Lifesaving Poems: the book

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Photograph © Bloodaxe Books Ltd

 

I am delighted to announce that my Lifesaving Poems series of blog posts is going to become a book. Bloodaxe Books will be publishing the anthology in June 2015.

Readers of this blog will know how the project started and therefore what this means to me. Originally, the idea of Lifesaving Poems stemmed from a remark I once saw of Seamus Heaney, along the lines of an out-loud query about how many poems could affect a person over a lifetime. Was it ten, he said, twenty, fifty, a hundred, or more?

To put this notion to the test I began copying out poems, in inky longhand, into a plain Moleskine notebook given to me for Christmas. My criteria for inclusion were as basic as possible. In the style of Heaney and Hughes’s The Schoolbag I allowed myself only one poem per poet. And I had to be able to remember the experience of first encountering it.

I didn’t write in the notebook every day. Sometimes weeks would go by without an entry, only to spur myself into action with several poems in one sitting of a rainy weekend, say. According to the inscription on the front page I began in July 2009 and finally filled the notebook in May 2011, shortly after which I wrote my first Lifesaving Poems post, on Alasdair Paterson’s ‘Fishermen’.

Readers of this blog, and of my memoir Love for Nowwill also know that, quite apart from the physical effort of copying the poems, the notebook and subsequent blog mean much more to me. This is because, during my treatment for cancer in 2006 I felt for the first time in my life that poetry was leaving me. By that I mean not just the desire (or ability, or concentration) to write poems, but the notion of reading and spending time with poems at all.

Lifesaving Poems  is therefore an attempt to say thank you, ultimately to poetry for not deserting me but also to the poets who wrote the poems, and the people -teachers, friends, colleagues, poets, anthologists- who have influenced my reading, and therefore my life, so richly.

I should say straight away that not every poem from the blog is included in the book. Partly this is for reasons of size, and partly I am hoping there will be a sequel! To find out who I have included you will have to do what I am always encouraging my readers to do: buy the book. It feels both odd and wonderful to write that sentence in support of something I have put together.

If the process of turning a notebook into a blog into a book has taught me anything it is that poems are needed by people. Which is to say not just that we reach for poetry in times of distress, joy and grief; but that a poem, lying dormant, only comes fully alive when this or that person comes along and reads it. That is what I have tried (and continue) to do with Lifesaving Poems: to stay true to the energy of first encounters, remembering as accurately as possible my debt to the friend or anthologist who put me in the poem’s way.

I am indebted to Neil Astley for suggesting and supporting the anthology from the start; and to Anna Clarke for her help with the manuscript.

Poetry and illness

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Medicine

 

The black hair of my Chinese doctor

gleams like combed ink

as he leans over his desk,

with quick pen strokes writing my prescription

in the lingo of the I Ching,

characters so intricate and strange,

the page looks like a street

lined with sampans and pagodas,

rickshaws gliding through the palace gates

bearing Szechuan takeout to the king.

 

Daydreaming comes easy to the ill:

slowed down to the speed of waiting rooms,

you learn to hang suspended in the wallpaper,

to drift among the magazines and plants,

feeling a strange love

for the time that might be killing you.

 

Two years ago I was so infatuated

with my lady doctor, Linda,

I wanted to get better just to please her,

and yet to go on getting worse,

to keep her leaning toward me,

with her sea green eyes and stethoscope, asking

Does that hurt?

 

Does it hurt? Yes, it hurts

so sweet. It hurts exquisitely.

It hurts real good. I feel as if I read it

in some Bible for the ill,

that suffering itself is medicine

and to endure enough will cure you

of anything.

 

So I want more injury

and repair, an ulcer

and a migraine, please.

I want to suffer like my mother,

 

who said once, following a shot

- her face joyful as the needle entered -

that she felt a train had been injected

straight into her vein. Day after day,

to see her sinking

through the layers of our care

 

was to learn something delicious

about weakness:

as if she had discovered

the train was bound somewhere;

and the conductor

had told everyone on board

they never had to bear the weight

of being strong again.

 

Tony Hoagland  from Donkey Gospel (Graywolf Press, 1998)

I wouldn’t be without Tony Hoagland. I think he takes you to places in his poems which you knew existed but have absolutely never spoken about, places you have heard rumours of yet feel eerily compelled by, and places which, while seeming to appear from right under your feet, are transformed into something utterly new and strange. Much of the time he is doing all of these at once. ‘Medicine’ is a fabulous example of this.

