor uses chamber forces as opposed to the large orchestra deployed
by the Frenchman.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">9. Harp-Piano Piano-Harp (2<sup>nd</sup> excerpt)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This features lovely
interplay between piano and harp sounds.
Denis also uses a piano with its action removed so that it is played in
a harp or cimbalom-like manner. The
sounds conjured are almost akin to electronic music which makes it all the more
remarkable that the composer was able to hear and notate these sounds exactly.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">10. Mutations, op.34 for cello
and piano</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Here, lyrical episodes are
followed by fragmented and playful music of a joyful nature.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">11. Cello Concerto, op.64</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I think this is an excerpt of
the slow movement of this powerful work.
Denis played us the first movement during our afternoon visit. The language is less radical than some of the
earlier pieces on the sampler. This
allows the cello to explore a rich vein of lyricism to which the orchestra
responds with a web of beautiful lines and chords. I have yet to hear the finale but on the
strength of the first two movements it would be another candidate for urgent
performance and recording. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">12. Two Songs</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">The first of these is a
dramatic setting of Cancion de Jinete to
words by Lorca. It forms part of a cycle
of songs entitled Six Songs of Garcia
Lorca, op.8a. The translation into
English is the composer’s own, indeed he has translated the complete verse of
Lorca in 7 volumes. There are many
Spanish inflexions in the melody and the piano has figures redolent of flamenco
style. Indeed the cycle was later
arranged for voice and guitar. The
second song, If Thou Wilt Ease Thy Heart
of Love, is from a different cycle of Four
Poems of Thomas Lovell Beddoes, op.24.
This is a very beautiful song with heart-rending melodies and
harmonies. Both these songs are
performed by the wonderful tenor, Wilfred Brown with Wilfred Parry at the piano
in performances that are so sensitive that a company like Symposium might be
persuaded to issue them as part of their archive recordings series.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">14. Ballet; Corporal Jan, op.42</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Two excerpts are played here;
the first is Corporal Jan’s Dream
which is nervous and full of hushed expectation, the second is Appearance of the Triple Goddess</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">15. Act 3 of Yerma, op.28</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This opera was
performed at
Sadlers Wells and later broadcast on the
Third Programme largely due to the efforts of Arthur Bliss and William
Glock,
among others. It sounds very powerful
indeed, with some fine writing for full chorus, taking the part of
revellers, buskers and dancers. There is a feeling of menace and
unbridled
emotion which is channelled into the interplay between the old woman and
Yerma. The old woman’s taunting is chillingly
handled and Yerma is propelled into the hysterical accidental killing of
her
own husband. Her subsequent lament is
very moving. Perhaps the BBC recording
still exists. The opera deserves a new
one in any case, with the full benefits of modern recording that that
would
afford. On the evidence of the 3<sup>rd</sup>
act, this is an important 20<sup>th</sup> century opera. Written as it was in the mid 1950’s, it also
represents a remarkably advanced musical language for British music of it’s
time, which reflects Denis’s cosmopolitan outlook and his rejection of insular
attitudes, attitudes that have no doubt played their part in his music’s
comparative neglect. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">This brief survey of
Denis
ApIvor’s work only scratches the surface of his musical personality. He
has 101 opuses to his credit. Many large scale works still await
performance and recording. Even before
his adoption, in 1960, of serial techniques following his study of
Webern’s
music, Denis clearly possessed a radical idiom and a determination to
explore
new sounds and this is borne out by earlier works such as Yerma and by
the somewhat Bartokian Violin Sonata which myself and Yeu Meng so
enjoyed performing. He regards his assimilation of serial
technique as a sort of ‘graduation’ and it was simply baffling to him
that
music written in this way could be rejected out of hand by critics as if
it
were a matter of dogma alone. Much of
the most recent music does not use the serial method. What shines
through any technical considerations
however, is the extraordinary ear the composer possesses, as shown by
works
such as Overtones. Whereas there were aspects of the musical
establishment during the middle decades of the last century that were
distrustful of foreign influence, especially if it smacked of modernism,
(for
example; the suggestion that Britten should not study with Alban Berg
despite
the encouragement of Frank Bridge), Denis sought to embrace these
influences
and assimilate them into a new and original style of his own. In this
he shares qualities with other
British composers like Smith Brindle, Searle, Gerhard and Lutyens. It
is commonly suggested that the generation
born in the 1930’s, and including such composers as Maxwell Davies and
Birtwistle, was the first to make a rapprochement with modernism in
music. Searle, ApIvor and others could all too
carelessly be dismissed as ‘transitional figures’, a notion which I
think
mistaken. What composer ever thinks to
him or herself, ‘I am a transitional figure’?
