Reading Di Slaney’s first full collection from Valley Press, I’m taken straight to where the smell and taste of outdoors makes time pass differently.
‘Every dawn she looks up, sucks on doing words
to break her fast, breathes in the day. So many
to roll around a mouth starved of soil’
But there’s work to do. How to Knit a Sheep (also the title of this first part of the collection) initiates us plainly.
Start with the legs. It helps to
grab a hoof before casting on, or
he might kick you off.
In this playful poem, which re-makes the shearing of a sheep, there’s so much accurate physicality and joy.
Tie the ends off tight
before you let him go, your nose to his
in thanks only eskimos understand.
It’s a poem about sheep, and it’s a poem about grace.
In 2005, Di Slaney left urban living for smallholding in Nottinghamshire, populating her acres with some 150 mostly rescued animals. ‘Reward for Winter’ is made in three parts, opening with How to Knit a Sheep – where vivid and finely crafted poems reflect the smallholder’s labours and discoveries. In Diptych, the poet delves into a sense of tenancy, of house and field inherited – ‘Fitting that this field/ returns, unharmed/ now that the deal is sealed,/ to where they farmed.’
There is sentiment, but no sense of sentimentality. This poem ends with a very 21st century acknowledgement of acquisition: ‘my greedy eyes fill up with green/ buying it back, borrowing a dream’.
Time is long, and cyclical in these poems, but slides between generations. In Doubtful Words, a beautifully made poem, one generation offers advice to another ‘counting down days till the hay is all/ gathered’. That almost forgotten sense of the year’s labour, and its contract with luck, health and weather is all here.
…Then we lie
fallow, cut off by the dark with nights slamming
like sashes, saving our tallow for Midwinter Eve,
the rut that restocks us, God willing, she said.
Yet modern woman’s urban norms do not escape Slaney’s forensic eye (title poem Reward for Winter). ‘For the first time in her adult life/ she allowed herself to sweat, to leave/ dust under her fingernails, to be/ imprecise.’
These poems sit well together, leading us back into the layers of the past and the labours of previous workers on this land, but all the while keeping one wary eye on who we are now, and the process of our becoming.
The second section of the book is a kind of biography of hen, divided again into neat egg boxes of poems which explore all the grit and parasites of henkeeping. With their often tight rhymes and specific vocabulary (augmented by notes in the back of the book) these poems are deceptively straightforward -based on Haynes’ ‘Chicken Manual’ – but can often be read into, as in the word-weaving Gular Flutter:
Stay and breathe. Fine to remember.
Calm will. Be everything just.
Perhaps my personal favourite part of this collection is the third – Bildr’s Thorpe. Here Slaney immerses the reader in the slippage between worlds, showing us the layers beneath the present day in this one particular place. In the poem Bildr’s Thorpe (like ‘a half-remembered hearth tale’), she viscerally inhabits the moment of a young man leaving home (later, her home):
He ran from the softness of straw and the comfort
of cattle. He ran because his mother called him
darling, kept him closer than the hounds…
Much research as well as feeling has gone into the making of these poems – Slaney’s preoccupation with a place and its different times is ingrained in them. I particularly enjoyed Their Letters, based on a Jacobean trial for adultery. As with some of the work in this collection, these are prose poems, tightly written, erotic, internally rhyming.
Her letter 1st May 1610
is pressed from flour-damp breast to Judas-hand Joanna,
hides in spinster folds to pass the Hall, makes its way first
to lips then nose, Peter eager for the hard-worked scent of
her, his Rose with lush, wide petals and soft sticky buds…
For all those who enjoy finely crafted poetry with a rural flavour, and a sense of history, this is a collection to savour and revisit. If you like hens as well, then you’ve really struck gold. And it’s also good to be able to say that Valley Press have created in ‘Reward for Winter’ a most handsome volume, with spacious layout and lushly wrap-around design and flapped cover.
This fine collection from Di Slaney introduces a skilful voice that is strong and flexible, with a fine ear for sound and a great capacity for imagery. And she is exploring something which has been mostly lost: our own intuitive connection to earth in this century, in this country.
