Featured Anthology: Oxford Poets 2007 – Kieron Winn

Today’s poem comes from Kieron Winn, a freelance teacher and poet. He says of ‘Mountain Water’, “the final rhyme would have been a full one for Wordsworth” (and a nod to Tony Harrison‘s brilliant poem ‘Them and [uz]’, I am informed). Winn’s poetry is rooted in the dramatic landscapes of the Lake District and alludes to both Wordsworth and Coleridge, not so much in style but in them as subjects: their location and their relationship to one another. His superb evocation of landscape, from the smallest, “of beach streams/ Where individual flying grains are seen” (‘The Unforgetting’), to the grand, “To a prehuman valley in the mountains/ Networked by veins of thin and plashable streams”, creates a sense of our surroundings having their own palpable and strong life force.

Sitting in an office in the middle of a city, surrounded by the hum of computers, the whirring of printers and the roaring of passing cars, I read Winn’s poem and am transported to the rugged landscape of the Lake District and the image of crystal clear water tumbling down a mountain. Some may say I’m romantic… I say, just enjoy it. Then head to the nearest mountain.

Mountain Water

Lucid stream,
Travelling light,
Itself and open,
Black and white,
Cold on the palm,
Chilly burn,
By mossy rock
And thriving fern,
Salt and poison
Clouds remade,
Ancient freshness,
Undecayed,
Fluid muscle,
Inner chatter,
Flowing, constant
Mountain water.

(This poem is reproduced with permission from Oxford Poets 2007: An Anthology, edited by David Constantine and Bernard O’Donoghue, published by Carcanet Press.)

Featured Anthology: Oxford Poets 2007 – Hilary Menos

Hilary Menos is the second poet we’re highlighting in this feature. Previously working as a journalist, Menos now runs an organic farm in Devon.

As to ‘why poetry’, I can think of three possible reasons: My mother read me poetry as a child; My father spent hours every night drafting and redrafting technical documents, publicity material, minutes from meetings – he would worry for hours over the meaning, and placement, of one word; and when I left my junior school at eleven, Mr Sutcliffe told me to never stop writing poetry. We all have a Mr Sutcliffe.

The influence of rural Devon is felt in her poetry through recurring themes of nature and traditional life but avoids the idealised and romantic forms, “I hope my poetry is firmly rooted in the real”, Menos says, “No herons, no buttercups, no fluffy lambs – I’m more of a slaughterhouse and slurry pit poet.” She also writes about global environmental damage – in a way that’s oblique but not obscure, only political in the broadest sense – and the wider, more general themes of poetry: community, death, and our lost faith in society. “There are lots of different ways to say something and poets might as well say it in as interesting and entertaining a way as possible. And, generally, brevity is a good thing.”

‘The Gift’ presents to us a unique perception of the creative process: starting with the infinite, spiraling down into a physical landscape only to then unfurl itself into its own possibilites and boundless space again. This charts the process of the poem’s creation but also, how once formed, the poem is then open to its reader’s interpretation and to soar once more.

The Gift

I want to write you a small square poem
that starts with space and a vague notion of form
then pitches in headlong – not holding its nose
at the pull of another body – to atmosphere,
the curve of coastline, a fjords fold and wrinkle,
borders, boundaries, the abrupt hyphenation of dams,
and hurtles through the sprawl of domes and spires
of a small Italian town to a piazza where,
between candy-stripe carts of ice-cream sellers,
past lunchtime chatter, waiters bringing Lavazza
and orange juice, it finds firm ground,
lands on the page like a flag, like a map of a world
impossible to resist and, catching the wind,
unfurls and soars like a bird circling the square.

(This poem is reproduced with permission from Oxford Poets 2007: An Anthology, edited by David Constantine and Bernard O’Donoghue, published by Carcanet Press.)

Featured Anthology: Oxford Poets 2007 – Grace Ingoldby

The first of our featured poets in the first of our featured anthologies is Grace Ingoldby. A novelist and poet with an ear for domestic and sectarian violence – she lived in Northern Ireland during the 1970s – Ingoldby’s perceptiveness to the world around her is demonstrated in her writing through stylish humour and original responses. She died in 2005, after a two-year battle with cancer. She faced her struggle with the same vigour and vivacity that she poured into her creative life; laughter was always to be heard but beneath this lay profound personal sorrow and unjustified self doubt. Of Grace’s unique interpretation and spirit for life, Mary Ingoldby says, “Discuss an idea with Grace and and you always came away with something entirely new. She was clever, extremely amusing, and quick to cut through the pretentious and the worthy.” Her poetry was “vital to her”, she would “work and rework”, through different genres in order to get the rythym and tone just right.

The sense of movement that is conveyed in this poem, through the grand expanse of sky and the hunched figure, demonstrates the detrimental power of introspection and insisting the need to throw ourselves open to be rid of pain and sorrow.

Morning be salve to you

On a clear night let the stars be your alibi
Save yourself from yourself by throwing your
Head back, gazing at something many light
Years away, for whatever happens in
This position it is impossible
To cry. Cryers bend forwards, they hug and
They hide themselves, tears leave them ragged, their
Sadness seeps inwards to what’s already
Sodden. At dawn the cocks crow from the grey
Of the orchard you’re leaving; morning be
Salve to you, day be square with you, fair with
You, remember to throw your head back should
Sadness still have its hand on you, for in
This position only the cockerels can cry.

(This poem is reproduced with permission from Oxford Poets 2007: An Anthology, edited by David Constantine and Bernard O’Donoghue, published by Carcanet Press.)

Mary will be reading Grace’s poetry at an event for the launch of Oxford Poets 2007: An Anthology at Foyles Bookshop, London on Monday 29th October.

Featured Poem: The Sun Rising

Today’s featured poem is John Donne’s ‘The Sun Rising’, which really needs no introduction other than to say that on a grey autumn day Donne’s poem, like love, is a better match for the rags of time than the heat of summer.

The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen, that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic; all wealth alchemy.
Thou sun art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.

Featured Anthology: Oxford Poets 2007

In a new feature at The Reader Online, we’re going to be featuring a recently published poetry anthology, bringing you some of the best contemporary poetic writing over a week each month.

The first of our featured anthologies is Oxford Poets 2007: An Anthology (eds. David Constantine and Bernard O’Donoghue), which includes work by Jemma Borg, Hugh Dunkerley, Grace Ingoldby, Olivia McCannon, Jo Roach, Damian Walford Davis, Lynne Wycherley and many others. From Monday, we will reproduce a poem from this collection each day (with thanks to the publisher Carcanet), plus some information about the poet and a few thoughts about the day’s poem from us in The Reader office.

Posted by Jen Tomkins. Powered by Qumana

Featured Poem: Ode to the West Wind

Autumn is making its presence felt: the leaves are turning, the nights are drawing in and the temperature is dropping. British seasons are inspiring for their physical changing of our surroundings – the beautiful firey colours of the leaves in autumn, the fresh green buds of spring – they are an inspiration for writers presenting a message . Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind presents the autumnal wind as a spiritual presence, spreading the word of change and regeneration. The first three cantos of this poem are about the qualities possessed by the ‘wind’, the last two focus on the speaker (or hearer) and present the relationship between the spirit of reform and the impact on the man.

 

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

1819

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