Hello and welcome!
We here begin this chain of dialogue with Paul Matthews, whose sequence of poems ‘Tongues of Fire’ was published in Scintilla 16. Over the weeks and months, the baton will be passed – as you will read below – to other poets published in Scintilla, with each conversation offering a fascinating glimpse into that poet’s work, inspirations and practices. The growing conversation will speak more widely of the range of poetry published by Scintilla. If you are interested to know more about the poems discussed, please do think of purchasing a copy of Scintilla. Thank you.
Poetry Editor Scintilla 16 & 17
Paul, I’m very happy to have your sequence of poems ‘Tongues of Fire’ in Scintilla 16. You have this remarkable ability, it seems to me, of being able to balance levity with gravity; profundity is present yet conveyed with a light, deft touch. My question for you is around the practice of writing, of poem-making – can you say something about your relationship with poesis, language and imagination? These seem to be at least some of the themes you were exploring in this sequence, where ‘Life after life / we are given tongues /to sing our circumstance’ -?
Fiona, that title, ‘Tongues of Fire’, carries a Whitsun image; but if any ‘bene diction’ came it was in a form which shocked me … the tongue as blind amphibian, both servant and dictator, lurking between dark and daylight. I was reluctant at first to admit it into my writing.
Mostly I begin with something in mind to say. But then the fiery tongue of some poem-not-yet-written starts wagging at the bottom of the page, an active presence moving towards me out of the future, and I scan the field for rhymes waiting to be arrived at.
It’s not that I wish to lend my tongue to any old angel breezing by. If I have to be a wind chime let it be the one that Shelley speaks of, conscious and responsible in my craft to modulate what’s moving.
The grace of Aspen is my image for this – It flares at the slightest breath. Well, grace it may be, but not comfortable. People have been filmed attending to the spoken word, and when it’s played back slow motion the body is seen trembling in particular ways to each vowel and consonant. When the things of the world come close with their words and gestures I find myself among those quakers!
This is not mystical. It is a sense I am talking about, perceptive of the feeling tone of language, or ‘Melopoeia’ as Ezra Pound called it. He honed his apprehension of it by translating Troubadour and Anglo-Saxon poetry. Much of my poetic practice is founded on his instruction. The ‘heart’s tone’ can be caught in words, he said.
And I am not just being playful if I say that fire does occasionally break out when writing poetry. Once roused, the faculty I am trying to describe knows the power and origin of a word better than we do. It crosses some fiery threshold, and then miraculously brings back metaphors which move and mean within a rightful resonance. I would be happy to know how you and others experience this.
Paul, that is a most potent way to begin our chain of poetic thoughts. Fire has certainly broken out in my own imagination, having read this! I’d now like to invite you to choose one poem from Scintilla 16 that especially caught your eye. There are many fine poems to choose from, so I’m excusing you from worrying about leaving any good poem out. Whichever poem you choose, please say something about what you’ve seen in it and why you like it. And then: could you ask that poet a single (ish) question? Thanks to you, Paul.
Dear Fiona, yes, so many good poems to choose from. How about this one: ‘Brought to Mind’, by John Freeman. In my ‘Touchpaper’ poem I speak of metaphors clouding the simple light, but John’s poem is almost totally free of them. I like (and can learn from) its directness. Seemingly, it is without artifice – spontaneous utterance; yet I am sure that its author has practised for years this art of being artless. How can it be a poem if there’s not a metaphor in sight? Yet poem it is – it catches truly the fire, the motion of the emotion that I wrote about earlier – the line breaks, the ambiguity of the punctuation set up a tension as I read, puzzling at first, but actually (by making me unsure whether father or poet is speaking) it embodies what the poem is on about: I remember him every day / invite him to go on living through me.
Dear John, in the context of ‘poetic practice’, I want to know whether (to quote your beloved Shelley) you wrote this poem as a profuse strain of unpremeditated art, or whether you worked it over and over to get it right. Thanks, Paul.
(And if you’ve never read anything by Paul Matthews, I suggest you visit his inspiring website and list of publications here. You will also find a full-length poetic conversation between Paul and myself on my website here .)