Order your copy of Di Slaney’s Reward for Winter here: http://www.valleypressuk.com/book/15/reward_for_winterRead More
Every town begins in the imagination. Every town is a continuous, sustained act of belief which exists as an entity because, collectively, we all agree that it is so. A group of people settle someplace, probably near water. They build their houses, stake their farms. Merchants come, after a while, to service them. Then come priests, then the lawyers, then bookshops, cafes, record-stores. And then, inevitably, as the old imaginations pass into the earth and new ones arise and swivel their focus off to newer, brighter loci, the town begins to fade. Towns are physical things, built by brains and calluses. Even the smallest town is layered and complex because it is the product of more than one mind. You can’t drop in on a train, spend a day wandering around the centre, and expect to know the place intimately. You have to inhabit it, become part of it. You have to add your own layer of paint, build your own wall, and watch the things you’ve added interact with all the others that arose before it. It takes a lifetime to really know a town, and it would take an ambitious imagination to attempt to distil the essence of centuries down into an hour’s worth of poetry, images, and sound so that a stranger could build a model of that town behind the ridge of their skull. Adam Horovitz and Josef Reeve have very ambitious imaginations, and Little Metropolis, their latest project, is an incredible success.
Little Metropolis is a multi-layered, multimedia project composed of local histories, poetry, original music, photography, and a series of charming illustrations that are designed to mimic the effect of existing enmeshed within the fabric of the town. The subject is Stroud, a small market town in Gloucestershire. During the Industrial Revolution it became known for its woollen mills (some of the chimneys still stand) and it remains a bustling centre whose edges are just the slightest bit faded. When you order a copy of this project you receive a beautifully presented pamphlet containing images and poetry, along with a CD composed of those same poems presented against the background of electronic music, local voices, and the cacophony of street-sounds. Taken all at once, the effect is immersive; engulfing. If you do not know what you are getting into, it can be a little much. But soon enough your disorientation passes and the reader is lovingly swept up.
It is difficult for me to effectively review the technicalities of music composition, but I can review its effect. Track nine on the CD is called ‘Ghosts’ and it deals with an odd sort of unsentimental nostalgia. In it, gentle electronica slowly morphs into passionate chaos while stanzas of poetry (focused on the slow erosion of the past) are interspersed with fragments from on-the-street interviews with locals who remember their favourite memories acquired while they were growing up. Music stores feature. So do bookstores and libraries.
The poetry ties it all together. Opening the pamphlet to page 26 you find the poem which the accompanying aural-landscape is based upon:
Ghosts wherever you tread.
Ghosts in the cinema.
In the pubs. Café ghosts. Small town ghosts.
The fallen, the crazed, the angry
and the lost. Ghosts of the dead,
of the missing-living – those friends whose paths
have turned aside from yours,
fizzing in the half-light of shift work
of altered priorities, of babies or of moving
beyond the glistening bubble of the town.
In the pamphlet, this poem is accompanied by a minimalistic line-drawing of a pair of bare feet, moving across a stark, white background, leaving a bright-red trail of blood. On the CD, Horovitz reads with a rhythmic, musical cadence against a background of city-sounds. These effects may seem contradictory; the busy soundscape, the isolated blood, but reality reflects this contradiction. In a town, one can be utterly surrounded by noise, by hustle, by crowds, and still be absolutely isolated, trapped in the white-room of memory.
Some of the poems focus on the distant past. ‘A House Built From Cloth’ describes the ways in which the industrial revolution shaped the heart and form of the town, along with the soul of the narrator:
I grew up watching the past
pulling the weight of the future
along the canal’s linear thread.
Others, like ‘Farmers’ Market’, focus on specific local places and highlight the ways in which these landscapes alter and influence the stories of the people who inhabit them:
Sad Robbie met a woman
who wore other people’s hearts on her sleeve,
reopened the conversational wounds on his tongue.
Clutterbuck stood by the donut stall
for hours, unmoving. He woke up in the Heavens,
a constellation of sugar laced across his lips.
