Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile, by Alice Oswald
Alice Oswald: successful British poet. Her most recent collection is 'A Sleepwalk on the Severn', I think published earlier this year or late 2010. Gap-Stone Stile was her first collection, from years ago. I know she's a well-respected poet but this was the first of her work I have read.
I quite enjoyed it actually. Some of the stuff just didn't do it for me - some of the Sea Sonnets, for example, to my poetic ear just didn't 'sing', and there were aspects of certain poems that irritated me a little - some just didn't ring true, sounded a bit pretentious. But in all I really liked the collection and I can understand why Oswald is as well-respected as she is. I'm sure her later collections are much more fully-formed.
My favourite poems were The Melon Grower, about a man who neglects his family as he cares for his melon plants (I have grown melons myself, and became quite attached to them, so I could sympathise with his predicament!), one about owls in which there was the lovely line 'an owl about the size of a vicar' - loved it. That line really stood out for me, the incongruity of its humour in a poem with a more serious tone - and a couple of poems addressed to the only-just tolerated nextdoor neighbour. For me it was the flashes of humour in the collection, and the human stories that shone, rather than the soliloquising about water and gardens and nature, which is what Oswald is particularly known for. No - those weren't bad, but they didn't move me. Personally, I feel that a nature poem has to absolutely convey a sense of sheer wonder, and the ones in this collection didn't communicate that to me. However, Oswald's softly-spoken but sharp observations of humanity were brilliant.
At the end of the collection is a long poem about three men from the village of Gotham who go to try and catch the moon in a net (and its title is similarly self-explanatory). Strange. Some of the language was interesting, but it didn't speak to me. The poet's message or whatever it was she wanted to communicate went over my head. It seemed to be long and pretentious for the sake of being long and pretentious, and mostly lacked Oswald's otherwise frequent and clever use of half-rhyme. Didn't get it, although I found the explanation of the ideas behind the poem very entertaining and interesting, and intend to research Gotham - and its strange antic disposition - a little further.
In all, an interesting collection, but one that I sometimes found too serious, and occasionally a little obscure and pretentious. However, there were some lovely lyrical lines and the flashes of human lives and humour were a joy to read. I will read this collection again at some point, and I definitely want to read some of Alice Oswald's later works. A 5 or 6 out of 10 for me, but an intriguing and encouraging one.
I quite enjoyed it actually. Some of the stuff just didn't do it for me - some of the Sea Sonnets, for example, to my poetic ear just didn't 'sing', and there were aspects of certain poems that irritated me a little - some just didn't ring true, sounded a bit pretentious. But in all I really liked the collection and I can understand why Oswald is as well-respected as she is. I'm sure her later collections are much more fully-formed.
My favourite poems were The Melon Grower, about a man who neglects his family as he cares for his melon plants (I have grown melons myself, and became quite attached to them, so I could sympathise with his predicament!), one about owls in which there was the lovely line 'an owl about the size of a vicar' - loved it. That line really stood out for me, the incongruity of its humour in a poem with a more serious tone - and a couple of poems addressed to the only-just tolerated nextdoor neighbour. For me it was the flashes of humour in the collection, and the human stories that shone, rather than the soliloquising about water and gardens and nature, which is what Oswald is particularly known for. No - those weren't bad, but they didn't move me. Personally, I feel that a nature poem has to absolutely convey a sense of sheer wonder, and the ones in this collection didn't communicate that to me. However, Oswald's softly-spoken but sharp observations of humanity were brilliant.
At the end of the collection is a long poem about three men from the village of Gotham who go to try and catch the moon in a net (and its title is similarly self-explanatory). Strange. Some of the language was interesting, but it didn't speak to me. The poet's message or whatever it was she wanted to communicate went over my head. It seemed to be long and pretentious for the sake of being long and pretentious, and mostly lacked Oswald's otherwise frequent and clever use of half-rhyme. Didn't get it, although I found the explanation of the ideas behind the poem very entertaining and interesting, and intend to research Gotham - and its strange antic disposition - a little further.
In all, an interesting collection, but one that I sometimes found too serious, and occasionally a little obscure and pretentious. However, there were some lovely lyrical lines and the flashes of human lives and humour were a joy to read. I will read this collection again at some point, and I definitely want to read some of Alice Oswald's later works. A 5 or 6 out of 10 for me, but an intriguing and encouraging one.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Charity Shop Books
I have been charity shopping today and found some real treasures! So often I think of books in charity shops as limited to the Maeve Binchies, Clive Cusslers and Good Housekeepings of this world. I forget that I have got some of my most treasured books second hand and many of them from charity shops.
Once I found The Vogue Sewing Book - a massive doorstep of a book - for the princely sum of £1. I was well chuffed. Another best buy is a Haruki Murakami with the most beautifully illustrated cover. Charity shopping can be so satisfying when you strike gold, like I did today.
I wandered into the British Heart Foundation shop in my local town, looking for clothes I could cut up and resew. Nothing that I particularly liked or would wear even once I'd dismantled it. So I wandered to the back of the shop and looked at the books.
It's a miracle I kept on looking. The first things I was confronted with were diets and loads of strange Christian books that rather freaked me out...but soon I realised that just above my head was a poetry and drama section, bigger even than that in the local Waterstones!! (Waterstones' near me is appalling for poetry and drama). There was everything. Donne. Betjeman. Shakespeare. Seamus Heaney's new translation of Beowulf. Emily Dickinson. Loads more that I can't remember but that had my eyes agog. And some literary fiction among the Maeve Binchies and Clive Cusslers. So many of them were brand new, as well. I couldn't believe it! Beautiful books!!
So I came out with a battered but very lovely Penguin Book of Italian Verse (I speak a bit, but luckily there are translations, and anyway, I just want the rhythms of the language, rather than the meaning if I'm honest), Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist and The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile by Alice Oswald, as well as book on myths for my mum. All cost me £8. That's £2 a book. The Alice Oswald on its own would have cost £8.99 new. Major bargain!!!
So my tip for today is not to dismiss charity shops! They're getting trendy (and ridiculously priced, yes, I am talking about you Cancer Research) for clothes and things but they are also a potential haven for bookworms!
(And thanks so much Crafty Green Poet for the paragraphing solution!)
Once I found The Vogue Sewing Book - a massive doorstep of a book - for the princely sum of £1. I was well chuffed. Another best buy is a Haruki Murakami with the most beautifully illustrated cover. Charity shopping can be so satisfying when you strike gold, like I did today.
I wandered into the British Heart Foundation shop in my local town, looking for clothes I could cut up and resew. Nothing that I particularly liked or would wear even once I'd dismantled it. So I wandered to the back of the shop and looked at the books.