Dear Paul, thank you for asking me to go next in this sequence; and, dear Fiona, thank you for initiating it. Paul, thank you for saying that my poem ‘catches truly the fire’, since it creates a context for your disconcerting question, as does your not doubting that ‘I have practised for years this art of being artless’. That sounds reassuring! By this stage you have me relaxed, my defences down. But then you ask, quoting Shelley, whether or not my poem is profuse, unpremeditated, ‘or whether you worked it over and over to get it right.’ Eh? I feel like the man who was asked in court, ‘have you stopped beating your wife yet?’ Or how Robert Creeley may have felt for a nano-second being asked after a reading ‘Was that a real poem or did you just make it up yourself?’ (To be fair, he then saw it would make a good title for a book about poetry.) As Fiona says, you have a gift for balancing levity with gravity, and she might have added, you sometimes adopt a mask of naivety, as exemplified by your question, from behind which you can be devilish clever. So I think you know a lot already about how I might answer you. But as we are having this exchange in public I will say some of what you know and then try to push into other territory.
As you know, Paul, Shelley’s line about ‘unpremeditated art’ occurs in an elaborately crafted poem in which every line rhymes across a complex pattern of line-lengths but which achieves an air of ardent spontaneity. Furthermore, it invokes a famous passage in Book Eight of Paradise Lost in which Milton claims that his muse, ‘celestial patroness,’ inspires ‘easy my unpremeditated verse.’ Shelley applies the unusual word not to himself but to the skylark, challenging the distinction between human art and birdsong, wishing in the poem’s concluding lines that he could learn the lark’s ‘gladness’ so that the world would listen to him as he is listening to it. Incidentally this is not just an egotistic desire to be heard on Shelley’s part, but a wish to move others to his own burning commitment to bring about a juster world. And actually the poem does convey something of that contagion from the lark’s joy, though it appears only to beg for it. Shelley like Milton believed in poetic inspiration, but just as Dr Johnson said of Milton’s epic ‘no man wished it longer,’ so few readers must have wished it was less carefully composed (consider the opening sentence, which runs for sixteen lines and in which the main verb is held back till line 6). And Wordsworth, about whom Shelley had been quite rude, said of the younger poet ‘he was one of the best artists of us all, I mean in point of style,’ an insight developed in some Victorian monographs on his verse forms. Shelley is not so much being disingenuous as aligning himself with a tradition in which spontaneity and craft coincide, and eloquence can be at its highest when the poet laments his lack of it.
But like yours mine is not a one-poet pantheon; I am attentive to the one great poem Shelley says in A Defence of Poetry all poets across the ages weave together. Pound is important to both of us, and I know we share a lasting devotion to Yeats, who wrote ‘A line will take us hours maybe;/Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,/Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.’ Yeats also wrote: ‘the common and its befitting language are the research of a lifetime.’ Wordsworth is a pioneer of ‘the common and its befitting language’. In the last century William Carlos Williams was a powerful focus of the same tendency, and so were ‘The Objectivists,’ George Oppen, Charles Reznikoff, Carl Rakosi, Lorine Niedecker. The discovery of Williams in my late teens was a revelation for me. In my early twenties I discovered those other Americans, and, on this side of the Atlantic, I saw an answering spirit in such diverse poets as Jim Burns and John Riley. ‘Let us drop pretence of images,’ wrote John Riley. ‘Let us live barely./ In more than a pagan triumph./I have not loved you enough.’ I am getting round to your point about metaphor, Paul. In one of my earliest essays, written when you and I were young, I praised the lack of metaphor in Jim Burns’ ‘authentic common language’ with its ‘simple forceful structures:’
Given this cue, and with a trained sense of syntax and articulation, the poet can make a vigorous poetic statement using few of the much easier devices that can help stiffen up limp poems – rhyme, metaphor, symbolism and the rest.
George Oppen had written: ‘to entrust/To a poetry of statement// At close quarters// A living mind/ ‘and that one’s own’ // what then what spirit//Of the bent seas/Archangel//of the tide/brimming //in the moon-streak// comes in whose absence/ earth crumbles’.
