Collected Electric

Ted Hughes — The Shot
August 6, 2009, 17:45
Filed under: Poetry

Your worship needed a god.

Where it lacked one, it found one.

Ordinary jocks became gods –

Deified by your infatuation

That seemed to have been designed at birth for a god.

It was a god-seeker. A god-finder.

Your Daddy had been aiming you at God

When his death touched the trigger.

In that flash

You saw your whole life. You richocheted

The length of your Alpha career

With the fury

Of a high-velocity bullet

That cannot shed one foot-pound

Of kinetic energy. The elect

More or less died on impact –

They were too mortal to take it. They were mind-stuff,

Provisional, speculative, mere auras.

Sound-barrier events along your flightpath.

But inside your sob-sodden Kleenex

And your Saturday night panics,

Under your hair done this way and that way,

Behind what looked like rebounds

And the cascade of cries diminuendo,

You were undeflected.

You were gold-jacketed, solid silver,

Nickel-tipped. Trajectory perfect

As through ether. Even the cheek-scar,

Where you seemed to have side-swiped concrete,

Served as a rifling groove

To keep you true.

Till your real target

Hid behind me. Your Daddy,

The god with the smoking gun. For a long time

Vague as mist, I did not even know

I had been hit,

Or that you had gone clean through me –

To bury yourself at last in the heart of the god.

In my position, the right witchdoctor

Might have caught you in flight with his bare hands,

Tossed you, cooling, one hand to the other,

Godless, happy, quieted.

I managed

A wisp of your hair, your ring, your watch, your nightgown.


Louise Glück- 4. The Deviation
May 9, 2009, 11:18
Filed under: Poetry

It begins quietly

in certain female children:

the fear of death, taking as its form

dedication to hunger,

because a woman’s body

is a grave; it will accept

anything.  I remember

lying in a bed at night

touching the soft, digressive breasts,

touching, at fifteen,

the interfering flesh

that I would sacrifice

until the limbs were free

of blossom and subterfuge: I felt

what I feel now, aligning these words–

it is the same need to perfect,

of which death is the mere byproduct.

StAnza Poetry Festival 2009
March 24, 2009, 17:07
Filed under: Poetry

With Caroline reluctantly carted off down south last week, there was only little old me to stay in St Andrews for the annual poetry festival, StAnza — an internationally recognised event and a distinct highlight on the Scottish literary calendar. Sadly, I was snowed under with academia this week, and saw very little…though what I did see deserves to be reported. I spent four hours on Saturday meandering around the foyer of the Byre theatre, dressed absurdly in a Victorian costume for what the organisers termed ‘poetry theatre.’ Essentially, it was my job to offer patrons of the festival a poem, if they so desired. I went armed with a retinue of contemporary poetry (ie. Seamus Heaney, Sylvia Plath) to recite when asked. I made the slight error of adding a piece of my own to the menu — the festival-going Public, being a polite and generally good-natured entity, tended to ask to hear my own amateur efforts over the published work of actual poets (though I did read Plath’s You’re to a pregnant lady, which was nice). Feedback was all positive and charming (all very British), but it gets tiresome reciting the same lines all day, especially if they happen to be your own.

The modern literati were of course out in force at the festival. In that one day, I spotted Ian Rankin, Simon Armitage, Patience Agbabi and Carol Ann Duffy milling around the Byre. Ian and Patience both vanished before I could work up the nerve to offer them a recitation.

Towards the end of our evening shift, I managed, along with Harry Giles, my poetry theatre comrade, to score a last-minute ticket to the 8pm poetry reading by Patience Agbabi and Carol Ann Duffy. Both poets were phenomenal; they gave nuanced performances full of quiet power. Patience delivered a diverse range of pieces (from her most recent book, Bloodshot Monochrome), from experimental sonnet forms to striking epistolary vignettes and great, sweeping tales merging nursery rhymes and modern poetic anxieties seamlessly. Carol Ann proved herself as a true master of her craft, conjuring breath-catching visions of love and loss from her latest collection, Rapture, with a simple yet baffling elegance. The pieces she read from her older volumes displayed a level of talent I’d never heard live before. Her skill with humour and pathos had me winging from laughter to awed silence in minutes.

Before the reading, I’d managed somehow to summon the courage to read my own poem, Cartography, to Carol Ann while she relaxed in the Byre bar. I was nervous as all hell, and consequently gave a dull, flat and monotonous reading. In spite of this, Carol Ann was complimentary and kind, signing my copy of Rapture with an instruction to “keep writing”…I must have seemed a gibbering idiot. Still, I’m proud that such an acclaimed and prodigiously gifted poet could have anything nice to say about my work.

Regardless, I think I’ve rambled on enough…StAnza seemed an appropriate opportunity to kickstart the blog, even if I only attended one reading. Hopefully more soon, either from myself or Caroline.

— Chris