Hindsight can sometimes distort our historical perspective. That a
genuine current of modernist figures
existed before the 1960’s is borne out by Denis’s music and those of
similar
mind. Indeed the current goes further
back than one might assume. The late
works of Bridge or the early works of Bush and Darnton are a cases in
point, as
are the songs of Van Dieren and Warlock
– significantly two of Denis’s favourite composers. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">As far as I am aware there
are no commercially available recordings of Denis’s music, a situation which
should surly be remedied. He is
unfortunate in that the perception of current received thought places him ‘in
between’ the Tippett/Britten generation and the Maxwell Davies/Birtwistle
generation. If ApIvor is allowed to fall
through this imaginary gap, we as performers and listeners might condemn
ourselves as having been too lazy to explore his music, whose fascinating
sounds await us if we take the trouble.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"> David
Hackbridge Johnson 2004</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><i>
</i></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-83947031148751987112013-03-28T13:04:00.002-07:002013-03-28T13:04:54.268-07:00Bill Hopkins<h1>
Bill Hopkins: Complete Piano Music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Col Legno WWE 1CD 20042</h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nicolas Hodges,
piano.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopkins was born in
Prestbury, Cheshire in 1943 and died suddenly in 1981 aged only 37.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather than ponder ‘might-have-beens’ it is
perhaps more pressing to explore the reality of his small output, a task made
all the more easy by this release which includes Hopkins’s first acknowledged
work, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sous-structures</i> (1965) and the
large scale <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Etudes en série</i>
(1965-72).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a pendant, so to speak,
two pieces from an earlier version of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Etudes
en série </i>are included under the title <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebauches</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopkins is not new to the CD catalogue,
several chamber works of great refinement and beauty having been recorded on
NMC together with works by Anthony Gilbert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The young Hopkins benefited from an extraordinary list of teachers;
Nono, Wellesz, Rubbra, Messiaen and Barraqué.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On a superficial level his own music might seem to show the influence
mainly of his French teachers and perhaps reflect the pianistic voice of
Boulez, yet Hopkins has his own style that can be characterised by an extreme
lyricism and a fondness for the repetition or evolution of cells and
pitches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is a meditative
quality to these pieces at times, it is never one that results in stasis; there
is momentum even in the gentlest of his utterances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is achieved by a wonderfully subtle
approach to rhythm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopkins rhythmic
fluidity propels his music and helps him create, when required,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>large structural paragraphs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first work on
the CD is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sous-structures, </i>which the
composer dedicated to Rubbra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This work
falls into 5 movements or substructures whose moods are highly contrasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dark, rough opening piece gives way to
the puckish flurries of the 2<sup>nd</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suspended rolled chords characterise the opening of the 3<sup>rd</sup>
piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An eel-like monody follows before
a lovely set of chords concludes it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
4<sup>th</sup> piece is full of expressive gestures and flourishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last piece is violent and in some ways a
counterpart to the opening movement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Etudes en série </i>consist of 9 pieces in
three books in the grouping 4, 2 and 3. The first of them presents melodies
vying with each other before a short explosive climax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second is noble and serious in tone
initially but soon becomes more fragmented and peppered with suggestive little
fanfares whose action on the music, while more playful in tone, is not
dissimilar to those rhythmic fragments of almost military threat that often
pervade the music of Humphrey Searle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Etude three is volatile in nature and sustains it’s argument through
rhythmic momentum and contrast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At about
4 minutes in, there is an extraordinary passage of chiming repeated notes and
chords whose spell is only broken by a short fast coda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No. 4 begins with suspended webs of harmonies
and melodies ranging over the whole keyboard, in a mood of tremulous
ecstasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later the music becomes full of
trills and arabesques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two big etudes
follow; nos. 5 and 6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The broad sweeping
lines of no. 5 are followed by the slightly gentler no. 6 in which trills make
a further appearance, at times evoking a world not so far from Scriabin’s 10<sup>th</sup>
Piano Sonata.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both composers seem expert
at exploring the potential of resonance inherent in the piano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopkins even at times comes close to the
Russian’s characteristic sense of harmonic obsession without of course using