It's a miracle I kept on looking. The first things I was confronted with were diets and loads of strange Christian books that rather freaked me out...but soon I realised that just above my head was a poetry and drama section, bigger even than that in the local Waterstones!! (Waterstones' near me is appalling for poetry and drama). There was everything. Donne. Betjeman. Shakespeare. Seamus Heaney's new translation of Beowulf. Emily Dickinson. Loads more that I can't remember but that had my eyes agog. And some literary fiction among the Maeve Binchies and Clive Cusslers. So many of them were brand new, as well. I couldn't believe it! Beautiful books!!
So I came out with a battered but very lovely Penguin Book of Italian Verse (I speak a bit, but luckily there are translations, and anyway, I just want the rhythms of the language, rather than the meaning if I'm honest), Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist and The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile by Alice Oswald, as well as book on myths for my mum. All cost me £8. That's £2 a book. The Alice Oswald on its own would have cost £8.99 new. Major bargain!!!
So my tip for today is not to dismiss charity shops! They're getting trendy (and ridiculously priced, yes, I am talking about you Cancer Research) for clothes and things but they are also a potential haven for bookworms!
(And thanks so much Crafty Green Poet for the paragraphing solution!)
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sorry
Sorry about the last two posts. For some reason Blogger won't let me paragraph. I will try and sort it out.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Another classic that I haven't read before, this time an American one. The Great Gatsby is set in the wild, whimsical 20's in New York, and tells the story of Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby in their attempt to restart an old romance. Themes include obsession, reality & dreams, hope, love, memory and the complexity of human relationships.
I really enjoyed this book. It's short and sweet, and despite the fact that it's approaching 100 years old (!) it's modern, easy reading and still relevant to today's society. The presentation of the hedonistic, artificial and wild social scene are particularly memorable and relevant.
But to the book. Scott Fitzgerald was clearly a very talented writer. The book is full of descriptions that virtually made my mouth water - 'frosted wedding cake of the ceiling' is one that particularly sticks in my mind. The conjuring of the heat, business and atmosphere of Long Island was beautiful to read.
I liked the characterisation. From the first chapter you have most of the characters pinned down - Daisy is selfish, carefree, seductive, teasing; Tom is possessive and always wants more; Nick Carraway is an interferer and a user, but not unpleasant. Fitzgerald writes his characters perfectly - from their physical description to their speech, they are presented as full, well-rounded and complete entities.
However, despite the mouth-watering descriptions and skilled characterisations having finished the book it does feel a little...unfinished. I don't mean that the reader is left with questions once the book is finished. Everything wraps up rather messily for the characters, but is very neatly explained. Rather, I feel as if it never got going. The plot...well, was that it? Admittedly towards the end there were a couple of twists which I hadn't been expecting, but mostly it was clear that nothing was going to happen, and then it didn't. And the central and crucially important Gatsby as a character? He was the one character that I felt I didn't know and couldn't sympathise with, undoubtedly due to the mystery he holds for other characters in the book, but in the first chapter Nick says how Gatsby turned out to be a good sort...and I don't think he did. He was just some bloke that turns up, gets in a bit of an emotional muddle, and that's that. It's not that I think the story is shallow or uninteresting or anything like that. It just feels a bit of an anticlimax - a gentle stroll through all the parties etc., a couple of promising revelations and then...diddlysquat. End of book.
Somehow it just never rang true for me. It's the kind of book that I know I will understand differently the next time I read it, the kind that reveals more of itself the more you get to know it. Skilled, beautiful writing, with a wonderful use of unique descriptive language. But lacking something - a bit of zing, some spice. Nowhere near my top 20. But possibly in the top 100 for the descriptions. We shall see.
I really enjoyed this book. It's short and sweet, and despite the fact that it's approaching 100 years old (!) it's modern, easy reading and still relevant to today's society. The presentation of the hedonistic, artificial and wild social scene are particularly memorable and relevant.
But to the book. Scott Fitzgerald was clearly a very talented writer. The book is full of descriptions that virtually made my mouth water - 'frosted wedding cake of the ceiling' is one that particularly sticks in my mind. The conjuring of the heat, business and atmosphere of Long Island was beautiful to read.
I liked the characterisation. From the first chapter you have most of the characters pinned down - Daisy is selfish, carefree, seductive, teasing; Tom is possessive and always wants more; Nick Carraway is an interferer and a user, but not unpleasant. Fitzgerald writes his characters perfectly - from their physical description to their speech, they are presented as full, well-rounded and complete entities.
However, despite the mouth-watering descriptions and skilled characterisations having finished the book it does feel a little...unfinished. I don't mean that the reader is left with questions once the book is finished. Everything wraps up rather messily for the characters, but is very neatly explained. Rather, I feel as if it never got going. The plot...well, was that it? Admittedly towards the end there were a couple of twists which I hadn't been expecting, but mostly it was clear that nothing was going to happen, and then it didn't. And the central and crucially important Gatsby as a character? He was the one character that I felt I didn't know and couldn't sympathise with, undoubtedly due to the mystery he holds for other characters in the book, but in the first chapter Nick says how Gatsby turned out to be a good sort...and I don't think he did. He was just some bloke that turns up, gets in a bit of an emotional muddle, and that's that. It's not that I think the story is shallow or uninteresting or anything like that. It just feels a bit of an anticlimax - a gentle stroll through all the parties etc., a couple of promising revelations and then...diddlysquat. End of book.
Somehow it just never rang true for me. It's the kind of book that I know I will understand differently the next time I read it, the kind that reveals more of itself the more you get to know it. Skilled, beautiful writing, with a wonderful use of unique descriptive language. But lacking something - a bit of zing, some spice. Nowhere near my top 20. But possibly in the top 100 for the descriptions. We shall see.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Bone People by Keri Hulme
Just noticed an absolutely hideous split infinitive in the last post. Oh well.
I just finished The Bone People by Keri Hulme five minutes ago. It has been one heck of a read - took me ages, and is very hefty book, full of hefty ideas and hefty writing techniques...but I really enjoyed it, too. Keri Hulme is a New Zealand writer of mixed heritage - some Maori - and this is her first and only novel, although she writes poetry and short stories. The Bone People tells the story of how Kerewin, an asexual artist, finds herself getting more and more involved with Joe and his adopted son Simon. Simon is a difficult child who does not speak, and Joe is suffering from the loss of his wife and biological son. Their relationship is an abusive one, but at the same time absolutely loving. Their three lives become entwined.
I don't really know what it was that kept me going through this book. It's compelling from about 2/3 of the way through, but beforehand not an awful lot happens, except the presentation of the growing relationships between the characters. However, somehow it gripped me from the start, and my word, the end was worth the wait.