This project is full of glimpses. Small, furtive sights that are nevertheless enough to draw you in. It would be very easy to dismiss this project as something made only for the locals of the town which it describes, but that would be a mistake. By focusing so specifically on the psychology of one individual town, Horovitz and company have opened a window into an aspect of human psychology that is universal and collective. At times, the execution might come on a little strong, but that is not a fatal flaw. This is an ambitious project, beautifully executed. I strongly recommend it.
Order your copy of Little Metropolis here: http://littlemetropolis.bandcamp.com/album/little-metropolisRead More
Bernard Kops, Poetry & Peril:
PEACE WILL COME, ANNE FRANK INSISTS, YOU WILL SEE
Bernard Kops, the doyen of Anglo-Jewish letters, has responded to a global resurgence of violent anti-Semitism by issuing a new collection of verse called Anne Frank’s Fragments from Nowhere. This is his second major work exploring the legacy of the teenage diarist. Anne was murdered in Bergen-Belsen after hiding with her family for two exhausting years in a secret annex at the back of an Amsterdam building.
She returns in Bernard’s poetry to assure worried Jews everywhere:
… peace will come.
And the tired will lie down and sleep.
And the dreamers will awake
and embrace the beauty
of world, of existence, of love.
And peace will come,
and love and lovers will transcend
the wars of earth.
And they will plant their love.
And the tree of love will grow forever.
And you’ll see. Peace will come. And peace will come.
And people will come and go and live.
And live again and again.
And peace will come. You’ll see!
You’ll see. And peace will come!
And peace will come!
And peace must come.
Bernard, a poet and playwright at last basking in world fame at the age of 89, is slightly older than Anne would be if she had been allowed to live. He is a descendant of working-class Dutch immigrants to Britain, whose entire extended family back in Europe perished during the Holocaust. He is, like all Jews alive today, a survivor acutely aware of a looming, ubiquitous presence of racist intolerance.
Seven decades after the Holocaust and a year after the horrendous Charlie Hebdo massacre in Paris replicated worldwide, Jewish institutions in hundreds of population centres survive under armed guard. France, the home of Europe’s biggest Jewish community and the third biggest in the world, has declared a permanent state of emergency. It deploys troops in combat fatigues and wielding automatic weapons to control the wrath of Islamist fanatics encouraging the racist rampage of the native far-right and far-left rabble.
A wide range of xenophobic hate crimes has substantially increased throughout the West. Jewish community leaders perceive a level of existential threat that they have not experienced since the wartime deportation trains transporting the Kops and the Frank families and millions of other civilian captives across Europe to industrially organized slaughter. Jewish emigration to Israel has now also reached record levels.
Anne Frank’s Fragments from Nowhere confronts a crisis that may well intensify following the Great Powers’ dubious new nuclear power development accord with the theocracy of Baghdad. Its immediate effect will be to fuel the perilous conflagrations already engulfing the Middle East and extending to the European Union and Russia. For the compromise agreement has released an estimated $150bn in direct and indirect investment in the terrorist states of Iran and its client Syria, and also in numerous terrorist states within states like Hezbollah and Hamas.
The first German feature film based on the teenager’s Holocaust testimony is titled Das Tagebuch der Anne Frank (The Diary of Anne Frank), released at the 66th Berlin Film Festival during February. A Hollywood adaptation in 1959 won three Oscars.
Bernard’s collection addresses the future by insisting on recording the past. In the poem For the Record, he recalls:
They came for him in Amsterdam, my grandfather David,
and with minimum force removed him from his home.
He surrendered to the entire German army,
and that was that.
It is of little consequence now;
so many die alone in foreign lands.
But for the record I must say
they gave him a number, helped him
aboard an eastbound train.
It was a little overcrowded,
but then they had so many to dispatch…
The poet grew up in deep poverty in the East End of London “as a committed witness for the lost community of Amsterdam,” he recounts, “including my family and Anne’s. Her fate could so easily have been mine…”
He all but met her. He explains: “My first play, The Hamlet of Stepney Green” first performed at the Oxford Playhouse in 1957, “was translated into Dutch by Rosie Pool, an author who joined the Dutch Resistance during the war. She had escaped from the Nazi transit camp at Westbork,” a collection point from which the Jews were being dispatched to mass murder, “and her first task was to smuggle herself back and organize others.