the Mystic chord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Etude no. 7 is a
gentle, heart-rending miniature and uses the higher register of the piano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No. 8 is the largest of the set at some 13
minutes and is highly dramatic, full of knotted melodies and thrusting inner
parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, there are little havens of
calm sounds amid the activity. The ending is violent apart from a tiny throw
away fragment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cycle ends with the
rich baritonal melodies of no. 9 that are surrounded by high pitched chimes and
later trills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A brief and resolute
sounding confluence of lines ends the work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Etudes en série </i>is not just
good music, it is surely a classic. In terms of British piano music of recent
years it deserves equal stature with, to name but a few, Stevenson’s
Passacaglia on DSCH, the sonatas of Truscott or the Verdi Transcriptions of
Finnissy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suffice it to say that Hopkins
sounds nothing like any of those masters yet his work gives added evidence to
the wealth of fine music for the piano written within these shores. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebauches </i>are short, gentle and
lyrical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although ultimately not used in
the final form of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Etudes en série</i>
they are nevertheless not rejected chippings, but gems of rare worth; they
perfectly conclude the CD</div>
<div class="comic2">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The limpidity and hypnoticism
of Hopkins’s music are captured by pianism of exquisite tenderness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in loud passages Nicolas Hodges never
forces the tone of the instrument, allowing it to resonate through the natural
richness of the harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not to
say however that the pianist neglects the structure of the music in order to
wallow in it’s purely sonic effects, irresistible though they are; on the
contrary, Hodges controls the music admirably investing it with the essential
sense of forward motion that it demands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The recording seems good and the piano is a
mellow sounding Steinway that only occasionally hints that it might have
benefited from more attention from the tuner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The output of
Hopkins is tantalisingly small and judging by his writings about his own work
he was a composer concerned with the difficulties of creative work almost to
the point of complete denial. His thoughts seem to have been stimulated by his
reading of Beckett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is even the
suggestion, hinted at by Paul Griffiths in his book ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Music</i>’<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>that the
very possibility of composition had become by the late 70’s a deep
philosophical problem for the composer; his planned opera that was to have
taken place silently inside the head of the single protagonist was a
compositional gambit not likely to have led him out of deep introspection, let
alone to actual audible music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nevertheless the music he did write is beautiful, fascinating and
important and should now become more widely known thanks to this new release. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<i>David
Hackbridge Johnson</i>David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-23995716062259177022013-03-22T11:02:00.001-07:002013-03-22T11:02:02.912-07:00A page from my 9th Symphony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaM2SV7SDlJPEa-omd13kcgQ-Lz7r2cY7TGwBzCdzmsF88fiv23OvKQQdiGMcFMnw_WrjGE2TUspHDoUAmZTf6gh1J2JvbYFssimVvMvmrsrecxe55WgunSqC2rVmQ9Gh4pjnMBviO9CY/s1600/2012-05-16+17.58.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaM2SV7SDlJPEa-omd13kcgQ-Lz7r2cY7TGwBzCdzmsF88fiv23OvKQQdiGMcFMnw_WrjGE2TUspHDoUAmZTf6gh1J2JvbYFssimVvMvmrsrecxe55WgunSqC2rVmQ9Gh4pjnMBviO9CY/s320/2012-05-16+17.58.21.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-90346041129533827682013-03-22T10:53:00.001-07:002013-03-22T10:54:29.708-07:00My Recent Compositions<br />
<br />
Over the last year I have been working, amongst other things, on two orchestral compositions: Symphony No.9 and Piano Concerto No.2. The symphony was finished last autumn and is in 3 movements lasting about 46 minutes. It has a tonal centre around C# minor and has two driving outer movements with a theme and variations in between. There is no programme to the music and I haven't decided who to dedicate it to yet. It certainly packs a punch and uses a large orchestra with triple winds and an additional trumpet.<br />
The piano concerto is still in progress - I hope to finish before this summer (2013). It is quite unusual in that the small orchestra dispenses with the normal woodwind section in favour of a quintet of recorders. They are placed in front of the piano soloist so as to help with balance. 2 horns, harp, tuned percussion and strings make up the rest of the orchestra. The instruments allow for some very strange colours and interactions. The piano part is quite transparent and light in texture, in complete contrast to the Mephisto Concerto (Piano Concerto No.1).<br />
<br />
What else? Well I have composed the first 10 numbers in The Tooting Choirbook. The pieces are all motets for a capella choir, choir and organ or choir and trombones. So far the languages set are Latin and English, although I have a setting in my head of the Lord's Prayer in Gothic; this being for the Arian Congregation of South Tooting.<br />
<br />