I loved several aspects of this book. The first is the inclusion of Maori myth and even language - subtle, at first, and then becoming more influential to the narrative towards the end. It was really fascinating to read about, but Hulme blended it perfectly into a picture of modern New Zealand. The second thing I loved was Hulme's use of language. In her introduction to my edition of the book, she talks about how words have 'shapes', and how the same word written with subtle differences (e.g. bluegreen, blue-green) creates entirely different meanings and feelings. She is a writer who is clearly aware of the infantessimal obscurities of language, and manipulates these beautifully. Her descriptions are spare and concise but conjure perfectly, and her prose, even dialogue, reads like poetry. The third aspect, and possibly the most moving aspect of the book, is the fact that it is a book about people. Despite the Maori myth and the plot and all the ins and outs it is a book about human relationships. All of the characters are flawed. They're all sympathetic. You can see a lot of the writer in this book, but it also reflects back to the reader. A very thought-provoking, caring and complexly simple story, and one that examines the beauty and horror of human relationships, very intelligently and very sympathetically.
I won't lie, there are parts of the book that are disturbing - the abuse scenes, in particular. But despite this it's the kind of book that gives you that bittersweet lift at the end. What they always call 'life-affirming' in film reviews - a term that I hate, but that I guess communicates the feeling.
It's also not easy going. Hulme weaves together third person, first person, past tense, present tense, narrative, dialogue, thought...and the structure puts the end at the beginning, loads of flashbacks in, things in consecutive chapters that are happening simultaneously or before what happened in the last chapter...Very unique, original style. I wouldn't call it avant-garde, because Hulme uses it deftly to mould the characters and narrative, and it is essential to the book rather than just being a pretentious add-on to a simple story. But it is different, and confusing, and tantalising. The complexity of the story requires the complexity of the way it's written. It was tough at times (especially when I had the much slimmer and more straight forward Great Gatsby at my side, watching me and begging to be read) but I really enjoyed Keri Hulme's unique style and tenderly-told story.
The Bone People is the kind of book that you can't rush through, and I won't be rushing to read it a second time. But I will read it again, not too far off. Three words to describe it? Eccentric, human, tender. Would I recommend other people read it? Yes. Not everyone will love it, and I was lucky that I read it at the right time for me, but I will definitely be recommending it to my more open-minded friends, as it is a book that teaches, without being preachy.
Waffle, the above. Basically, read it if you can set aside the time for it and if you like books that make you think hard. I loved it. I rescued it from a box going to the charity shop, and I'm glad I did, and it will be staying safely on my shelf waiting for me. ;)
I just finished The Bone People by Keri Hulme five minutes ago. It has been one heck of a read - took me ages, and is very hefty book, full of hefty ideas and hefty writing techniques...but I really enjoyed it, too. Keri Hulme is a New Zealand writer of mixed heritage - some Maori - and this is her first and only novel, although she writes poetry and short stories. The Bone People tells the story of how Kerewin, an asexual artist, finds herself getting more and more involved with Joe and his adopted son Simon. Simon is a difficult child who does not speak, and Joe is suffering from the loss of his wife and biological son. Their relationship is an abusive one, but at the same time absolutely loving. Their three lives become entwined.
I don't really know what it was that kept me going through this book. It's compelling from about 2/3 of the way through, but beforehand not an awful lot happens, except the presentation of the growing relationships between the characters. However, somehow it gripped me from the start, and my word, the end was worth the wait.
I loved several aspects of this book. The first is the inclusion of Maori myth and even language - subtle, at first, and then becoming more influential to the narrative towards the end. It was really fascinating to read about, but Hulme blended it perfectly into a picture of modern New Zealand. The second thing I loved was Hulme's use of language. In her introduction to my edition of the book, she talks about how words have 'shapes', and how the same word written with subtle differences (e.g. bluegreen, blue-green) creates entirely different meanings and feelings. She is a writer who is clearly aware of the infantessimal obscurities of language, and manipulates these beautifully. Her descriptions are spare and concise but conjure perfectly, and her prose, even dialogue, reads like poetry. The third aspect, and possibly the most moving aspect of the book, is the fact that it is a book about people. Despite the Maori myth and the plot and all the ins and outs it is a book about human relationships. All of the characters are flawed. They're all sympathetic. You can see a lot of the writer in this book, but it also reflects back to the reader. A very thought-provoking, caring and complexly simple story, and one that examines the beauty and horror of human relationships, very intelligently and very sympathetically.
I won't lie, there are parts of the book that are disturbing - the abuse scenes, in particular. But despite this it's the kind of book that gives you that bittersweet lift at the end. What they always call 'life-affirming' in film reviews - a term that I hate, but that I guess communicates the feeling.
It's also not easy going. Hulme weaves together third person, first person, past tense, present tense, narrative, dialogue, thought...and the structure puts the end at the beginning, loads of flashbacks in, things in consecutive chapters that are happening simultaneously or before what happened in the last chapter...Very unique, original style. I wouldn't call it avant-garde, because Hulme uses it deftly to mould the characters and narrative, and it is essential to the book rather than just being a pretentious add-on to a simple story. But it is different, and confusing, and tantalising. The complexity of the story requires the complexity of the way it's written. It was tough at times (especially when I had the much slimmer and more straight forward Great Gatsby at my side, watching me and begging to be read) but I really enjoyed Keri Hulme's unique style and tenderly-told story.
The Bone People is the kind of book that you can't rush through, and I won't be rushing to read it a second time. But I will read it again, not too far off. Three words to describe it? Eccentric, human, tender. Would I recommend other people read it? Yes. Not everyone will love it, and I was lucky that I read it at the right time for me, but I will definitely be recommending it to my more open-minded friends, as it is a book that teaches, without being preachy.
Waffle, the above. Basically, read it if you can set aside the time for it and if you like books that make you think hard. I loved it. I rescued it from a box going to the charity shop, and I'm glad I did, and it will be staying safely on my shelf waiting for me. ;)
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Too many books?
My reading is really out of control at the moment. I am currently reading Keri Hulme's 'The Bone People', Camus' 'L'Etranger' in French, D.H. Lawrence's 'The Rainbow', and Gillian Clarke's Collected Poems, as well as studying 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Rover' by Aphra Behn and revising Hardy's 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles', Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice', Shakespeare's 'Hamlet', and loads of other stuff. And on top of that I have loads of my own stories swimming around my head at the moment. Mostly they have been coming to me in dreams and I have to note them down very quickly before I lose them. Not so many poems at the moment.
