Dear Poetry World,
I love you. But even before I went to bed last night I was beginning to consider regretting* my previous post. There is shrapnel flying around, and here in Baroque Mansions we aren’t crazy about shrapnel.
But this morning, not one but two wonderful souls came forward and utterly restored the tender Baroque faith. Well, three, technically. One is Charles Boyle of CB Editions, who wrote a post last week on his Sonofabook blog, which I hadn’t seen. Charles gives no opinions, takes no sides, and posits no answers; indeed, he says he hasn’t any and that he’s better at asking questions (any case is the higher art of the two). Charles writes:
I have no inside info; I don’t even have gossip. But what to me is a little bit interesting is that in the absence of hard fact, the speculation that fills the vacuum can become what a thing is about and start to influence what happens next.
Precisely. And James Sheard, the second, has like a fairy godfather left a comment which consists solely of this link.
The third is Alan Coren. Just click the link. It’s not copyable, you have to go there.
Now, I’ve just been to the doctor and got some stuff to take, so I now intend to replace my minerals, rebuild my blood, and lighten up.
On which note, I read an interesting thing about Elizabeth Bishop yesterday. Lloyd Schwartz, co-editor of her new Library of America volume, discussing her final poem, ‘Sonnet’, writes:
In the 1970s her beloved Aunt Grace, in Nova Scotia, was showing signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Bishop was morbidly worried about an old age of illness after lingering illness, and was terrified of becoming senile. I think if she could have known that she would die of an aneurysm, suddenly and without warning, at sixty-eight, as she was putting on her shoes to go out to dinner, she’d have lived a happier life.
There might be a lesson there for all of us.
Lots of love,
Ms B x
* PS: I fixed a typo. Originally this read that I was considering egretting my previous post. I am now just waiting for the perfect post to egret; it will be great.
Moi, je n’egret rien.
Dear Katy
The interesting thing to me about the present Poetry Society debacle is how the participants have managed to keep it all within the disfunctional family and reduce leaks to an absolute minimum. To quote my hero Harry Hill, ‘There is only one way to sort this out – FIGHT!!!’
Best wishes from Simon
Thank goodness for people who are governed by commitment rather than expedience – you shouldn’t regret your last post. It’s your combination of passion and intellect that makes ‘Baroque in Hackney’ so readable.
I’m not surprised that there’s been a heated debate (to put it mildly) in Poetry Society, but I’m disappointed by the lack of a generosity of spirit. I suppose that’s naive. As someone who’s passionate about music, I never cease to be amazed and disappointed by musicians.
PS – My younger son has just devoured a whole fried plaice, so I suppose that he could be accused of egretting.
Grrr – I read my comment before posting and now the typo is screaming at me: “in Poetry Society”. But this is the week in which I’ve been told that I probably have ADHD, so it makes sense.
Dear Katy
I meant dysfunctional, of course. As I get older, my spelling seems to be deteriorating. Same thing happened to my father.
Best wishes from Simon
As for egrets, there was one on the pond earlier. Rather, wading in the pond. It said nothing about posting. Nor about poetasting.
At least you brought some mirth. And caused me to order Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks. I used to read all those Idi Amin columns in my father’s copies of Punch.
Egrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention…
Dear Katy
Time for a confession. My favourite poet is S. H. – no no, not Seamus Heaney but Sophie Hannah! Whilst waiting for your second volume, I ordered a second-hand copy of her ‘Hotels like Houses’. To my unexpected delight, it contained her bold signature on the title page.
(I owned all of her oeuvre except for this one lacuna.) Needless to say, it is a total masterpiece. She is the kind of poet that you simply want to applaud rather than criticise. I honestly believe that we are now living in a golden age of British poetry with poets like you and Sophie at the forefront.
Best wishes from Simon