Language fascinates me generally, so much so that an article in the online Gramaphone magazine by James McCarthy has goaded me into writing an opera in Klingon. This is now about half finished and is a non-scored work. All the music is performed by myself and mixed together. I am using instruments mainly from China and India but also taking an objet trouvé approach to sounds. So a homemade glass harmonica is there along with modified saucepan lids and a quarter tone music box. The singing parts are all done by myself and I am using some pretty strange methods of vocal production drawn from such influences as throat singing and the Karelan fire chant of India. And yes, it really is in Klingon. I hope trekkies don't baulk at my accent; I am of course using an ancient dialect....<br />
<br />
DHJ - 22.iii.2013 David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-72037400465765606192013-03-16T13:07:00.000-07:002013-03-16T13:08:06.681-07:00A soul-shaking hill-scape<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">By David Hackbridge Johnson – an
extract from the book, ‘Ramble on Music’</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I was about 16 my parents took
us all on the first of several<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>family
holidays to the Black Isle, a remote peninsula to the east of Inverness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I had been in the country before,
this holiday was the first time I really felt the presence of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a feast for the senses that I have never
experienced before; the sky with its changing colours and passing clouds of
different shapes and density, the leaves of trees wet with dew in the mornings,
the smell of wood smoke and burning vegetation, the sound of the cockcrow and
the scurry of hens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not many people live
on the Black Isle; nature has a firm grasp on this unspoilt territory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We used the Black Isle as a base from which
to travel into the mainland of Scotland,
visiting many villages and lochs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rolling, valleys and streams were beautiful and the purple heather and ferns
captivated me .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I well remember the
beautiful fishing town of Ullapool,
where I noticed for the first time in my life the kind of light that only
exists in the presence of the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
seemed to feel an energy pass through me - not something I can be specific
about - but I definitely had a physical sensation in the presence of these
riches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose I could never be
regarded as a nature lover since I have always lived in towns and always will,
yet occasionally I will seek a necessary experience of the solitude and
magnitude of the hills and rivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All these scenes of nature could be
depicted in music, many composers have done so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Certain works of Bridge, Butterworth, Vaughan Williams and Delius
immediately conjure up pictures of the English countryside when I listen to
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often such composers use folksongs
in their works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interest in folk song
was acute in the years surrounding 1900; witness the field-work of Vaughan
Williams, Sharp, Holst, Grainger and Kennedy-Frazer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whenever I hear folksongs I am immediately
transported to the winding lanes of Devon or
the gentle rolling hills of the Borders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Folksong in music can be something
of a contentious issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elizabeth
Lutyens dismissed composers who associate themselves with folksong and
landscape, as members of the 'cowpat school' - one of her most inspired
jokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Composer Hugh Shrapnel, who
studied with Lutyens, remembers vividly how funny she was - lessons were always
peppered with amusing incidents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also
relates the fact that she never listened to what anyone else was saying, and
that her anti-Semitism had all the students squirming.) We might expect such an
attitude from Lutyens; she had signed up to Stravinsky's absurd notion
regarding music's ontological purity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She also no doubt suffered at the hands of the fuddy-duddies whose
blinkered attitude to any composer interested in modernist styles deprived many
of the oxygen of performance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Folksong
is often dismissed after the manner of Lutyens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is considered a limitation when used in concert music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>English composers particularly are</span>
criticised<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> in his way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember having a fascinating debate with
composer Edwin</span> Roxburgh<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
on this subject; he felt that Bartok had been much more resourceful in his use
of folksong than English composers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
not so sure about that - <i>Brigg Fair </i>by Delius is an amazing set of
variations on a folksong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In it are
found many extraordinary things that could be</span> analysed<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> for their purely musical resourcefulness,
rather than for their reference to cows revolving in a field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of the difference in speech
intonation, the folk music used by Bartok will always sound rather exotic to
English ears, yet our own folk music is all too familiar in its lilting rhythms
and old modes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps deep down this
music is so ingrained that we can't invest in it the trappings of
modernism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vaughan Williams wrote many folksong
inspired pieces yet not all of them are pictorial descriptions of the
countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact I would like to
consider three works by Vaughan Williams that to me are quite as shocking as
the music of expressionism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>On