Anyway, I am inching my way through 'The Bone People' mostly, and watching BBC4's adaptation of 'Women in Love' and pretending that it means I'm reading the Lawrence. I've decided that Hulme's book of short stories 'The Windeater' is going to be some of my holiday reading this summer, along with some J. M. Coetzee and maybe Ulysses. I had a trial seminar on Ulysses the other day and it sounds interesting, and it doesn't appear to be the solid lump of stream of consciousness that I had thought it was. So maybe. Also I'm a complete masochist so I have dug out my mum's old copy of it and it is staring at me fatly waiting for me to get to it. We shall see.
More on Keri Hulme when I finish it. Then I'll race through Gatsby and then onto the dreaded 'Rainbow'....... and ps. thanks Sean for your comment, I will check out the book, and would really love to one day visit Gjirokastra...when I've paid off my student debt maybe!
Anyway, I am inching my way through 'The Bone People' mostly, and watching BBC4's adaptation of 'Women in Love' and pretending that it means I'm reading the Lawrence. I've decided that Hulme's book of short stories 'The Windeater' is going to be some of my holiday reading this summer, along with some J. M. Coetzee and maybe Ulysses. I had a trial seminar on Ulysses the other day and it sounds interesting, and it doesn't appear to be the solid lump of stream of consciousness that I had thought it was. So maybe. Also I'm a complete masochist so I have dug out my mum's old copy of it and it is staring at me fatly waiting for me to get to it. We shall see.
More on Keri Hulme when I finish it. Then I'll race through Gatsby and then onto the dreaded 'Rainbow'....... and ps. thanks Sean for your comment, I will check out the book, and would really love to one day visit Gjirokastra...when I've paid off my student debt maybe!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Chronicle in Stone by Ismail Kadare
Ismail Kadare is an Albanian writer, and Chronicle set in the southern town of Gjirokaster during WW2. I don't know much abou historical or modern Albania or even much about WW2 for that matter but this book still made perfect sense to me, was beautifully evocative and a joy to read.
Usually when I'm enjoying a book I race through it. I'll take a couple of days to read it if I'm going slowly. With Chronicle it was different. I've been reading it since the last post. It'svery unusual for me to read like this but somehow it suited the book itself. I feel I have given it the sustained attention it deserves.
Told through the eyes of a young boy, the book tells the story of the inhabitants of Gjirokaster under Italian (then Greek, then Italian, then Greek, then Italian...then German) occupation. Kadare writes (or is translated - I think both writer and translator have done a brilliant job here) absolutely beautifully. Evocatively. His descritpions of the city and its surroundings, and perfect descriptions of the characters are absolutely enchanting and very moving.
This isn't a book full of wild action scenes, but I found that it was still a very tense and gripping read. The rumoured presence of Vasiliqia, a Greek holy woman who goes round choosing male citizens to be executed just by pointing at them, was a horrible moment. And the inevitability of Isa and Javer's fate...The book is gentle, with touches of humour and very clever use of a child narrator, but still does not shrink from the real nature of war. Perhaps the saddest part, from my view, was the death of the old lady Kako Pino, something that truly shocked and horrified me.
Kadare has written a very clever, but still enjoyable and above all moving book. The narrative is interspersed with smaller sections of news, but whereas this might distract from a less accomplished story, I found the fragmented structure very appealing. Chronicle draws together traditional Albanian superstition and society with the modern world, and throws in the calamity of war to stir things up still further. When you realise that much of this must have been based on Kadare's own experience, the story is even more profound.
I haven't said this before (or at least I don't remember if I have) about any book, but this is one that I think everyone - no matter where they come from or what their background is - should read. And I would even go so far as to rail and wail about why it isn't on the national syllabus - it should be (but that's another argument). One of the best books I have ever read, and definitely one of my favourites. Bless the day I was trauling through Amazon and it came up in my recommendations! And thank you Ismail Kadare for opening my eyes through your genius literature!
Usually when I'm enjoying a book I race through it. I'll take a couple of days to read it if I'm going slowly. With Chronicle it was different. I've been reading it since the last post. It'svery unusual for me to read like this but somehow it suited the book itself. I feel I have given it the sustained attention it deserves.
Told through the eyes of a young boy, the book tells the story of the inhabitants of Gjirokaster under Italian (then Greek, then Italian, then Greek, then Italian...then German) occupation. Kadare writes (or is translated - I think both writer and translator have done a brilliant job here) absolutely beautifully. Evocatively. His descritpions of the city and its surroundings, and perfect descriptions of the characters are absolutely enchanting and very moving.
This isn't a book full of wild action scenes, but I found that it was still a very tense and gripping read. The rumoured presence of Vasiliqia, a Greek holy woman who goes round choosing male citizens to be executed just by pointing at them, was a horrible moment. And the inevitability of Isa and Javer's fate...The book is gentle, with touches of humour and very clever use of a child narrator, but still does not shrink from the real nature of war. Perhaps the saddest part, from my view, was the death of the old lady Kako Pino, something that truly shocked and horrified me.
Kadare has written a very clever, but still enjoyable and above all moving book. The narrative is interspersed with smaller sections of news, but whereas this might distract from a less accomplished story, I found the fragmented structure very appealing. Chronicle draws together traditional Albanian superstition and society with the modern world, and throws in the calamity of war to stir things up still further. When you realise that much of this must have been based on Kadare's own experience, the story is even more profound.
I haven't said this before (or at least I don't remember if I have) about any book, but this is one that I think everyone - no matter where they come from or what their background is - should read. And I would even go so far as to rail and wail about why it isn't on the national syllabus - it should be (but that's another argument). One of the best books I have ever read, and definitely one of my favourites. Bless the day I was trauling through Amazon and it came up in my recommendations! And thank you Ismail Kadare for opening my eyes through your genius literature!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Yeah yeah, I know I've only read this because it's recently been turned into a film, but I haven't seen the film yet, so it's alright! Also I've read some of his Nocturnes before and have always been tempted by An Artist of the Floating World. But this is the first full Ishiguro I have read, and hopefully I'm off to see the film this week, so it will be interesting to compare.
But anyway, the book. I really enjoyed it. Short and sweet, literaray but not head-in-the-clouds, difficult message but easy reading. I think everyone should read this book, even if they don't usually enjoy reading. It was such a relief from the old D. H. Lawrence (I'm still struggling through that...I loved it but he's really over-descriptive!) but was still sophisticated and interesting.
Brief outline: Kathy, Tommy and Ruth are students at Hailsham. Eventually they go out into the big wide world. Their world is not like ours: after the Second World War, it was discovered that all sorts of diseases could be cured through transplants, and so they started manufacturing clones to grow organs. The book tells the story of their complex relationships, the clone + transplants thing being mostly a distant - but crucial - backdrop.
