The talismanic advice to would-be writers—a phrase I hear myself parrot in discussions—is ‘Read, read, read’.
The to-be-expected response is ‘Read what?’ And I find myself saying ‘Anything’. It should go without saying that poetry should be among them. Don Paterson told a Poetry School MA Summer School I attended that poetry should be at the forefront of the reading of anyone who tilts toward the description of being a poet. But it should not be restricted to poetry alone.
On my first visit to the Holy Land, I met an inspiring headteacher in Nazareth who dropped many pearls before us swine visiting a school in the bustling town. One was ‘We tell our students to be like the Sea of Galilee: water flows into and out of it. Don’t be like the Dead Sea, which only receives.’
Keeping up with new writing, as well as filling the always substantial gaps from the past, can be a full time job. But apart from those who live and breathe poetry—perhaps more of them now because of the sustained culture that re-rewards the already over-rewarded—it’s the oddball stuff that can capture the imagination. But some of it is in plain sight.
While there is a laudable rise of poetry coming from identarian sources, the great creative flowing out from the ‘I am’, not to be confused with the utterance to Moses on the mountain (Exodus 3:14), it is only one rivulet leading to the wide stretch of water we call poetry.
So much energising and exciting work has emerged from hitherto overlooked voices because of the emergence of identity focussed writing. This has flourished mainly due to the tireless, and dare I say, sacrificial efforts of those who publish work in print and online by small, independent enterprises. The people behind these do so more from love than from financial reward. Indeed, it is a dictum in publishing that money is not made from the art form. Except, of course, with the spectacular exceptions.
When I was studying for the priesthood I had to read set texts and, as any student should, find material around them that was challenging, stimulating and confronting. Systematic Theology, an academic subject, was one I worked hard in and, to be honest, struggled with. I often say theological college is a place you got to to learn long words—soteriology, euthychianism, perichoresis, eschatology—that one uses in pastoral ministry only among consulting adults. But aren’t they great words in themselves?
A fellow student and a damn fine poet, Ophira Adar, explores Jewish heritage in her writing in many ways, recently in a residency at the Jewish Museum in Manchester, and often uses the languages associated with her culture—Hebrew, Yiddish and other vernaculars. She once suggested I mine the seams of particular language(s) of Christianity. She did this after I spent some months writing a series of Stations of the Cross, a work that mixed personal devotion with poetic praxis.
In one of his weekly newsletters linked to the podcast Poetry Unbound, Pádraig Ó Tuama wrote of his encountering a carpenter who was a poet. He thrilled at the potential particular vocabulary available to the writer through day to day association. Every trade has its lexicon and it can used to startling effect when taking out of the traditional setting.
I have a habit—perplexing and at times annoying to my wife Adey Grummet, because of the books lying about the house—of reading several books at once. Some are related to language (a lifelong obsession), while novels, poetry, religious and other non-fiction, as well as artistic material. They all feed different parts of my brain.
Which is a long detour to getting to three poetry books I have read recently which, to my mind, point to the importance of reading widely. Each has its own particular idiosyncrasy but they share a mixture of previous reading by and knowledge of the authors. This leads the reader into realms of encounter, vivified by extraordinary deftness and daredevilry with language. This surely is the job of poetry.
So if you are looking for three cracking reads, let me point to these books to top your to-be-read pile:
Hyena! by Fran Lock
I found myself cheering, as I do watching Leyton Orient at its best, sitting on the edge of my seat just thrilling at the action on the page. As Fran Lock says on the Poetry School website: ‘I’d describe my practice, such as it is, as feral: that is omnivorous, opportunistic, accretive and excessive. To unpack that a little: there’s this persuasive cultural myth – certainly in the global north – that poetry is an essentially middle-class pursuit, that it germinates in periods of quiet sustained reflection. I don’t agree with that. At least, that’s not how it is for me. I don’t believe that there’s this ideal contemplative position that is equally possible for everyone. I think that for many of us, poetry erupts in the midst of precarity and scarcity, in the jaws of unlovable labour. It is the perfect mode of production for those poor in time and in resources; it travels light, communicates in fragments and flashes, requires no specialist equipment or training.’
The to-be-expected response is ‘Read what?’ And I find myself saying ‘Anything’. It should go without saying that poetry should be among them. Don Paterson told a Poetry School MA Summer School I attended that poetry should be at the forefront of the reading of anyone who tilts toward the description of being a poet. But it should not be restricted to poetry alone.
On my first visit to the Holy Land, I met an inspiring headteacher in Nazareth who dropped many pearls before us swine visiting a school in the bustling town. One was ‘We tell our students to be like the Sea of Galilee: water flows into and out of it. Don’t be like the Dead Sea, which only receives.’