I come back to your question, looking for its deeper meaning beyond its teasing provocativeness. I look for clues in your fine sequence, ‘Tongues of Fire,’ which is steadily concerned with the act of writing, including taking a day to resist writing. I wonder how you overcome that resistance to start writing, generally, and how you did it in this case. I guess you do not write single words with long pauses between but at least phrases, if not lines. Is there not an element of the unpremeditated, the unforeseen, in what emerges? You say you can learn from the directness of my poem, so perhaps to oblige you I should write about my own composition methods.
What I do in cases like that of ‘Brought to Mind’ is live with a subject for years, in thought and sometimes on paper, leaving forgotten drafts in old notebooks. Often, as here, this subject is a remembered incident that crystallises many intangibles. Then, one day, everything is maybe better aligned; and I certainly know my theme well by now. I have developed a habit of excluding the extraneous and getting straight to the point. A lot of the finished poem would be recognisable from this first (new) draft; but I wrestled with drafts over months and years before deciding that I could do no more with it – for now. ‘A poem is never finished, only abandoned.’ I am aware that it is a demanding poem to follow and I did the best I could to help the reader without betraying the poem. The labouring over what might seem minor alterations makes a poem sink or swim. Pound had his own pungent ways of making that point: ‘the man not intolerant of his own defects is a smear.’ But Pound is not above criticism himself. In his late poem, ‘To My Friend Ezra Pound’ Williams wrote, ‘Your English/ is not specific enough/ as a writer of poems/ you show yourself to be inept not to say/usurious’. A one-sided view, perhaps; but not without purchase, coming from the poet who had put ‘the research of a lifetime’ into finding ‘the common and its befitting language,’ working as a doctor among the poor of New Jersey. Addressing the déraciné author of the macaronic Cantos, he may have thought, as Jonson wrote of Spenser, ‘In affecting the ancients, he writ no language.’
I write verse every day, and most of what I write stays in the notebook and deserves to. Sometimes I produce something that seems worth typing, which occasionally I find time to do. Then redrafting begins, which always takes time. After all this, most of these poems reveal themselves as best left in obscurity. That Yeats poem again: ‘Better go down upon your marrow-bones/And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones/ Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather; /For to articulate sweet sounds together/Is to work harder than all these, and yet/Be thought an idler by the noisy set/Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen/The martyrs call the world.’
But the less successful work is no more wasted than an athlete’s hours in the gym away from the limelight. I am, in those daily sessions, keeping to a discipline of syntax, diction and rhythm which will be ready to serve me on the days when a new subject, or an old one seen in a new light, takes possession of me. And I am keeping open a link from the mass of stuff that moves in the mind to the small proportion that ever gets articulated, a channel which easily silts up from lack of use. I, too, have had my years of writer’s block.
It’s now my turn to pass the parcel, and I should like to pass it to Ruth Bidgood, if she will accept it at my hands. Ruth, I constantly reread your poem ‘From Time to Time’, always relishing the emotional and spiritual journey it takes me on. The first stanza sets the scene, with the unnamed woman sometimes seen (but never clearly) looking out from upstairs
over that huge landscape I have loved
from the moment I first stood
by the rickety porch.