When I was enthusing about this book to one of my friends, she screwed up her face and said, "sounds just like 'The Island'." Referring of course to that mediocre Ewan McGregor/Scarlet Johansson film. True. The organ donor stuff has been done before in Hollywood, even if it hasn't in literature (although I don't know which came first, Never Let Me Go or The Island). But the fact is, Ishiguro's story is completely different: the clone thing is a backdrop. What he really focuses on, what he has clearly observed in incredible detail, and what makes the book a joy to read, is the fact that it is the human relationships that make the story. It could be set in our world and have the same poignancy; the fact that Ishiguro sets it in a different one is, as I say, more of a backdrop.
So yeah. No big blockbuster explosions here. But sharply observed and incredibly moving human relationships. A book that I think has made me a wiser person.
I have one criticism Never Let Me Go, and it is just a little niggle really. It's told from the point of view of Kathy, looking back on the past. Ishiguro uses this really interestingly; this is a brilliantly-crafted example of the unreliable narrator if ever there was once. The narrative voice is consistent and sympathetic. Ishiguro has created realistic characters, but ones who I cared about, and it is obvious what a skilled writer he is, from the fact that the voice never falters for one second. However, this was my little niggle with it: at times the unreliable narrator stuff - the way she would digress, then come back to a point, then relate a little anecdote from the past, and then jump to the present - was really interesting, but at a couple of points in the book I wish it had been a bit more...reliable. Just set down some solid facts here and there for a change would have been nice.
One thing this book will do is have you turning the pages. Because of the unreliable narrator, and the way it digresses, and skips backwards and forwards, the story and its background are built up in patches, meaning the only way to find out more is to keep reading. Compulsively! It frustrated me, but in a good way. In a can't-put-it-down kind of way. The end wasn't wholly unexpected but it wasn't what I had expected (if that makes sense) and there are still a few questions left unanswered at the end. A page-turner. A good'un.
I enjoyed this book very much. While not the most ground-breaking book I've ever come across, nor the best, it is one I will come back to and has definitely encouraged me to read more of Kazuo Ishiguro's work, and he is undeniably a very skilled writer.
Next up I'm reading 'Chronicle in Stone' by Ismail Kadare (in translation, I don't actually speak Albanian, in case you were wondering). I tend to read more female writers over male ones but it's really nice to be breaking the habit a bit at the moment. No matter what people say, men and women are different and do have different perspectives on life, and even write differently. So it feels good to equalise it all a bit. Dunno what I'll read after that. Probably worm my way through to the end of 'The Rainbow' with Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis' for light relief (in French). But I have a pile of books here that all need reading. 12 in total and that is my current bedside shortlist; in the hallway there are another 134539087340872103 I keep meaning to get round to. One day I'll get there. Maybe!
But anyway, the book. I really enjoyed it. Short and sweet, literaray but not head-in-the-clouds, difficult message but easy reading. I think everyone should read this book, even if they don't usually enjoy reading. It was such a relief from the old D. H. Lawrence (I'm still struggling through that...I loved it but he's really over-descriptive!) but was still sophisticated and interesting.
Brief outline: Kathy, Tommy and Ruth are students at Hailsham. Eventually they go out into the big wide world. Their world is not like ours: after the Second World War, it was discovered that all sorts of diseases could be cured through transplants, and so they started manufacturing clones to grow organs. The book tells the story of their complex relationships, the clone + transplants thing being mostly a distant - but crucial - backdrop.
When I was enthusing about this book to one of my friends, she screwed up her face and said, "sounds just like 'The Island'." Referring of course to that mediocre Ewan McGregor/Scarlet Johansson film. True. The organ donor stuff has been done before in Hollywood, even if it hasn't in literature (although I don't know which came first, Never Let Me Go or The Island). But the fact is, Ishiguro's story is completely different: the clone thing is a backdrop. What he really focuses on, what he has clearly observed in incredible detail, and what makes the book a joy to read, is the fact that it is the human relationships that make the story. It could be set in our world and have the same poignancy; the fact that Ishiguro sets it in a different one is, as I say, more of a backdrop.
So yeah. No big blockbuster explosions here. But sharply observed and incredibly moving human relationships. A book that I think has made me a wiser person.
I have one criticism Never Let Me Go, and it is just a little niggle really. It's told from the point of view of Kathy, looking back on the past. Ishiguro uses this really interestingly; this is a brilliantly-crafted example of the unreliable narrator if ever there was once. The narrative voice is consistent and sympathetic. Ishiguro has created realistic characters, but ones who I cared about, and it is obvious what a skilled writer he is, from the fact that the voice never falters for one second. However, this was my little niggle with it: at times the unreliable narrator stuff - the way she would digress, then come back to a point, then relate a little anecdote from the past, and then jump to the present - was really interesting, but at a couple of points in the book I wish it had been a bit more...reliable. Just set down some solid facts here and there for a change would have been nice.
One thing this book will do is have you turning the pages. Because of the unreliable narrator, and the way it digresses, and skips backwards and forwards, the story and its background are built up in patches, meaning the only way to find out more is to keep reading. Compulsively! It frustrated me, but in a good way. In a can't-put-it-down kind of way. The end wasn't wholly unexpected but it wasn't what I had expected (if that makes sense) and there are still a few questions left unanswered at the end. A page-turner. A good'un.
I enjoyed this book very much. While not the most ground-breaking book I've ever come across, nor the best, it is one I will come back to and has definitely encouraged me to read more of Kazuo Ishiguro's work, and he is undeniably a very skilled writer.
Next up I'm reading 'Chronicle in Stone' by Ismail Kadare (in translation, I don't actually speak Albanian, in case you were wondering). I tend to read more female writers over male ones but it's really nice to be breaking the habit a bit at the moment. No matter what people say, men and women are different and do have different perspectives on life, and even write differently. So it feels good to equalise it all a bit. Dunno what I'll read after that. Probably worm my way through to the end of 'The Rainbow' with Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis' for light relief (in French). But I have a pile of books here that all need reading. 12 in total and that is my current bedside shortlist; in the hallway there are another 134539087340872103 I keep meaning to get round to. One day I'll get there. Maybe!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Flo's Own...Poetry: How To Mummify Your Heart
This one just jumped out of nowhere. For some reason I was researching tylosis (how trees stop themselves from rotting in the middle) this week. Went for a walk in the woods, saw lots of fallen trees with hollow middles. Then last night out this one popped. This is draft 1. Don't know whether I like it or not yet. But here it is.
How to Mummify your Heart
First, you must plant your feet in the ground, and draw
up water by capillary action until your toes go pruney
(this shrivelling is essential - it's part of the magic).
