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Catching hold of the wrong
end of the sticks
Bardo, Ken Edwards. (64pp, £8.00, Knives, Forks and Spoons
Press)
Lyrical Diagrams, David Greenslade (text), Carolina Vasquez (images).
(112pp, £9.95, Shearsman)
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Both these collections use to
fine effect an ensemble of prose poems and images. As Ken Edwards explains
in the note at the end of Bardo, his book is 'a modern rewrite' of the
Tibetan
Book of the Dead, but with 'the port and old town of Hastings as its
backdrop'. Bardo is a lyrical exploration
of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and also a postmodern subversion of this
very exploration. It can by turns, and in the same moment, be haunting,
meditative and, in a delightful way, downright silly. At the beginning we are
introduced to three persons or voices, who reappear at various stages
throughout the book. The first two have fragmentary dialogues (which reminded
me occasionally of Beckett) while the third is a more haunting and ironic
presence, as in this example from 'The house':
The second person: "That
business about 'your life flashing
before you'. It's about
making sense of it, making a story
before it's too late. But
if you look at it that way it's always
too late. Just as you
realise, Ah, that's what it was...'"
The first person replies
with a few impromptu words. I can't
remember what they were.
The third person smiles,
but says nothing - perhaps sipping
reflectively from a
wineglass.
The seven images, interspersed among the texts, and working implicitly as
section dividers, are all photographs taken by the author. The first five
photographs are given a colour as a title. Sometimes this is the colour that
predominates in the image, for example in the snow in 'white'. At other
times, the colour referred to may be just one of different colours in the
image: for example, the only yellow in 'yellow' is the colour of two
seagulls' beaks. This works well in that it entices the viewer into really
lingering over the individual components of the photograph and the way they
relate to one another. The last two photographs are called 'rainbow' and
'millions of colours'. Neither
of the photographs actually have that much colour at first glance, but
looking again we start to see all the different shades and to notice the way
colours blend almost imperceptibly into one another. For example, in
'rainbow', there is no rainbow, but we really begin to notice the different
kinds of blue in a sea as it gets deeper and stretches towards a sky, in
which, of course, there are more blues to meditate on. The images, like the
text, are a search to see how The Tibetan Book of the Dead (in which, as
Edwards explains, each of the seven days has a colour) might be applicable to
how we live here, now, in a province in England and both tied to, and trapped
by, a more global, technologically-driven world. At the same time, they
reveal the impossibility of this search, thus creating another kind of
investigation altogether. It is
in the end the subversive quality of this investigation, with all its
juxtapositions and surprises, which makes this book such a delight to read.
And here I shall leave the last word with Ken Edwards. From 'Sleepwalk':
Green blood. But I'm
not me, I need to change
trains here. Cold steel. Three
hundred dark things
sniffing around your crotch.
No, I'm not myself, and
this house isn't my house.
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While Ken Edwards takes other
texts as the starting point for his 'own' work, David Greenslade starts from
diagrams, not only to navigate in prose poems the possible meanings of the
diagrams themselves (meanings which fluctuate and shimmer and change their
aspect continually) but also as kind of jumping off point into the unknown,
to see where language will take him as it in some sense abandons the diagrams
before finally returning to them from a new and unexpected angle. It does of
course take a very skilled poet to pull this off. Fortunately, David
Greenslade is such a poet.
Each of the pages in Lyrical Diagrams
contains both a diagram and 'related' prose poem (in a couple of cases, the
prose poem spills over onto a second page). There is something about
Carolina's black-and-white sketches which is both (deliberately) banal and
arresting at the same time. Drawn in a minimalist style, they could sometimes
be a doodle, sometimes a child's two-dimensional portrait, sometimes an
illustration from a technical manual, sometimes an arithmetical table. There
is throughout a subtle surreal quality, and it is this perhaps which when
combined with the very ordinary appearance of the 'diagrams' arrests and
holds our attention. Most interesting of all is the way, David Greenslade
'interprets' the diagrams, to highlight the strangeness and otherness of
ordinary things we would not normally pay any attention to, for example some
asterisks drawn on a very rough sketch of pots and pans to show perhaps where
the light shines when the pots and pans have been washed. He transports us to
the kind of world
inhabited by the Mad Hatter:
The sound of an asterisk
is like tinkling glass, a silver bell
or possibly the higher
notes of a xylophone. These annoying
self-satisfied noises
drive me nuts. I've got nothing against
asterisks but I won't
have them near my pots and pans,
especially the heavy iron
ones. They're fine in other people's
kitchens, even other
people's mouths but when my stuff
glows it sizzles with
gongs and deep boomshankas, not
with tinsel and crystal.
Even a glance over the Table of Contents is enough to intrigue. The prose
poems are arranged in alphabetical order and have such titles as 'Cow at the
Window', 'Customer Response
Voucher', 'The Good Thumb', 'No
Neck' and 'Nose Job'. They are very much an invitation to be ready for 'any
eventuality' and a plea for us not to be browbeaten by 'the usual crew of
This World Steam Engine Realists' which 'opposes these programs'. In the
playfulness of these prose poems, strange and wondrous truths emerge. Yes, we
may - as Greenslade puts it in 'Bundle's Repetition - catch hold of the wrong
end of the stick, but then a story will arrive 'and put our pangs to rights'.
©
Ian Seed, 2012
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