Wenlock Edge</i>, for Tenor and Piano Quintet sets poems by A.E. Housman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Housman is regarded quintessentially as the
poet of the English countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Literary critics such as Germaine Greer consider him a rather bad poet
and certainly very dated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think
Housman has been misunderstood - his themes of betrayal, loss, recollection and
hidden emotions are surely relevant to any age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fact that he set his poems in a half imaginary Shropshire
should not beguile us into thinking that he represents a dated literary
offshoot - a poetic 'cowpat'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all,
the lads are still dying in their hundreds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one who has visited Shropshire can
fail to be moved by the beautiful countryside, yet that is not all there is in
Housman and it is not the only concern of Vaughan Williams either. The music of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On Wenlock</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Edge </i>is utterly ethereal and as expressive as anything in Alban
Berg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The musical language is also extraordinary;
true, he does not favour the dissonant intervals of Bartok or the Second Viennese
School, yet his use of
consonant intervals is often subversive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This free use of consonant intervals reaches its apogee in the <i>Symphony
No. 3, 'Pastoral'</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In giving this
symphony that subtitle, Vaughan Williams has been able to wrong-foot listeners
and musicologists alike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
categorically not a piece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about </i>the
countryside, surely any fool can</span> realise<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is rather his profound reaction to the events surrounding the Great
War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are not recollected in
tranquillity; Vaughan Williams did active service it must be remembered, indeed
he lost many friends in the carnage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
way the supposedly friendly parallel triads bleed into each other in his work
makes it one of the most shocking and moving experiences in music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third piece I would like to talk about is
the <i>Tallis Fantasia</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is such
a familiar work and its warm bath of string tone seems so comfortable, that we
forget the incredible impression this work made and indeed still makes to
people who hear it for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a thoroughly modern piece of music, not a nostalgic backward look
to the golden age of Tudor composers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is a work that had a profound effect on other composers, among them Herbert
Howells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of contemporary composers
surely owe a lot to this work - John Tavener, Harrison Birtwistle, Arvo
Pärt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Both Vaughan Williams and Bartok
wrote folk music of their own invention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The two composers became so steeped in folk music that it affected the
way they wrote their own melodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
composer who best exemplifies the influence of folk music on his own writing is
Percy Grainger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made many folksong
settings but there are also a large number of works where his own melodies
sound like folksongs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also wrote a
masterpiece for ever associated with the landscape of Scotland - <i>Hill-Song
No. 1</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is thought that Grainger's
visit to Scotland
in 1900 was his liberation as an artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His experience of the countryside might have led to a number of
pictorial works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His remarks about <i>Hill-Song
No. 1 </i>reveal something rather different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He wanted to write a 'soul-shaking hill-scape' and in his conversations
with Delius he was at pains to point out that he didn't want to describe the
hills but he wanted to encapsulate 'the nature of the hills themselves'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does this mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find it helpful to consider the writings of
Gerard Manley Hopkins in relation to Grainger's concept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopkins
speaks of the 'inscape' of an object - that is, it's essence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are difficult concepts indeed, and will
have the ontologists tapping their, oh, so neatly folded spectacles against the
spines of their learned tomes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet part
of human experience surely, consists of our attempts to describe the world in
which we find ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We may not
always do this to the satisfaction of the philosophers, yet these attempts may
be worth expressing in any number of ways according to the individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grainger was an idiosyncratic thinker to say
the least, so we can't be surprised if he shuns a lovely Argyllshire-inspired
tone poem and instead, writes a through-composed, organically conceived
structure lasting some 20 minutes, where the 'hills themselves' are
depicted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day, to satisfy the
ontologists, I would like to prove the greatness of <i>Hill-Song No. 1 </i>in
purely musical terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way the music
evolves from bar to bar, spreading vegetally across a large canvas without any
recourse to conventional development or recapitulation, reminds me of Schoenberg's