Keeping up with new writing, as well as filling the always substantial gaps from the past, can be a full time job. But apart from those who live and breathe poetry—perhaps more of them now because of the sustained culture that re-rewards the already over-rewarded—it’s the oddball stuff that can capture the imagination. But some of it is in plain sight.
While there is a laudable rise of poetry coming from identarian sources, the great creative flowing out from the ‘I am’, not to be confused with the utterance to Moses on the mountain (Exodus 3:14), it is only one rivulet leading to the wide stretch of water we call poetry.
So much energising and exciting work has emerged from hitherto overlooked voices because of the emergence of identity focussed writing. This has flourished mainly due to the tireless, and dare I say, sacrificial efforts of those who publish work in print and online by small, independent enterprises. The people behind these do so more from love than from financial reward. Indeed, it is a dictum in publishing that money is not made from the art form. Except, of course, with the spectacular exceptions.
When I was studying for the priesthood I had to read set texts and, as any student should, find material around them that was challenging, stimulating and confronting. Systematic Theology, an academic subject, was one I worked hard in and, to be honest, struggled with. I often say theological college is a place you got to to learn long words—soteriology, euthychianism, perichoresis, eschatology—that one uses in pastoral ministry only among consulting adults. But aren’t they great words in themselves?
A fellow student and a damn fine poet, Ophira Adar, explores Jewish heritage in her writing in many ways, recently in a residency at the Jewish Museum in Manchester, and often uses the languages associated with her culture—Hebrew, Yiddish and other vernaculars. She once suggested I mine the seams of particular language(s) of Christianity. She did this after I spent some months writing a series of Stations of the Cross, a work that mixed personal devotion with poetic praxis.
In one of his weekly newsletters linked to the podcast Poetry Unbound, Pádraig Ó Tuama wrote of his encountering a carpenter who was a poet. He thrilled at the potential particular vocabulary available to the writer through day to day association. Every trade has its lexicon and it can used to startling effect when taking out of the traditional setting.
I have a habit—perplexing and at times annoying to my wife Adey Grummet, because of the books lying about the house—of reading several books at once. Some are related to language (a lifelong obsession), while novels, poetry, religious and other non-fiction, as well as artistic material. They all feed different parts of my brain.
Which is a long detour to getting to three poetry books I have read recently which, to my mind, point to the importance of reading widely. Each has its own particular idiosyncrasy but they share a mixture of previous reading by and knowledge of the authors. This leads the reader into realms of encounter, vivified by extraordinary deftness and daredevilry with language. This surely is the job of poetry.
So if you are looking for three cracking reads, let me point to these books to top your to-be-read pile:
Hyena! by Fran Lock
I found myself cheering, as I do watching Leyton Orient at its best, sitting on the edge of my seat just thrilling at the action on the page. As Fran Lock says on the Poetry School website: ‘I’d describe my practice, such as it is, as feral: that is omnivorous, opportunistic, accretive and excessive. To unpack that a little: there’s this persuasive cultural myth – certainly in the global north – that poetry is an essentially middle-class pursuit, that it germinates in periods of quiet sustained reflection. I don’t agree with that. At least, that’s not how it is for me. I don’t believe that there’s this ideal contemplative position that is equally possible for everyone. I think that for many of us, poetry erupts in the midst of precarity and scarcity, in the jaws of unlovable labour. It is the perfect mode of production for those poor in time and in resources; it travels light, communicates in fragments and flashes, requires no specialist equipment or training.’
After You Were, I Am by Camille Ralphs
In three sections—roughly categorised as prayer, witchery and necromancy (though it’s much more complex than that)—Camille Ralphs works spells of knowledge, wordcraft and luminescence. At a recent reading I found myself laughing, almost whooping in delight, and at times resorting to the poetry ‘Mmm’ favoured by the more formal settings, as opposed to the preferred clicking of fingers at Spoken Word nights.
In three sections—roughly categorised as prayer, witchery and necromancy (though it’s much more complex than that)—Camille Ralphs works spells of knowledge, wordcraft and luminescence. At a recent reading I found myself laughing, almost whooping in delight, and at times resorting to the poetry ‘Mmm’ favoured by the more formal settings, as opposed to the preferred clicking of fingers at Spoken Word nights.
The Literate Detective by Paul Scully
Okay, the last one is by my brother, but he’s a brilliant poet and, as I messaged him, the book is a dazzling mix of lexical fireworks, imagination and revelational writing. As I said to him, ‘It's a wonderful collection, its mix of wordplay, imagination and the confessional. A couple of the poems I found enormously moving, especially those tributes to Julie and your life together. You have something I have pointed myself at - the poetics of Australian suburbia. I am in awe and admiration and, to be honest, more than a little jealous.’
Each of these books is worth reading because each points the way to the dictum I began with. They are the fruit of reading, reading, reading.
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