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Modern
Life is Rubbish
Eidolon, Sandeep Parmar (72pp, £.8.95,
Shearsman)
It Looks Like an
Island but Sails Away,
Ralph Hawkins (120pp,
£9.95, Shearsman)
Update, Dennis O'Driscoll (63pp, £9.95, Anvil)
Burn, Andrew Bagoo (70pp, £8.95, Shearsman)
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'Poetry makes
nothing happen' wrote Auden. Good. I'm glad. As far as I concerned, too many
things happen. Whether it's your local council obsessively sending voting
registration forms or Lindsey Lohan falling out of a taxi, there is simply
too much going on, at all hours, and the majority of it is rubbish. Poetry
is an escape from the hullabaloo, it is a chance for calm. As Roberto Bolaño
wrote in 2666 'only
poetry isn't shit'. So, if Auden is to be believed, here are four new titles
that, fortunately, wont lead to anything happening.
In Eidolon Sandeep
Parmar grabs Greek mythology's Helen and chucks her into the chaos of the
present day California. Her reference points are Whitman's Eidolons. H.D.'s Helen in Egypt and Euripides' tragedies Helen and The Trojan Woman. The modern setting allows for
interesting juxtapositions of the ancient world and where we are now; Helen
sits in the audience for a talk show: 'Today's Topic: 'So your husband
sacrificed your only daughter that he might win the war for his brother's
wife''. Helen seems lost in her new world, speaking on the phone, seeing a
psychoanalyst, searching for an existence that has evaporated and been
replaced by the latest iphone.
On the whole Eidolon
is a success, Sandeep Parmar is a very nuanced, highly skilled poet. Her
words are sparse, delicate and heavily H.D. filtered. Lines like 'Light apple
of gold in the
grass
inedible in its beauty' spring straight from the imagist collection of
springs. The arrangement of the poems is visually appealing. However the
narrative of the Helen myth gets lost in its relaying, is the content
autobiographical? Is the story of Helen meant to be this distant?
Nevertheless this is an assured and interesting outing, from a writer
destined to achieve wonderful things.
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Although, as
mentioned above, poetry does not make anything happen, a great deal can
happen within poetry. Ralph Hawkins' It Looks Like an Island but Sails
Away is sprightly and
full of bounce, it moves quickly from scene to scene, whirling with
kaleidoscopic images, constantly inventing and re-inventing itself. The work
is deeply New York School influenced in its petite surrealisms and flights of
fancy. The collection begins with 'Gut' a prose poem about two giants named
Git and Gut, by the time the line 'my mind is a nude on a carousel' is
arrived at, the reader has been dragged full circle in a carnival of the
absurd. However Hawkins' poetry is not just an exercise in fantastic,
free-wheeling oddities, he also has a great eye and ear for the aesthetically
pleasing, lines like:
the peaks are wrapped in
magnolia
where twilight makes the
lovers beautiful
[from 'Happy Whale Fat Smile']
and
a cold wind runs through
the cane grass
acacias bedecked with
white flower buds
[from 'Happy
Whale Fat Smile']
Are heady and evocative enough to make any romantic poet glow green with
envy. It Looks Like an Island But Sails Away is a triumph of linguistic and
imaginative ingenuity from a poet who deserves to have a much wider
readership. If you're thinking of buying some new poetry, buy this book.
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The immensely
gifted Irish poet Dennis O'Driscoll died on Christmas Eve 2012, Update carries the contents of a file of
thirty three poems he had saved on his computer called 'Newest poems', poetry
that he wrote after the completion of his previous collection Dear Life. The blurb of Update admits to it being provisional and
unfinished, and some of the poems do feel slightly undercooked, but Update also includes some excellent poetry,
so fans of O'Driscoll's work will find additional pieces to enjoy. The title
poem in particular is worthy of attention:
What a good listener you
always were
to me, God. I so wish we
had not quarrelled,
gone our separate ways
The re-positioning of God as a former lover or an absent friend makes for a
wryly humorous, touching exercise in the confessions of a lapsed Catholic.
Elsewhere in the collection O'Driscoll seems angry at the cruelty of a God he
is not quite sure if he believes in:
Restore their rightful
memories to Alzheimer patients,
steady the trembling
Parkinson's elders,
lift depressives from
their viscous torpor,
allow despairing MS
victims to step up
[From 'Petition']
God or no God, O'Driscoll's writing always retains a bleak humour that has
led to him being referred to as the Irish Larkin. This short posthumous
collection should help to cement his place as a bright light in a
constellation of shining Irish poetry stars.
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Burn is Andre Bagoo's second collection of
poetry; it features a rich array of themes and locations and the writing is
clear and confident. The collection opens with the title poem in which
bullets fly: 'They are come to rifle me, all two hundred and eighty six of
them, brown as guinea owls' it is a powerful introduction. Elsewhere we find
the entertaining image of none other than Auden, sitting in his underwear
watching TV, eating ice-cream. The poem, 'Auden in Iceland', has five parts
each one in a different style. The second part has some neat rhyming:
A sheet of paper
crumpling on
Vodka, crevices draining
into place
Slopes of mountain torn
agape
I am in love with his
face
And the poem builds into a reflection on mortality. In Burn Andre Bagoo spends a lot of time reminiscing,
there is a series of poems with street names, 'Carr Street', 'White Street',
'Lady Young Road', etc possibly the streets of Andre Bagoo's childhood. One
of the most successful poems is 'The Tourist', which moves around the
author's native Trinidad, always surrounded by images of the sea:
I dip my toe into this
pool
and an ocean of snow
engulfs me
In poems like 'The Tourist 'Andre Bagoo shows himself as a young writer of
great potential, influences like Eric Roach and Derek Walcott come to mind. I
look forward to watching him develop in future collections.
Four titles down, and the world has been left unchanged. If only life was
more like a poem. A poem of immense beauty and simplicity, hold that thought,
I'm just going to check my twitter feed.
© Charlie Baylis 2015
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