<i>Erwartung</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Schoenberg's harmonic
language is of course far more radical, yet in terms of compositional
procedure, <i>Erwartung</i> shows a lot in common with Grainger's work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grainger was essaying this type of
composition many years before Schoenberg, yet he has not been given credit for
this and remains a somewhat marginalised figure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What comes forth from both composers is the
emotional force of their responses to natural drama - be it the drama of
Grainger's landscape or of Schoenberg's female protagonist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will have more to say about Grainger later
- he wrote several masterpieces worthy of extended discussion. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I have not visited the Black Isle
for many years and during the time of my holidays I did not know Grainger's <i>Hill-Song
No. 1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Had I done so, I might well
have sung his soul-shaking melodies as I tilted my head to hill and
horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">©David Hackbridge Johnson, 8/2006</span></i></b></div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-55607470221324339032013-03-16T12:58:00.001-07:002013-03-16T14:54:50.268-07:00Symphonists in Suburbia.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">by David Hackbridge Johnson</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">As a composer of six symphonies myself, I am
always interested in discovering new works in the form – a form that shows no
sign of dying out despite the increasing difficulty in obtaining a performance
for new works on a large scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are many fine symphonists currently active in this country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paul Conway’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>articles over recent years have introduced members to many of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among my own favourite currently active
British symphonists are<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lloyd,
Butterworth and ApIvor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of these
works can only be studied by score reading as no recordings are available for
many recent symphonies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More readily
available are recordings of Maxwell Davies’ 8 impressive works in the
genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing a symphony is not something to be
taken lightly – the example of masters like those mentioned above<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is too challenging for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither is it easy to obtain advice or
encouragement from fellow composers since many do not attempt the form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some months ago I was about half way through
my latest symphony when I met by pure chance a fellow composer in a second hand
book shop in Colliers Wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name is
Michael Garrett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I soon discovered that
Michael was about to start his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9th
Symphony</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feared that our new
friendship would be quickly terminated by another post-ninth fatality – luckily
the composer has survived and is already part way through a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">10th Symphony</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael’s music may be unfamiliar to members
of the Society as performances and recordings have been all too rare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In view of this I feel a short biographical
note to be of use before discussing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9<sup>th</sup>
Symphony</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael Garrett was born in 1944 and began
learning the piano and composing at the age of 12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1961 he was awarded a scholarship to
study<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>composition (firstly with Edmund
Rubbra, later with Alfred Nieman) and piano at the Guildhall School of Music
and Drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He later continued piano
studies privately with Leschitizky pupil Frank Merrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The late 1960’s were busy years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael wrote for film and television, most
notably in Ken Russell’s Woman in Love and Savage Messiah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was also musical director of the Lindsey
Kemp Mime Company whose members included David Bowie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jazz has always been a passion for the
composer and in !968 he recorded an album with American jazz stars Bill Coleman
and Art Taylor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His interest in jazz has
run concurrently with that for neglected pianist composers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His studies of Godowsky, Busoni and Medtner
among others have informed his own writing for piano which, while not sounding
like any of the above, shares a preoccupation with a virtuoso technique set to
purely musical ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout the 70’s and 80’s Michael was busy
in the fields of teaching, composing and performing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lived in Edinburgh for some years and was responsible
for staging many concerts of contemporary music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In more recent years he has ceased performing
in order to concentrate on composition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His work list is extensive and includes 9 Symphonies (the 10<sup>th</sup>
in progress), 5 Piano Concertos, 12 Symphonies Concertantes, 6 String Quartets,
several song cycles and dozens of short piano pieces including the 10 volume <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Book of Circe</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the core of his output to date are