“There she met and tutored Anne. Rosie talked to me endlessly about Anne’s character, personality, dreams and nightmares. All this has fed my imagination, and Anne became my close relative.”
The experience eventually led to Bernard’s play, the Dreams of Anne Frank, which opened in the Polka Theatre, London, in 1992. The play (Methuen Drama, England, 1997) has been touring the world ever since. The Hungarian version performed in 1998 at the Mahatma Gandhi School, Pécs, employed a cast of teenage Romany actors, perhaps a quarter million of whose people had been murdered during the Holocaust. The atmosphere was electric.
In Act One, Anne holds up a star on an empty stage as she turns to the audience. (The following text of her song is not included in the new collection.)
Fate gave me a yellow star.
A badge to tell them who I am.
I’m Anne from Amsterdam.
I’m Anne Frank and I’m a Jew.
And I’m the same as you and you.
Or you and you and you.
But fate gave me a yellow star.
The star to put me in my place,
To wear it as a badge of shame,
But I’m Anne from Amsterdam.
I’m proud of who I am.
We have to hide away from light
Because they come for us at night.
And pack us off to God knows where,
And all we have is where we are.
But fate gave me a yellow star.
Like Bernard, the real-life Anne had consciously prepared for a writing career, and she spectacularly succeeded. Her diary describing the fears as well as the tensions, loves, dreams and irritations of people hiding away from death in a terrorized city was published posthumously in1947 as Het Achterhuis (The Annex). Subsequent editions were titled The Diary of Anne Frank and Diary of a Young Girl. The book has been sold in more than 30m copies.
A fierce controversy is now raging over an extension of its copyright protection that would normally expire 70 years after the death of its author. Another book of the same period controversially just reissued on entering the public domain is Mein Kampf (My Struggle) by Adolf Hitler, a screed campaigning for the annihilation of the Jewish people.
Bernard is one of the best known writers of our time. All his writing is steeped in poetry. He is extraordinarily creative, prolific, fearless and compassionate, the author of some nine collections of verse, more than 40 plays for stage and television, 11 novels and two autobiographies.
Many of his books are constantly in print and his plays in production. His range of concerns is enormous, embracing Jewish identity, the many shades of love, family relationships, aging, fear, passion and mental illness. The Hamlet of Stepney Green, whose roots reach back to the tradition of Yiddish theatre, is widely recognized as an originator of Britain’s revolutionary, new wave, “kitchen-sink” theatre.
A seminal, book-length critical analysis of his growing corpus (Bernard Kops: Fantasist, London Jew, Apocalyptic Humorist, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2014, 168pp.) has been issued by Professor William Baker of Northern Illinois University and Prof. Jeanette Roberts Shumaker at San Diego State University. The monograph describes him as an influential innovator of British drama, an important social critic and a careful chronicler of the Anglo-Jewish society as well as the London Bohemian subculture of the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, of which he was a part.
He is also a stubborn optimist convinced that well chosen words are mightier even than fleets of nuclear warheads. With a comradely wink towards Anna, Bernard includes in the new collection one of his best loved, old poems, Shalom Bomb. Here is one timely passage:
…I want a one-man-band-bomb. My own bomb!
My live long and die happy bomb.
My die peacefully of old age bomb;
in my own bed bomb.
My Om Mane Padme Aum Bomb.
My Tiddly Om Pom Bomb.
My goodnight bomb, my sleeptight bomb,
my see you in the morning bomb.
I want my bomb. My own private bomb.
My Shalom bomb.
Thomas Ország-Land is a poet and award-winning foreign correspondent who writes from London and his native Budapest. His last book was Survivors: Hungarian Jewish Poets of the Holocaust (Smokestack/England, 2014). His work also appears in the new anthologies Over Land, Over Sea: Poems for Those Seeking Refuge (Five Leaves) and Random Red Candles grouping the best of Candelabrum Poetry Magazine, 1970-2010 (Spinnaker), both in England in 2015.