Then take a deep breath and hold it. Stay as still as Saint
Kevin until you have sucked in all the CO2, then breathe out
the nitrogen and oxygen. You may find it easier
to whittle out the unwanted air by whistling
as you exhale. Step three is to wait for some bright
sunshine. Savour its warmth on your skin. Your eyes
will turn green. Keep them open, and stare into the sun.
Now you are photosynthesising. You'll feel a tingle
in your bloodstream - try not to panic, ladies and gentlemen,
this is perfectly normal. When you have photosynthesised enough
to have built up some stores of waste products,
set aside your resins and gums.
Now, here's one I made earlier. Watch as I unscrew my ribs
and open up from the sternum; you will see a hard and woody
centre. It's dead wood. As I have expanded
my core has died. But so that I do not become
all hollow on the inside I plug
my frail veins with the resins and gums. This we call
tylosis. When you've practised, this will come
as easily as transpiration, as reflexive as osmosis.
But for now, concentrate really hard. Be aware
of your spinal column, your veins, your aorta.
This should feel almost like a meditation. Imagine
the waste resins and gums pumping through your bloodstream.
Direct them to your heart. Don't get confused between
the pulmonary vein and artery, they're not the same
as your other tubes. Madam, you on the left -
I see that you are getting there. Watch, everyone, the colour leaving her face,
her expression blankening. Very good, very good. Now
open up your ribs - that's it - let's check.
Your xylem is as hard as concrete, madam.
Keep trying everyone else! If you want to mummify your heart
perseverance is key. Look at madam here. There's a breezeblock in her chest.
Excellent!
(c) stays with me.
How to Mummify your Heart
First, you must plant your feet in the ground, and draw
up water by capillary action until your toes go pruney
(this shrivelling is essential - it's part of the magic).
Then take a deep breath and hold it. Stay as still as Saint
Kevin until you have sucked in all the CO2, then breathe out
the nitrogen and oxygen. You may find it easier
to whittle out the unwanted air by whistling
as you exhale. Step three is to wait for some bright
sunshine. Savour its warmth on your skin. Your eyes
will turn green. Keep them open, and stare into the sun.
Now you are photosynthesising. You'll feel a tingle
in your bloodstream - try not to panic, ladies and gentlemen,
this is perfectly normal. When you have photosynthesised enough
to have built up some stores of waste products,
set aside your resins and gums.
Now, here's one I made earlier. Watch as I unscrew my ribs
and open up from the sternum; you will see a hard and woody
centre. It's dead wood. As I have expanded
my core has died. But so that I do not become
all hollow on the inside I plug
my frail veins with the resins and gums. This we call
tylosis. When you've practised, this will come
as easily as transpiration, as reflexive as osmosis.
But for now, concentrate really hard. Be aware
of your spinal column, your veins, your aorta.
This should feel almost like a meditation. Imagine
the waste resins and gums pumping through your bloodstream.
Direct them to your heart. Don't get confused between
the pulmonary vein and artery, they're not the same
as your other tubes. Madam, you on the left -
I see that you are getting there. Watch, everyone, the colour leaving her face,
her expression blankening. Very good, very good. Now
open up your ribs - that's it - let's check.
Your xylem is as hard as concrete, madam.
Keep trying everyone else! If you want to mummify your heart
perseverance is key. Look at madam here. There's a breezeblock in her chest.
Excellent!
(c) stays with me.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
'What the Water Gave Me: Poems After Frida Kahlo' by Pascale Petit
This book has been haunting me for a while, and today I finally bought it from Bookish, an independent bookstore in Crickhowell, Wales (can't recommend it enough - lovely little shop, and a brilliant budding events calendar). I've been dipping into poetry unstoppably over the last few days, maybe because it feels like a worthwhile distraction from my upcoming deadlines (7 of them!) or perhaps because it gives me a short burst of literature-related ecstasy and I'm too tired to bother with a whole novel. Anyway, literally 45 minutes ago I bought 'What the Water Gave Me' and I've been reading it. At last!!
First of all, a bit of background. I've loved Frida Kahlo's paintings since I was about 12 (I remember first reading her name in a Jacqueline Wilson book). I'm an art and literature student, and although in the next stage of my studies I hope to concentrate on literature, art is my second love, so I've been very interested to see how Pascale Petit blends the two together. Frida Kahlo in particular is fascinating: she lived through so much, not just her personal experience, but world events, and she was one of the few Surrealist artists who were women. She had a turbulent life. She remains a figure of mystery and semi-myth. As an equality-of-the-sexes-ist (okay, FEMINIST. There we go, I said the scary word) she fascinates me - she must have had so much strength to survive all that she did, but at the same time she was vulnerable and Diego Rivera trod on her a bit. She's an interesting character. Yes, as I said, semi-mythological.
Background to the story of me and this book: first saw it in Waterstones months ago, it's been popping up all over my Amazon recommendations, read up about it, bought a tutorial of Petit's from The Poetry School (Towards a Collection - very good, wish I had the time and money to take one of her courses), saw it in Waterstones again left to think about it, went back and they had run out of copies. So after all that I now have it.
When I first heard about the book, I was a bit sceptical; it seemed quite a strange thing to me for a poet to try and get under the skin of another REAL person, someone who had their own internal experience that they chose not to put into poetry, and Petit seems to do this more intimately and intensely than other poets (those I have read) who are inspired by paintings or other arts. But now, after reading some of her work, and after the Poetry School tutorial, I understand better what it was that Petit is doing with Frida Kahlo. One of the reviews on the back of the book describes it as 'ventriloquism', and I think that this is a helpful analogy. Petit is exploring the woman and the myth of Frida Kahlo, and how the two reinforce and contradict one another. Kahlo's paintings, her expression of her experience, are interpreted into words by another artist. If we imagine Kahlo and her experience as the word of 'god', Petit is writing the King James bible. It isn't Kahlo herself, but boy is it beautiful English, and it distills her myth into delicious words.
If any of that makes sense. Basically what I'm trying to say is that despite my early misgivings, Petit's relationship with the spirit of Kahlo isn't weird at all. I feel that Petit isn't trying to write or be or sell anything that isn't her, herself. It's just that shes doing it through the exploration of the myth of Kahlo, and what might have been behind the myth.
Anyway, onto the poetry.
Petit writes concisely. Her poems take a variety of forms on the page. She's clearly a poet who really crafts her poems - every word works for its place (my teachers are always spouting on about how this is what makes poetry poetry, but it's amazing the number of published poets who do dilute their message through wasteful words. Petit isn't one of these). Just look at 'a zoo of pinks' ('A Few Small Nips'), 'lightning jigs like skeletons' (She Plays Alone...) and the simple but perfect 'violet morning' of 'The Suicide of Dorothy Hale'.