I am well drawn in by now, enjoying the double perspective from upstairs and down, indoors and out, on this view I want to know more about (and I will, as the poem progresses), already seeing it in three dimensions, and knowing that it excites love in the speaker and probably in the ghost. The house itself we get just enough of a sense of – we don’t need more – ‘faded’ but ‘with something about it.’ But its glory is the view which you begin to describe, and which I feel myself expanding into like a homecoming as I read: ‘that vast quiet expanse/of hills, dips, hills again.’ But this idyllic scene is juxtaposed with a shocking revelation. Again, we know just enough about the ghostly lady’s life – a freedom she never knew’, ‘the cruel salt in her still-open wounds.’ This line takes the poem to its emotional nadir. Like the house, the lady’s tragedy is both individual and archetypal, and this is important because it allows you, the speaker, to empathise and identify with her. What life has not been touched by tragedy? And through this identification, which has begun by your imagining the gazing figure perhaps ‘tortured by beauty,’ the poem offers, along with a further vivification of the landscape description, an affirmation of the agency of the spirit or psyche to make as well as suffer its own weather. And in the speaker’s mood swings between disproportionate sadness and ‘illogical hope’ which ‘suddenly/expands the view from my heart’, you say ‘it’s then/I picture her, then I remember how it is to look out over first a gentle slope… and further, what the watcher surely seeks/ endless embracing of the craved unknown.’ I feel certain you have started with a real house and a real former inmate of it, and a real landscape. You have lived with these images a long time. Because it is real and you, like the ghost, have often contemplated the view, the landscape has without any strain become naturally symbolic, something like an objective correlative for the inner life with its vivid feelings, a landscape carried internally to sound one’s deepest experiences against. In quoting I have left out much I admire, every word contributes. At the end, there is a longing for transcendence which unites both the two gazers and the reader. I wonder about quite how to take that last line. One could see it as regretful, with the unknown frustratingly unobtainable. This would be a fitting sympathetic note, considering the ghost’s ‘tortured’ life. But it seems to me that, without gainsaying the power of circumstance to maim and destroy us, the poem affirms the autonomy of the spirit, in creative partnership with the layered landscape, to rise by stages of rich emotion to a higher state of identification with ‘the craved unknown;’ perhaps, what some would call the All, or the One. I wonder if you could tell me how you yourself intend that last line, and whether you recognise your own poem in my account of it, and anything else you might care to share about the poem’s origins or your own working methods? With best wishes, and thanks for the pleasure this poem has given me, John.
(And you can find out about John’s publications here)
Dear John, the account of your reactions to ‘From Time to Time’ pleased me very much with its considerable understanding of what I am trying to say about this ghostly woman, her house , her view and her feelings. Thank you. The poem originated in two visits I made to a North Carmarthenshire house on whose early history I eventually wrote an article for a historical journal. As an amateur local historian as well as a professional poet, I sometimes have found it intriguing to work two ways on the same subject, the factual and the imaginative. This isn’t planned- it just seems to happen occasionally. A bit like having two wildly different children. Cefn Trenfa has haunted me since my first sight of it. I was told in passing of a figure (gender unspecified) seen, none too clearly, by various people at different times standing looking out of an upstairs window. I thought of the figure as that of a woman. One of the Cefntrenfa wives was a poet, but she seems to have had a very outgoing life – I don’t associate her with any sort of imprisonment, including that of her emotions. As to the last line, I remain (as I so often do) a ‘don’t know’. I don’t rule out the ghostly woman’s ultimate attainment of some kind of identification with all she sees and longs for – but neither can I affirm that with certainty. In one of my poems I have the phrase ‘fertile uncertainty’! Working methods? A bit motley – sometimes I live with a theme or a fragment of something (seen, heard, happening to me) for a very long time; it can be years. Sometimes the poem surfaces and gets written in a day, though it’s usually tinkered with later. Sometimes the alterations are far more radical. When I start a poem I don’t know how it will end. If it’s any good it takes me there. Favourite poets include (from the past) Donne, (from the present) John Burnside. The only poet I am sure has influenced me is Edward Thomas (never cut-and-dried, tentative, opening out his subject – and haunted). Time to make the next link in the chain! To Andie Lewenstein: I find your poem ‘Leaving Iona’ a moving expression of loss and leaving. Here it’s a dead father, but any kind of loss and goodbye resonates. The movement of the verse and sound of the words, so very musical, help to lift melancholy towards promise and reconciliation. I love ‘Sometimes I carry you like air…./Now you are made of nothing/I carry you everywhere’. Do you write rapidly, or does a poem like this, with its apparently total spontaneity, go through many drafts? Are you conscious of any poets having a particular influence on your work? With all good wishes, Ruth
Dear Ruth, thank you for your response and for this invitation. I have read your poem ‘From Time to Time’ with pleasure, feeling a resonance in the notion of some strong emotion that “expands the view from my heart,” the ghostly presence and the vision of the “endless embracing of the craved unknown”. I wrote ‘Leaving Iona’ two years after the death of my father. It marked the end of a period of intense grieving, though I realise this only in retrospect. I had spent a week in Iona on a writing retreat with Roselle Angwin and Kenneth Steven. It was suggested that we each choose a stone from the island to throw into the water as we left. The poem, written shortly before I took the ferry, came quickly and more or less all of a piece and I changed very little. Though I will often draft and re-draft a poem many times, I find that poems such as this one, utterances which stem directly from some lived emotion, tend to come in this way and all I need to do is allow the words to be written, as though the work has already been done before putting pen to paper. Perhaps it helped that for long periods I was in the habit of “freewriting” in my notebook each morning. My influences: how to choose? The first thought that came to me was some lines from Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses’. My second thought was, but I can’t say that! I was eight years old and since then I have studied literature and read many poets. But still – this is where it (consciously, at any rate) began: The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all And the star of the sailor, and Mars, These shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall Would be half full of water and stars.