the 19 Piano Sonatas which span his whole compositional career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been lucky enough to hear Michael
perform some of these himself and to hear some tapes privately made of
performances given by Richard Deering in the late 90’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael’s dedication to composition is
complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite Michael’s large work list he is
methodical and far from cavalier in his approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each score is meticulously prepared in the
composers broad and clear hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
manuscript score of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9<sup>th</sup>
Symphony</i> from which I recently prepared a computer setting was a model of
clarity – a copyists dream no less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
strict compositional routine is the key to his creativity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Composing is done in the mornings, followed
by long walks or bike rides through the greener areas of SW17.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quizzed Michael on this as someone rather
more used to sitting in the gridlock surrounding the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Colliers Wood Savacentre – he quickly assured
me that green spaces do exist particularly along the hidden banks of the River
Wandle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evenings are spent inking in
fair copies of recently finished works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apart from the large cycles of works in abstract forms, Michael is also
drawn to musical responses to works of literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Authors of the late 1800’s and early 1900’s
hold a fascination for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flecker,
Machen, Yeats and Synge are among his favourites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is drawn to writers who portray a
spiritual world somewhat askance to those fulfilled by establishes
religions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His interest in the music of Ireland and Bax
is also indicative of this tendency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Indeed his richly chromatic harmonic language stabilised by tonal
interventions owes something to the example of the two English masters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather like Malcolm Arnold he has a fondness
for 7<sup>th</sup> chords and jazz inflected rhythm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although he has explored serial techniques
they are often used in a quasi tonal context albeit one that is constantly
shifting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His music is often optimistic
in tone yet is far from easy both for performer and listener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather Michael creates his own world of sound
which draws on an eclectic mix of processes without sacrificing a consistent
style. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael Garrett’s Symphony No. 9 was written
in the summer of 2002.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is scored for
2 Flutes (2<sup>nd</sup> doubling Piccolo), 2 Oboes, 2 Clarinets in Bb, 2
Bassoons (2<sup>nd</sup> doubling Contra Bassoon), 4 Horns, 3 Trumpets in Bb, 2
Tenor Trombones, Bass Trombone, Tuba, Timpani, 3 Percussionists (clashed and
suspended Cymbals, Triangle, Xylophone, Snare Drum, Conga, Tambourine, Bass
Drum, Low Gong and Tubular Bells), Harp, Celeste, Piano and Strings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The symphony is in one compact movement
lasting about 12 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are 6
sections subtitled; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Evocation, Dance
Episode I, Contemplation, Dance Episode II, Dawn and Finale.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The composer has not revealed a specific
programme to the work but has spoken of a general way in which the music
reflects the energy of nature and the elements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dances are ones essentially celebrating nature rather than human
activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Finale which acts as both
a coda and as another Dance Episode takes on an almost brutal character as if
untameable forces are being unleashed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The finale is very heavily scored with a riot of percussion very much to
the fore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of the rest of the work
is lighter in texture and shows the composers skill at marshalling large forces
for quite delicate effects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thematically
the work is particularly rich although themes are rarely treated in a classical
manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recapitulations are replaced by
thematic evolution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melodies are
introduced which share characteristics of previous ones and in turn evolve into
something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This sense of ‘becoming’
gives the music its momentum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also
leads to a feeling of material acting under compression in the manner of
Havergal Brian's symphonies – although the style is far from Brian's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Garrett manages to achieve a sense of
structure that allows the music to breath despite its diffuse surface. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Evocation</i>
is marked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lento misterioso, </i>and is
the longest section of the symphony<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even within this section the composer
traverses a number of moods and colours from the dark oppressive opening with
dissonant bassoons and double basses to the more limpid response of the flute
at letter A.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At letter C a miniature