Petit's vision absolutely sucks you in. Her training as a painter is obvious in her deft use of colour, texture, and the senses. Unike Annie Freud, she shows, rather than tells. Although Petit uses the first person a fair bit, I don't feel that it is monotonous as in Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability', as she uses it to express a variety of voices - not just Kahlo's, or her own, but even the characters of the paintings themselves (see 'The Wounded Deer', where it is the deer of the painting speaking to Frida the painter).
I compare Petit's style to that of Ruth Padel; they are two poets who can stick disparate words together to create the perfect image, and who write about beauty and emotion beautifully and emotionally. Petit has done something really clever in these poems - taken the uncomfortable disjointedness of Kahlo's paintings and made beautiful poetry from all that pain - still as haunting but more dreamlike than Kahlo's nightmare reality.
OK, lots of waffle in this review. But basically, three points:
First of all, a bit of background. I've loved Frida Kahlo's paintings since I was about 12 (I remember first reading her name in a Jacqueline Wilson book). I'm an art and literature student, and although in the next stage of my studies I hope to concentrate on literature, art is my second love, so I've been very interested to see how Pascale Petit blends the two together. Frida Kahlo in particular is fascinating: she lived through so much, not just her personal experience, but world events, and she was one of the few Surrealist artists who were women. She had a turbulent life. She remains a figure of mystery and semi-myth. As an equality-of-the-sexes-ist (okay, FEMINIST. There we go, I said the scary word) she fascinates me - she must have had so much strength to survive all that she did, but at the same time she was vulnerable and Diego Rivera trod on her a bit. She's an interesting character. Yes, as I said, semi-mythological.
Background to the story of me and this book: first saw it in Waterstones months ago, it's been popping up all over my Amazon recommendations, read up about it, bought a tutorial of Petit's from The Poetry School (Towards a Collection - very good, wish I had the time and money to take one of her courses), saw it in Waterstones again left to think about it, went back and they had run out of copies. So after all that I now have it.
When I first heard about the book, I was a bit sceptical; it seemed quite a strange thing to me for a poet to try and get under the skin of another REAL person, someone who had their own internal experience that they chose not to put into poetry, and Petit seems to do this more intimately and intensely than other poets (those I have read) who are inspired by paintings or other arts. But now, after reading some of her work, and after the Poetry School tutorial, I understand better what it was that Petit is doing with Frida Kahlo. One of the reviews on the back of the book describes it as 'ventriloquism', and I think that this is a helpful analogy. Petit is exploring the woman and the myth of Frida Kahlo, and how the two reinforce and contradict one another. Kahlo's paintings, her expression of her experience, are interpreted into words by another artist. If we imagine Kahlo and her experience as the word of 'god', Petit is writing the King James bible. It isn't Kahlo herself, but boy is it beautiful English, and it distills her myth into delicious words.
If any of that makes sense. Basically what I'm trying to say is that despite my early misgivings, Petit's relationship with the spirit of Kahlo isn't weird at all. I feel that Petit isn't trying to write or be or sell anything that isn't her, herself. It's just that shes doing it through the exploration of the myth of Kahlo, and what might have been behind the myth.
Anyway, onto the poetry.
Petit writes concisely. Her poems take a variety of forms on the page. She's clearly a poet who really crafts her poems - every word works for its place (my teachers are always spouting on about how this is what makes poetry poetry, but it's amazing the number of published poets who do dilute their message through wasteful words. Petit isn't one of these). Just look at 'a zoo of pinks' ('A Few Small Nips'), 'lightning jigs like skeletons' (She Plays Alone...) and the simple but perfect 'violet morning' of 'The Suicide of Dorothy Hale'.
Petit's vision absolutely sucks you in. Her training as a painter is obvious in her deft use of colour, texture, and the senses. Unike Annie Freud, she shows, rather than tells. Although Petit uses the first person a fair bit, I don't feel that it is monotonous as in Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability', as she uses it to express a variety of voices - not just Kahlo's, or her own, but even the characters of the paintings themselves (see 'The Wounded Deer', where it is the deer of the painting speaking to Frida the painter).
I compare Petit's style to that of Ruth Padel; they are two poets who can stick disparate words together to create the perfect image, and who write about beauty and emotion beautifully and emotionally. Petit has done something really clever in these poems - taken the uncomfortable disjointedness of Kahlo's paintings and made beautiful poetry from all that pain - still as haunting but more dreamlike than Kahlo's nightmare reality.
OK, lots of waffle in this review. But basically, three points:
- Beautiful, evocative imagery
- Unique and vibrant vision, an ambitious collection
- Read it, it's really good.
The Mirabelles by Annie Freud, and Gillian Clarke's Collected Poems
'The Mirabelles' is Freud's second collection, has a very pretty front cover and is a Poetry Book Society choice. It is also the first of Freud's work that I have read.
I haven't read the whole of this book, but it's quite an unusual one. It's been very interesting to see a range of what contemporary poetry can be, and The Mirabelles is a good introduction to different styles for someone new to contemporary poetry (like me). It isn't earth-shattering, or ground-breaking, but is unusual.
The collection is split into three different sections, which each showcase different styles and structures. The second section, 'The Inexplicable Human Gorgeousness', is the one I am reading now, and contains a few found poems - i.e. poetry made from an existing text. Although I have enjoyed quite a fair bit of the book so far, the found poems annoyed me. This is just my opinion, but I feel it rather strongly: sticking a few line breaks into someone else's writing does not make a poem. Poetry requires a creative input of vision and skill from the writer. Freud's found poems don't deliver this. To me, these aren't poetry. They're taking credit for someone else's legwork (and I say 'taking credit for', because one of the found poems is mentioned in the blurb, and makes the book sound much more interesting than it really is!).
I enjoy Freud's original work however. The opening poem, 'Squid Sonnet', is one that I particularly liked. In some places her voice seems undeveloped - a bit 'tell', rather than 'show', a bit less vital and vibrant than the work of the fully-formed, mature poetry of Jo Shapcott, for example - but I can see that there is a unique vision under there. I'd recommend borrowing this book from the library and studying it - for me personally, it's poetry to study, rather than to savour.
Gillian Clarke's 'Collected Poems'. Now there's a completely different kettle of fish. Some poetry to really get stuck into. Images and words that you can really taste. And I've only read one section so far!
Gillian Clarke is the Welsh equivalent of Poet Laureate, and I can see why. She writes beautifully, in a variety of forms and styles, with a fully-formed voice that is all her own. She touches so many subjects, absolutely expertly. My favourites include 'Pipistrelle', 'Today' and 'Oranges'. I love the way that she sticks in little bits of Welsh, words that have no exact translation in English, but that fit the meaning perfectly (they are explained - 100% English-speaker friendly, and aren't too numerous, so don't be put off).