I knew that though the pail did not literally contain the stars, this was more than mere reflection and that the water’s transformation was also mine. I did not articulate this at the time, but it stands behind the lines that you particularly liked – introduced the possibility. The Russian poets Marina Tsvetayeva and Osip Mandelstam were an early influence on me. There was something direct and bold in how they encompassed strong feeling and thought within the pristine clarity of an image that was different to anything I had met in English poetry. This is from a long sequence called ‘Stone’ by Osip Mandelstam: O my prophetic sadness, O my quiet freedom, and the forever laughing crystal of the unliving firmament! Some of the poems I remember most clearly contain the exclamatory O! where something or someone is addressed or apprehended. This also perhaps stands behind how I begin the poem to my father. Of the poets that influence me now, one that I would like to name is Paul Matthews ( included in the conversations here) – his work with creative process and imagination as much as his poetry. The poet I would like to invite is Rose Flint. Rose, when reading your poem, ‘Angel With Glittering Hands’, I remember another poem from a reading you gave at Emerson College: ‘Visitation of the Swans’. In both these I felt a sense of recognition, as though the vision and story that you present are already powerfully known to me and I was just waiting for the poem to reveal them. When you write a poem like this do you begin with an image and allow it to unfold its meaning as you go along or is the story already formed in your imagination before you begin writing?
(Andie’s poems and stories have been published in various anthologies and magazines, including Poetry South East, Rockingham Press, Obsessed with Pipework and Artemis. She has taught creative writing and was a co-ordinator of the annual Poetry Otherwise conference in Sussex. She keeps a blog called ‘Reading the Signs’ here.)
Thank you Andie, for including me in this fascinating chain of poet’s thoughts. I am intrigued that you found these poems resonated so deeply with you, giving you that sense of recognition. Writing them, I was aware of something coming to me over distance, either through the unconscious, or some other inner/outer world that we sometimes glimpse. The initial image in ‘Visitation of the Swans’ came as a powerful dream, utterly whole but without meaning attached. To find that took a long time, meditating on the image I had been given, trying to find where it was in my conscious self. With ‘Angel of the Glittering Hands’, the process was different. I knew I wanted to write the subject of the poem – the death of a child – but not how to write it. It contains more than one story of personal grief, including the remembering of my own loss of a baby at two weeks old. I don’t think I even tried to write it for a long time, didn’t sketch anything out or try to find a form to express my emotional engagement. I just felt it in me as a need, a necessity.
Then I had a very strange and powerful experience. Just as I was falling asleep one night – maybe in that state called hypnogogic – I became aware of a presence close to me and in some way visible. This presence had ‘seen’ me; and was perhaps curious, I don’t know, but it came closer. I was conscious of its vastness, and otherness, but surprisingly, not afraid. It seemed to hover for a while and I felt the drum of my heart nearly break. Then it was gone.
This experience really affected me. I looked at a lot of images of angels, read bits of writing about them, until quite unexpectedly, I just wrote the whole poem in one go. It took time to edit, but essentially it was all there from the first draft. I found it impossible to change details which I had scrawled down very fast, without knowing what their reference was until much later.