Anne Frank’s Fragments from Nowhere by Bernard Kops is published by Indigo Dreams Publishing and is available here: http://www.indigodreams.co.uk/bernard-kops/4589983997Read More
If there were ever a case for the physical book over an e-book, Lace is its embodiment. Small is beautiful, in this case: a pamphlet of thirteen short, numbered poems coupled with vine charcoal drawings, made on gessoed wood panels, of tiny scraps of lace held in the ‘hidden’ collections at Tunbridge Wells Museum and Art Gallery.
The collaboration began as part of Re:Collections, a commissioned project involving women writers and visual artists, and there are feminine themes running throughout the work. Process is an important part of collaboration, and recreating the lace fragments in soft vine charcoal and rendering them in words is like the intricacy of the lace-making, traditionally crafted by women.
The physical body, menstrual cycles, ageing and depression are found in Wicks’s responses to the lace, which is described with bodily analogies such as “subcutaneous”, “carious as an old tooth.” What is hidden, like the lace fragments trapped between acid-free tissue paper in the Museum storerooms, is brought to the fore in this pamphlet. The monthly bleeding of the female cycle is explicitly addressed in Poem 6, where “the woman’s body” “bleeds / a juice like sap, its head full of light.” Each “unlived life” leaves:
a cavity for heart
and one for stomach, fraying bag of womb
that moves its lips and lines itself with fur
The image that accompanies the poem reminds me of the texture and feel of Dr White’s sanitary towels, which those of us of a certain age endured wearing as teenagers:
The dark flows downwards. No one sees it leave
and wind away, congeal to a dry skein,
the skein of who she was.
The theme is returned to in the final poem, 13, where the line of the outer edge of the lace is likened to the physical ebb and flow of the sea on the shore, and the menstrual cycle:
Low tide and time
is inching shorewards, crawling, curling its white fingers,
and fizzes back
and crawls again
Indeed the bleed of the images across the centre line of each double page, onto the poems’ pages, also reflects this theme.
It is the space between the threads that is often addressed, an absence and a presence at once, a fragility preserved, pulled out of shape, reflecting both women’s bodies and the make-do-and-mend mindset historically held by women. The imagined women, the subjects of the poems, see “the shapes of babies’ feet or leaves, or pods of peas” in Poem 7. The first stanza suggests busyness, growth, work, nurturing:
But here at the centre is a torn space
where she can stand and breathe
… a mental space, as well as a physical one, where she can “resurface, plant her body upright like a flag.”
Maria C. McCarthy is the author of As Long as it Takes, a collection of linked short stories (Cultured Llama, 2014) and a poetry collection, Strange Fruits (Cultured Llama 2011). She is the winner of the Society of Authors’ Tom-Gallon Trust Award 2015. www.medwaymaria.co.uk
Buy your copy of Lace by Susan Wicks and Elizabeth Clayman, published by Stonewood Press here: http://www.stonewoodpress.co.uk/product/lace/Read More
Going through the gorgeous, red-slim book My Glass of Wine by Kiriti Sengupta I am reminded of a few lines by Li Po:
“Since water still flows, though we
cut it with swords,
And sorrow returns, though we
drown it with wine,
Since the world can in no way
satisfy our cravings,
Let us loosen our hair tomorrow
and go fishing.”
Author Kiriti Sengupta first and foremost entreats to be marked as an “Indian [Bengali] author.” Rather he is merely a writer. Because he never worries which genre his work would fit into. “Seeing is believing.” So, he only writes what he sees, believes in, and observes. My Glass of Wine should better be treated, as Sengupta wrote himself, as “a book written in the English-language, and in several ways.” A note to follow-up: “Is it autobiography? Is it non-fiction? Is it poetry? Don’t puzzle over such ‘sensible’ questions, reader. The author did not.” Celebrated Indian poet, Debjani Chatterjee, who is based in the United Kingdom, also picks up the general amazement the readers might experience in this book.