I may write a fuller review when I've read more. But for now, all I can say is that if you enjoy poetry, read Gillian Clarke!
I haven't read the whole of this book, but it's quite an unusual one. It's been very interesting to see a range of what contemporary poetry can be, and The Mirabelles is a good introduction to different styles for someone new to contemporary poetry (like me). It isn't earth-shattering, or ground-breaking, but is unusual.
The collection is split into three different sections, which each showcase different styles and structures. The second section, 'The Inexplicable Human Gorgeousness', is the one I am reading now, and contains a few found poems - i.e. poetry made from an existing text. Although I have enjoyed quite a fair bit of the book so far, the found poems annoyed me. This is just my opinion, but I feel it rather strongly: sticking a few line breaks into someone else's writing does not make a poem. Poetry requires a creative input of vision and skill from the writer. Freud's found poems don't deliver this. To me, these aren't poetry. They're taking credit for someone else's legwork (and I say 'taking credit for', because one of the found poems is mentioned in the blurb, and makes the book sound much more interesting than it really is!).
I enjoy Freud's original work however. The opening poem, 'Squid Sonnet', is one that I particularly liked. In some places her voice seems undeveloped - a bit 'tell', rather than 'show', a bit less vital and vibrant than the work of the fully-formed, mature poetry of Jo Shapcott, for example - but I can see that there is a unique vision under there. I'd recommend borrowing this book from the library and studying it - for me personally, it's poetry to study, rather than to savour.
Gillian Clarke's 'Collected Poems'. Now there's a completely different kettle of fish. Some poetry to really get stuck into. Images and words that you can really taste. And I've only read one section so far!
Gillian Clarke is the Welsh equivalent of Poet Laureate, and I can see why. She writes beautifully, in a variety of forms and styles, with a fully-formed voice that is all her own. She touches so many subjects, absolutely expertly. My favourites include 'Pipistrelle', 'Today' and 'Oranges'. I love the way that she sticks in little bits of Welsh, words that have no exact translation in English, but that fit the meaning perfectly (they are explained - 100% English-speaker friendly, and aren't too numerous, so don't be put off).
I may write a fuller review when I've read more. But for now, all I can say is that if you enjoy poetry, read Gillian Clarke!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability'
I first read Jo Shapcott in Ruth Padel's '50 Ways of Looking at a Poem' which I started dipping into a few months ago. I'd been eyeing up 'Of Mutability' since then, and when it won the Costa prize I knew I had to just bite the bullet and buy it.
I've raced through it, which probably isn't the way to get the most out of a poetry book, but it was very readable. None of the poems in there are too long, which I like. I always find that if I'm flipping through a poetry book, I skip the long ones. I like short to medium length poems. I like concise punchiness.
So does 'Of Mutability' deliver? Certainly the length of the poems fits my personal preferences, but I am in two minds about this collection. There's no denying that it's good. And there's no denying that Shapcott is a talented, well-honed poet with a very clear, recogniseable voice. But at the same time I feel that the collection lacked, in general, a bit of variety. Apart from two stand-out poems (about halfway through the collection), I remember it as kind of homogenised lump. The poems don't vary in length, tone, subject, even voice (3rd/1st person. I find that it's always difficult to decide which voice to use, and it's usually easier to just settle for 1st person, a strategy that Shapcott seems to have followed religiously. It's obviously a very personal, almost intimate collection, so 1st person suits it, but I did find the use of 1st person almost...(I hate to use the word, becuase it really is a good collection, but there's no other word to describe it concisely)....slightly monotonous). In short, it works as a collection. But for me, most of the poems don't stand up on their own.
Shapcott's style and use of language is something I really admire, however. I love how she plays with half-rhyme, alliteration, internal rhyme, and her mixing of specialist, kind of scientific vocabulary with everyday musings. My favourite poems have to be 'Somewhat Unravelled', about dementia, and 'Tea Death', about drowning in tea. For me these two stand out because they deal with serious, difficult subjects with a slightly lighter tone. 'Somewhat Unravelled' contains such lines as 'Don't you want to sell your nail-clippings/ online?' and 'you are a plump armchair...you are a sofa/ rumba', lines that are outwardly humourous but at the same time reveal unflinchingly the difficulty of aging and losing one's memory. 'Tea Death' finishes with a lovely stanza that mentions 'wobbling/ belly buttons'.
Verdict? On the whole not interesting, but enjoyable. One to dip into. I'll reread it, but slower next time, and in tandem with something a little more innovative and with a bit more bite.
I've raced through it, which probably isn't the way to get the most out of a poetry book, but it was very readable. None of the poems in there are too long, which I like. I always find that if I'm flipping through a poetry book, I skip the long ones. I like short to medium length poems. I like concise punchiness.
So does 'Of Mutability' deliver? Certainly the length of the poems fits my personal preferences, but I am in two minds about this collection. There's no denying that it's good. And there's no denying that Shapcott is a talented, well-honed poet with a very clear, recogniseable voice. But at the same time I feel that the collection lacked, in general, a bit of variety. Apart from two stand-out poems (about halfway through the collection), I remember it as kind of homogenised lump. The poems don't vary in length, tone, subject, even voice (3rd/1st person. I find that it's always difficult to decide which voice to use, and it's usually easier to just settle for 1st person, a strategy that Shapcott seems to have followed religiously. It's obviously a very personal, almost intimate collection, so 1st person suits it, but I did find the use of 1st person almost...(I hate to use the word, becuase it really is a good collection, but there's no other word to describe it concisely)....slightly monotonous). In short, it works as a collection. But for me, most of the poems don't stand up on their own.
Shapcott's style and use of language is something I really admire, however. I love how she plays with half-rhyme, alliteration, internal rhyme, and her mixing of specialist, kind of scientific vocabulary with everyday musings. My favourite poems have to be 'Somewhat Unravelled', about dementia, and 'Tea Death', about drowning in tea. For me these two stand out because they deal with serious, difficult subjects with a slightly lighter tone. 'Somewhat Unravelled' contains such lines as 'Don't you want to sell your nail-clippings/ online?' and 'you are a plump armchair...you are a sofa/ rumba', lines that are outwardly humourous but at the same time reveal unflinchingly the difficulty of aging and losing one's memory. 'Tea Death' finishes with a lovely stanza that mentions 'wobbling/ belly buttons'.
Verdict? On the whole not interesting, but enjoyable. One to dip into. I'll reread it, but slower next time, and in tandem with something a little more innovative and with a bit more bite.
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