I have always written with trust in the unconscious. Allowed images and stories to float up from the practice of free-writing or free-drawing, or dreams. Not all my work is based in this but my poems that I cherish most do have a sense of coming in, an element of being given. Or at least some part of the poem does. I don’t mean I wait for them, I get on with other things, but when they happen it makes me wonder just what our universe is, and what is the nature of consciousness. I think many poets who work with myth and spirit are reaching in towards what Jung called the collective unconscious, which offers the world back to us in ways we would not think of. But I also believe it is a two-way stream. I don’t see it as a storehouse for primitive and useless junk, but as an area of engagement with our imaginations which can illuminate our humanity. For the stories we tell, are making the world all the time. And if we all have access to the collective unconscious – or the soul of the world – then images and ideas that originate there will be recognised by others, who are also open to this source.
My question is for Roselle Angwin.
Roselle, your evocative and thought-provoking poem ‘Chagford Haibun’ has so many layers I seem to unfold some new meaning every time I read it, turning it round in my hands like painted origami. You are a very visual writer, how does art and poetry integrate for you … does the use of form have any relationship with your painting?
(For further information about Rose’s work, please see here)
Rose, thank you so much for your choice of my poem with which to continue this poets’ conversation: I’m touched by that, and feel privileged to be in such fine company – so much inspiration, so many competent and moving poems in Scintilla 16, and such eloquence and insight from those writers before me in the conversation. And Rose I think – I hope – you know how much I like and admire your own work; some of your poems, such as a sequence from the Mabinogion, and one about a white deer (sorry to be so unspecific!), have become part of my inner world. And Nekyia I admire greatly as a collection (and also I relate to the title, its relationship to the night-sea journey, and its Jungian resonances, and therefore the sub-terrain).
You ask about the origins and relationship between my painting and my poetry, focusing on the visual. How do they integrate, you ask: and what about the use of form? Well, I’d have to say there’s a co-arising for me, I think; they emerge, both, as a kind of ecstatic response to the natural world. And also I think I’d have to say that they are both a way of expressing my profound lifelong relationship with land, sky, water, place, animals, birds, trees, plants – and also integrating it all into myself. The place of poetry, though, includes a kind of interrogation, for me, of my lived relationships to what appears to be ‘other’ than me in order to recognise myself as ‘part of’, not apart. I suppose by this I mean that while both my painting and my poetry are attempts to move beyond dualistic perceptions of self and other, the poetry, the verbal, incorporates the questions; the painting doesn’t, it simply expresses a lived response. (I think!) Perhaps I need to mention that my own spirituality resonates with your own, Rose (I probably don’t need to explain this to you, however!). I walk very much in the British Mystery Tradition, with its mythic, shamanic and bardic expressions of our relationship to the natural world and the wider cosmos. As a committed Green, like yourself, all of my practice is centred on our relationship to the planet and its beings. In addition to this, though, I’ve been deeply influenced since my late teens by Zen practice and Zen writings (this combination has been described as dharmic druidry).
Two specific threads arise here in relation to my writing and your question. One thread is that I’m always groping to move beyond my perception of self-and-other into a way of living that recognises the unified field of it all, unified – non-dual – consciousness. It’s something about resolving a kind of split. (There’s another dichotomy, that actually isn’t, but can seem like it in the Western world; and that is the dualistic split between matter and spirit that is part of our Judeo-Christian heritage.) My poetry expresses that struggle, quite often, I think. Painting, as far as I can tell, for me, doesn’t. Painting is also for me a kind of relief from the verbal, sometimes, too, and I usually find that I paint when I have exhausted, for the moment, my words. It’s true that there may be an ambiguity at times in some of my paintings, but it’s quite different from the boundaries and edges that words bring, set as they are on differentiation, clarity, focus. Having said that, and thinking out loud here, I’d also be the first to say that poetry, more than any other verbal form, does indeed vibrate on so many levels – well, a good poem does – that its opacity and ambiguity, its ability to speak laterally and to carry more than one meaning, does challenge our more usual verbal requirements, in conversation, say, to speak clearly and be understood on the rational level; obviously both poetry and art speak to the imaginal, the feeling nature, the soul, even; and to that extent, for me, my poetry and my painting elide. I said there were two specific threads.