You know this because where you end up is far from where you began. I first began trying this as a way of reading poems via a comment of Dean Parkin a few years ago in The Rialto. He was commenting on Dean Young’s comment that it can sometimes be instructive to say the first few lines/first line of a poem, quickly followed by its last.

In the case of ‘Medicine’ we therefore move from:

The black hair of my Chinese doctor

gleams like combed ink

as he leans over his desk

to:

they never had to bear the weight

of being strong again.

At the most basic level of the sentence, we notice that new personal pronouns are being used. We have gone from ‘his’ (the doctor) to ‘they’. A shift has taken place. We have been taken from a consulting room to the question of ‘being strong’.

This is the kind of thing that Kim Addonizio and Michael Theune talk about in their wonderful Voltage Poetry blog. They refer to it as ‘the turn': ‘a significant shift in rhetorical and/or dramatic trajectory’.

‘Medicine’ has more turns than an Alpine pass, and is just as breathtaking.

We begin with that marvellous image of the Chinese doctor’s hair ‘like combed ink’. We are in an office. There are papers (we assume), because there is a desk. But soon, as the confidence in the speaker’s riff grows, we are ‘bearing Szechuan takeout to the king’, an image that would be laughably over the top were it not for our implicit knowledge that we are here to talk about suffering.

As if to beg the reader’s forbearance, the tone shifts again, into a stanza of marvellous simplicity and directness:

Daydreaming comes easy to the ill:

slowed down to the speed of waiting rooms,

you learn to hang suspended in the wallpaper,

to drift among the magazines and plants,

feeling a strange love

for the time that might be killing you.

For me that is up there with Julia Darling and Beverly Rycroft. Just look at those verbs, each arriving in a perfect pair of submerged action and emotion: ‘daydreaming’ and ‘slowed down'; ‘hang’ and ‘drift'; ‘feeling’ and ‘killing’. It is a ‘strange love’ indeed.

But then we are off again, this time into the speaker’s memory of his ‘lady doctor, Linda’. I must admit to not feeling a great liking for the phrase ‘lady doctor’. We don’t say ‘lady teacher’ or ‘lady politician’. The more I read it, the more creepy it seems to me. Parallel to this is the creeping thought that this may be exactly what is intended, played out in the speaker’s desire to ‘please her,/ and yet to go on getting worse’.

Not many poets dare to risk merging overt sexism with covert sexual desire, let alone in the context of a serious subject like suffering. But this is the Hoagland way. Do I wince when I read it? Of course. Am I glad he did it? That is harder to answer, not least when the poem makes its next two turns, at the speaker’s imperative ‘I want more injury’ and ‘I want to suffer like my mother’.

On the face of it the latter is especially injurious. The reader may even be forgiven for wondering if the poet is not flirting with outright misogyny.

Critically, it is not just the subject which turns, but, once again, the tone. We are in the territory of real suffering now, both that of the speaker’s mother, and his own as he watches her sink ‘through the layers of our care’, an image which, tonally, is tender and a perfect rendering of helplessness. The ‘needle’ is all we need to know that we are also in the place of the final days, and thus the final questions.

In a neat summary of the poem’s own shifting language and perspectives the poem invites us to weigh up the oxymoronic ‘something delicious/ about weakness’. The metaphor of the out of control train which drives the poem’s final stanzas is, again, one which dallies with comedy, were the subject not so harrowing. This is, in part, because the symbol of the train takes its energy from outside of the speaker’s own invention, the only time this happens in the poem.

Finally, the speaker explicitly tells us, we are in a place of learning. It is possible to think of this sudden turn-within-a-turn as didactic. I have a theory that to English or British ears it may well be. The point is one you find in all great faith systems and philosophies, namely that you find yourself when you finally let go, that strength is achievable only in weakness. To our individualistic, Western minds this is of course an outrage. I wonder if the risks Hoagland takes to arrive here, making himself appear by turns whimsical, crestfallen, lustful, hard-hearted and helpless, are calibrated to undercut the notion that we possess any authority in the face of death, and our moral superiority with it.

 

I will be discussing poetry and illness with Beverly Rycroft at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival on Saturday 8 November, at the Jerwood Kiln, 1.15-2.00 pm.