“The author is dead,” when a piece of writing is out of the hands of the author(s) concerned. Now it is up to the readers to deliberate and decide. But why would the readers bother to read a book? Sengupta first makes an introductory “Alap”— a noticeably individualistic stroke applied to communize with the readers; familiarise with his gharana (marked stylistic ideology) of writing. He is a Bengali, writing in the English language. Here he acquaints us with his clarified considerations the issues of “popularity,” “mass,” “class,” “personal,” “impersonal,” “literary” elements of a work, and a few notionally determinant factors that constitute the image of an author. This chapter does not merely introduces the “being and becoming” of the author, “Alap” also brings in the narrative of how Sengupta came into the literary world. He sounds iconoclast when he questions the liberty of a writer to be absolutely him/her-self, and also the liability of the buyers. Thus, his appreciable take:
One must realize writers don’t write bestsellers; it is the readers who make a book popular. If a writer exhibits some control or understanding of the readers’ minds, blame those who have remained apathetic towards the buyers.
Probably Sengupta is concerned about the creation of good literature, not necessarily “great literature.” He puts much emphasis on the practice of “thinking in English,” which, far from merely translating native tongue into English, will certainly enable one to gather the finer nuances of the language.
“Poetry should not mean, but be” is a quote by famous poet Archibald Macleish. Sengupta offers his advocacy for poetry to “be.” His mission seems to be targeted to prepare a stronghold for poetry, irrespective of whether it sounds clichéd, nature-based, or modern. He rather adds the idea of “new-age poetry,” nor does he even miss out on to mention referentially Eliot’s theory of impersonality in poetry. Moreover, Sengupta proposes a zealous appeal for poetry that will “linger over the decades” and that should not read too “abstract.” Sengupta aspires to write some autobiographic shreds of his life, through some “prose weaved into poetry.” He not only inspires the upcoming poets to come up afresh, anew, Sengupta also stays tuned with Baudelaire, the renowned French poet: “Always be a poet, even in prose.”
Sengupta names his next chapter, “As I Traversed.” Of course he traversed, but all along on his own into the realm of literature, and Tagore’s landmark novel, Shesher Kobita, as the author informs us, opened for him a new gateway. Although readers may smell a bit of Platonic ideation of poetry, when Sengupta logically establishes that the firsthand role of literature is to entertain, and poetry does not necessarily do that. Does he, in any way, propose to exclude poetry from literature? We lay nonplussed observing his stand:
Poetry delivers. Poetry communicates. Poetry bridges up. Poetry inspires. Poetry evokes. Poetry provokes. Poetry enlightens. Poetry illumines. Poetry heals.
Needless to say, poetry entertains through all these facets. It is said, “What you are is God’s gift to you, what you become is your gift to God” [Hans Urs von Balthasar]. Author Sengupta opens up his long-closed window of spirituality, and responds to the clarion call of God — he picks up the creator’s choice, and suddenly “becomes.” By getting “spiritually baptized,” drinking wine, and thus, by de-constructing his deep-rooted ancestral practice, he actually re-constructs himself, explores the journey he is sent for. Benjamin Franklin sounds perfect when he says: “Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy.” Not only Sengupta, his older sister too finds peace and things worked out well for them. Truly one can assure himself thus, “In wine, there’s truth” (Pliny the Elder, Natural History). The concept of “blood relation” looks a bit different in Sengupta’s words, as his idea encompasses a large area of probabilities:
“You and I
The Father and son
the legacy goes on
Inevitable – impeccable,
blood relation …”
We name; we are also names! Title of something is the marker of its content. Similarly, a name of a person roughly hints at his supposed nature or behavioural pattern. Awfully true is, “fame” is credited not with the person, but with someone’s name. “My Sister’s Bhaiya” is such a chapter that is enough to give a hard blow, at least to the Hindu way of naming the new-borns, for they are preoccupied with a prejudice of remembering and chanting the names of the divine prowess:
“Significant indeed – carrying yourself
‘Crucify’ is Christ-filled
I remember, and my mind turns candle-lit”
Who we address genuinely as our “Master?” He, or she, or it? Well, irrespective of the varied choices ascribed, Sengupta directs us to a new horizon — the “soul,” which establishes our existence philosophically. He is again the “Guru,” whose preaching reads thus:
“Open your heart, and
Use your brain;
you will reach beyond
the humanly plane.”