The second thread for me is the way that poetry from the Zen tradition, and I’m also thinking here of the poetry of Gary Snyder, who was a big influence on me in my teens and early twenties, speaks of the natural world by stripping away superfluities and leaving us with the bones of ‘how it is’, right here, right now (as well as, as I alluded to above, also situating us within nature rather than ‘pitted against’ or at least separate from nature, as so much Western poetry in the canon, perhaps because of our cultural emphasis since the Enlightenment, has tended to). Zen poetry is also a record of transience; of the passing moment. I mention the Zen aspect because my Chagford Haibun is reasonably true to this tradition: Basho’s Narrow Road to the Deep North, which is an early if not the earliest example of haibun, the extended prose-poem form that includes haiku, also influenced me greatly, and still informs my writing. I love that haibun can incorporate so much within it: personal narrative, journaling, nature observation, philosophical asides, the little jewels that are specific moments captured in haiku that are not simply reprises of the prose text, and so on. All of it is centred on an expression of the spirit of the present moment, in this place, via the particular. One of the most exciting projects of my writing life was an agreement with poet Rupert Loydell that over 100 days we would write in alternation between us 100 little haibun-type prose poems of exactly 100 words each, interweaving a thread from the other’s last piece. This was published as A Hawk Into Everywhere, and although I don’t think the little ‘envois’ work as well as if we’d been true-to-spirit and embedded a proper haiku, I’m still proud of that book, and feel that the work is strong, even though we didn’t redraft any of it but let it unfold spontaneously. Before, and since then, I have often used the haibun form as a poetic discipline and also as a kind of meditation. I’m so glad you feel that the Chagford Haibun unfolds more meanings as you reread it. It should do, but I wasn’t sure that it did. I wrote it on a Zen and Poetry retreat I was leading, in which we were also using the haibun form. I was going to say that while my poetry does take form (I mean I pay some attention to shape on the page, whether it’s formal form or not), my painting doesn’t, as I’m more concerned with the relationship of colour, and a direct expression of lived experience. I see that that’s not true, though; although I’d like to be an abstract painter, in fact most of my work veers inexorably towards a more figurative expression of a landscape, a seascape. Sigh. I have an unswervingly irresistible albeit largely unconscious urge to mark a horizon, and as soon as that happens more deliberate form comes into being on the page or canvas. So that then leads me to note that I have a particular fascination for the golden ratio, golden section, golden mean, Fibonacci sequence, whatever you want to call it, and its place in art, music, architecture, natural forms, the singing of the spheres, the underpinning structure of the universe(!), and, of course, poetry. So I guess you might be righter than I first thought: what interests me is that little dimensional leap that, say, a sonnet takes with the volta, or a haiku takes between the second and third lines, or a painting might take with a horizon placed gratifyingly just so at about 5/8ths of the picture plane; the way that kind of correspondence, metaphorically, might, just might, induce in the viewer or reader or listener a corresponding subtle leap over an imaginal horizon. Well, I didn’t know I was going to go there. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to say what I didn’t know about my work!
I’d like to invite Seán Street to speak about his ‘Avebury’ sequence in Scintilla 16. Seán, I noticed your poems here immediately, and have been drawn back to reading them over and over. I admire the fact that you’ve used the sonnet form so successfully here. I also notice that you’ve been free with line lengths but fairly strict with end-rhymes. There are questions I’d like to ask you here about why you chose the sonnet, and why you worked with it as you have; there are questions I feel would also be interesting to ask you, such as – as Prof of Radio, how do you see radio as continuing an oral tradition, and what is your relationship to sound within your writing; but actually what I want to ask you, as I know that you, like me, are a ‘poet of place’ (and often similar places, as you know, such as Hebridean islands; and we both are drawn to ‘ancient’ landscapes, like the megalithic – I have a long Avebury sequence, written ‘on the hoof’ walking the serpent temple of that landscape, in my first collectionLooking For Icarus) is: how would you speak of your poetry and its relationship with place? In other words, I suppose I’m asking what is it about place/certain places that inspires you, and catalyses the response as poetry?
(Roselle Angwin is a poet, author and writing/ecopsychology retreat and course leader. Her long Dartmoor poem River Suite has just come out as a limited edition with the water photographs of Vikky Minette, and her newest novel is The Burning Ground. Her work can be seen here: www.fire-in-the-head.co.uk; thewildways.wordpress.com; roselle-angwin.blogspot.co.uk )