procession seems to suggest a forgotten Baxian landscape before the music
reaches a powerful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tutti </i>climax at
letter D.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the wake of this, a solo
violin recalls the flute of letter A.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The music gathers momentum to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dance
Episode I</i>, marked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Allegro scherzando</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much imaginative use is made of conga drum,
xylophone and tambourine in this section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The percussion instruments act in dialogue with playful violins and more
aggressive brass interjections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A climax
is abruptly cut off by heavy percussion, not unlike the way Brian ends some of
his paragraphs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Contemplation</i> follows and returns to the opening slow tempo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is the core of the symphony with some
unique ‘glassy’ harmonies achieved by woodwinds spaced widely apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some complex sounds ensue with piano and
tubular bells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dance Episode II</i> is short and gnomic; jagged piano rhythms and
snarling brass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It lead into the slow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dawn</i> section which mirrors some of the
textures of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Contemplation</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The music gathers itself to a pause before
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Finale</i> launches itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here Garrett uses a favourite dotted rhythm
found also in the finale of his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">8<sup>th</sup>
Symphony</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might also be traced to
the similar rhythm heard in Borodin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Polotsvian
Dances</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Finale</i> Garrett makes much use of the whole tone scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last pages are a riot of colour and
energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The above is only the briefest
of guides to the Symphony which of course would benefit from a committed
performance as such it deserves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this compact one movement symphony,
Garrett<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>presents a fertile imaginative
world in a language that is both challenging and accessible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flexibility of the structure reflects his
interest in the natural world; its rhythms, colours and shapes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">By
asking me to typeset his symphony Michael gave me an opportunity to gain
considerable insight into the work which I hope readers will be able to share
by studying his music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The score is
available together with a synthesiser realisation on cassette – please phone
Michael on 0208 543 7734 for details.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
own work as a composer has benefited from my friendship with Michael.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We regularly meet to discuss the progress of
current works and to play each other completed ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His passion for nature has influenced me a
good deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recently dedicated my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">3<sup>rd</sup> Violin Sonata</i> to him and
he wrote a recent piano work called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nexus
Enantiadromia</i> as a wedding present for myself and my wife, Carol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I finished my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">6<sup>th</sup> Symphony</i> Michael was soon round to listen to the
recording and offer encouragement and advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly composing doesn’t seem such an isolated occupation.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
©<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">David Hackbridge Johnson xi.2002</span></i></div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8140735884083396729.post-48361799051444776682013-03-16T12:08:00.000-07:002013-03-16T15:29:09.875-07:00HelloWelcome to the blog of David Hackbridge Johnson - composer, performer and writer on music.<br />
Click on the links to read articles.<br />
<br />
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1. <a href="http://dhackj.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/erik-chisholm-music-for-piano-volume-one_16.html"><u>Erik Chisholm: Music for Piano Volume One </u></a></div>
<u>
</u><br />
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2. <a href="http://dhackj.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/salons-of-steel.html"><u>Salons of Steel</u></a></div>
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</u><br />
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3. <a href="http://dhackj.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/symphonists-in-suburbia.html"><u>Symphonists in Suburbia</u></a></div>
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</u><br />
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4. <a href="http://dhackj.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/a-soul-shaking-hill-scape.html"><u>A Soul-Shaking Hill-Scape</u></a></div>
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</u><br />
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5. <a href="http://dhackj.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/bernard-roberts-celebrity-recital.html"><u>Bernard Roberts: Celebrity Recital</u></a></div>
David Hackbridge Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821653624976180755noreply@blogger.com