Sengupta narrates how he was initiated to yoga — Kriyayoga, but enigma pervades as to what kind of initiation actually it is! Is it the initiation of discovering one’s self, or the initiation into writing? Arriving at the closure of his exposure he succeeds in consummating his notes, notices and messages within a very philosophical framework. Evident is his voice, which is crucially unconventional! People often get perplexed with certain issues and elements, and wrongly associate them with other ideas, but here Sengupta does not fail at all even to justify the philosophic and spiritual contextualization behind the vertical lines as noticed in the cover of the book. Aristotelian dictum, “Know thyself,” finds perfect parallelism in his words for self-analysis. The disability to connect spiritual and real, as he exemplifies, leads to the end. Conclusively, he reverberates his Master: “Reach the void, and see the cage.”
My Glass of Wine results in the manifestation of the words by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” Sengupta could easily arrive to this tranquil essence as “in MGOW he is essentially interviewing himself,” as suggested by Don Martin in his foreword to this book.
Tanmoy Bhattacharjee hails from Raiganj, West Bengal, India. A teacher of English language and literature, he writes English poetry and literary nonfiction. Tanmoy has authored a book of poems, Heights of Life (Hawakaal Publishers, Kolkata), which has been a best-selling title on Amazon (United States). Tanmoy’s poems have appeared in acclaimed journals and webzines like Asian Signature, The Contour, The Literary Herald, Tuck Magazine, to name but a few. He has co-authored Sankarak — The Literary Fusion, an anthology based on Hybrid Literature. Besides, his papers have appeared on well-known journals like, Wilderness House Literary Review (Massachusetts, USA), Muse India, among other places.
Order your copy of Kiriti Sengupta’s My Glass of Wine (Hawakaal Publishers, Calcutta) here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/My-Glass-Wine-only-glass/dp/819316668X?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0
Picking up this slim collection of poems, one wonders whether the dainty yellow paper boats peering at you from the cover are just delicate and frangible or symbolise strength by daring the elements with their fragility and how these connect to the contents of the book. The effect of the poems by Sanjeev Sethi in This Summer and That Summer, however, is not the same as the short and succinct poems leave no doubt about the poet’s ability to express complex emotions with simplicity.
They say true ‘poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful’ and this is precisely what the poems present. In each of the 51 poems in this collection, exquisite wordplay complements the intricate weaving of thoughts, impressions and sentiments.
The poems carry a heady dose of alliteration and assonance lacing the bitter-sweet cocktail of emotions dished out by the poet. But nowhere does he allow the alliteration to get monotonous and tedious. So one can marvel at the pithiness wrapped in the silken-smooth flow of words whether it is the ‘Scratch the scab, and sanitise the skin.’ (Life’s Lesson), The celestial sphere sutures me to its stole (Fingerprint), An uncluttered brain is the boulevard of bliss (Worlds) or Goaded by grog music and machismo merge (Tavern Tale). But his skill is not limited to this, Sanjeev virtually paints with words in poems like Pigeons, Garrison Report and Nocturnal Activity.
While the diversity of content dipped in nostalgia, disillusionment or irony keep the freshness of the familiar alive, the arresting opening lines keep one glued to the pages. The poet beautifully describes the experience of enjoying poetry in one of the poems:
‘If you enter poetry like a nabob before a nautch
it will leave you listless.
When you peruse a poem perpend it like a psalm or salat.
When faith is installed guerdon is assured.
…When you undress a poem with dignity, delicately like a lover, it will disrobe you of excess, accessing your inner feelings’. (Conduction)
Thus, as the ‘words slither and startle’ and the poet ‘caress syllables to complete the emptiness of your experience’ a reader can savour the sublimity of lines such as ‘Some wounds require healing of the hurt’ (Life’s Lesson); ‘…is there a pesticide for the past?’ (Nocturnal Activity); ‘He didn’t know, I know, /baggage is not spatial’ (Ascot) or ‘We had window-shopped love in frippery of feelings’ (In the Plaza of Prejudice) or ‘Not remembering is a way of telling oneself, it did not happen/ Brutal echoes are best treated this way.’ (Winters).
These surely make the poems more than just ‘tercets from This Summer and That Summer’.
This is Sanjeev’s third book of poetry after Suddenly For Someone and Nine Summers Later and with this, he establishes himself as a craftsman who knows his art and his tools as he goes about his task diligently delivering one masterpiece after another. Like droplets of emotion and reason soothing the singe of experience, his verse leaves an indelible impression and one gets the feel of being on one of those pretty paper boats traversing a stream of emotions.
Order your copy of This Summer and That Summer by Sanjeev Sethi here http://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/this-summer-and-that-summer-9789385436703/
Note: This review was first published in THE TRIBUNE, CHANDIGARHRead More
This is Padrika Tarrant’s third book, Fates of the Animals, following Broken Things (Salt 2007) and The Knife Drawer (Salt 2011), also published by Salt, the alkaline in Cromer’s cliffs, comes this book of very short stories that live in a mixing bowl of clipped fairy tales, fag butt fables and the animals associated with them, the barking of the dog is relentless as choking. Tales of hyacinth girls expanding on Eliot, love stories of daughters of reputable figures and angels with Kleptomania. It is at turns delicate, creepy and always with a wink to the camera knowing that there’s diamonds in the stone cold ground beneath the ink. Through it all there is a sense of a unifying force, like the Marvel comics universe, and Tarrant is Stan Lee. Excelsior true believers!
I’m going to focus on two shorts here, as I could write a whole book about Tarrant’s world, but we are fools to the word limit. The book begins with The Music of the Foxes, a Hughes-esque tale with traits of Crow.
There is a strange relationship between humans and foxes, in their cries in the night, like a babe that’s been snatched, a child crying in the alley at midnight. No wonder that the fox is thought to have served as a witches familiar, even as the form into which a witch transform. Perhaps that anxiety goes back to the goddess Hecate, fond of the black she-dog, indeed the core of a foxes being, to humans, is otherworldly, and this is echoed in Tarrant’s first line:
When all the world was bald, flat path, the vixen trotted its length like the grin of a god.
The music of the foxes is considered as one word filled with pins;
Shak. The noise that a fox makes when she sings is a Shak, shrill and high; sharp at its core, rich as Ribena.
Rich as Ribena? Ribena isn’t particularly rich, it’s sugar that stains the lips and makes the throat sore. Why not rich as claret? Simple really, it wouldn’t sound right. The language flies with music.
In the last passage we see that the vixen has formed the earth and the old oil paint melancholy of jealousy of creator and created, the son eclipses the father and on it goes. The world is made in the vixen’s wake, roads are laid behind her and the detritus of the earth, bus tickets and cars, follow.
Shak! Spoke the vixen, streaming her song down her back behind the flow of her tail, and everything in the world shone pale and black and red, just as glorious and cruel and full of jealous beauty as can be.
I imagine that all sounds of the world are animated with the vixen’s final unheard Shak, it’s there in the paint.
The Little Boy Who Lied is woven with ethereal materials; the decreasing glow of a flash bulb’s element, yellowing paper, attic dust and memory’s flimsy grasp of a person’s past lives – Trapped between the film and the cardboard, the cracks and the tea stains and the gelatine-silver years, there is a sepia child in a sailor suit
This short leaves a copper taste of The Shining at the back of your eyes, you could turn around the corner and encounter the mangled Grady twins, you feel the urgency of a missing child. A disembodied child searching for eyes to see through – But the eyes; he squeezed his fingers tight against the palm of his hand. He wanted the eyes. They had sharp edges and were drawing blood inside his hot fist.
One could happily wallow in the deep imagery of Tarrant’s prose: They searched a long time for Amelia, lifting bedcovers as gingerly as grave-robbers
Tarrant’s book of stories claps in blacked rooms, has a smile as wide as the Ripper’s blade, prowls in midnight back alleys until the threadbare structure of the world’s bones has some meat. It’s not jaded, it has wonder, she would stop to gain knowledge of leaves ballet dancing down in a purple sky, and that’s a rarity nowadays in this cynical world of austerity and celebrity. They could even be read to children as bedtime stories, and that is the greatest compliment I think I could give.
Order your copy of Fates of the Animals, published by Salt, here: https://www.saltpublishing.com/products/fates-of-the-animals-9781907773587?variant=3892849793