Showing posts with label New Year. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Year. Show all posts

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Into 2011 with bread slicers, suitcases and serotonin






Greetings dear reader and a happy new year to you, here's hoping it will be a good one, however you may define good. I think I switched off slightly through that strange period betwixt and between Christmas and New Year which many treat as an extended holiday. The sales were on in the shops and the nearest large town seemed full of focused women with sharpened elbows homing in on hot bargains like heat seeking missiles. I usually avoid crowds although I did queue for 20 minutes at my local bakers because they do make the best bread and I am slightly enamoured of their ancient jiggling bread slicing machine with three different settings. I love a good useful piece of engineering, something that man’s ingenuity has created in order to meet a simple need. I suppose a bread knife and a bread board would do but the bread slicing machine does have something enticing about it. As we watched some news about a Noble Prize being awarded my aged mother once announced that she thought there ought to be a Noble Prize for the invention of something small and useful like Velcro or bike clips. She had a point but then small pieces of domestic engineering can hardly compare with the discoveries of DNA, insulin or quantum physics and of course big inventions and discoveries filter down into society and have a myriad of useful applications. I have lost track of the times someone interested in such things has told me that we owe the ceramic hob to the space race. However after again watching the bread slicer vibrate its blades through my loaf in less than 5 seconds I have to say it deserves just a moment of recognition amidst the tidal wave of Ipads and Hadron Colliders.

I listened to the serialisation of Finishing the Hat a programme about Stephen Sondheim’s lyric writing on Radio 4. I was taken by how much of what he said about good lyric writing applies to poetry. Lyrics too tightly packed or not packed enough are something to be avoided. I thought about just how a poem can be fully packed with many levels of meaning and reference yet not be too dense. We often talk about ‘unpacking’ a poem in workshops as if the poem is somehow a suitcase with meaning, images, metaphors and language all crammed into it. You open it up and pull out all the contents, examine it, fold and unfold some and then shove them all back in. This process supposedly makes the poem clearer, more enjoyable, yet the language is the suitcase and also the contents. Some poems defy unpacking, so intrinsic is the language to what it contains. Michael Donaghy believed that the key word to analysing his poetry is "negotiation"; the poem is a matter of form in perpetual negotiation with content. The poem as suitcase feels a little too static and literally contained, I tend to agree with Donaghy that there is something more fluid going on in a great poem. A sound, a rhythm, a line break is seemingly not dictated and fixed by the form but appears to exist entirely to create that one poem. Form for instance in the hands of a great poet exists because it needs to in order for a particular poem to be and say what the poet intends.

Of course in the hands of a poet with less skill rhymed form can seem like the ugly sister desperately trying to cram her large foot into the glass slipper. Tony Harrison’s, Book Ends is obviously a well known and formally rhymed poem. However Harrison is the master of strong rhyme that at its best does not overwhelm the poem in its sheer insistence. The poignancy of this poem is supported rather than sunk by the rhyme.. If you listen to Harrison read his poem the sounds that draw the ear in are not lent upon so that the rhyme becomes the sudden dull thud of the other shoe dropping. The music of it is weighty yet still playful, the rhyme between smithereens for example and between’s could on the page seem strained but once you hear him read it it does have a strange ‘rightness’ as if the second rhyming word is already forged in the first one.

I am fascinated by the concept of how the concept of rhyme works. The ability to hear a rhyme is essential to develop phonological awareness which in turn supports our ability to learn to read. If a child cannot produce even a nonsense rhyming word to follow cat, mat, sat and instead looks at you with a sense that you are somehow slightly deranged in thinking he or she can possibly work out the relationship between those three words yet alone produce another one, then here be dragons! Bun, fun, fat does not auger well for reading but is never insurmountable, however most children, even very young ones hear and love rhyme, that wonderful way that sound can produce the possibility of prediction is a strange comfort but one nonetheless. The concept that we are hardwired for narrative and metaphor is put forward by the linguist Lakoff but I also think in a large number of languages rhyme is almost embedded in our psyche. Rhyme is a basic building block of prediction, if we hear ‘Twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you is’ even if you don’t know the correct word it can prove irritatingly unsatisfactory not to have that aural completion. Semantics allow for a level of prediction but once the ear is tuned into a rhyme scheme there is hope that all will be well.

Some languages such as Korean and Japanese have no concept of rhyme and I believe even early Anglo Saxon poetry relied heavily on assonance rather than rhyme. So rhyme is a relatively recent concept in language and its existence can be geographically particular but it is such a fundamental concept in European poetry that it is hard not to believe that it underpins how we assimilate language itself. I did find a tiny bit of research that showed that the serotonin levels in the linguistic areas of the brain were raised more when test subjects were exposed to heavily rhymed poems than to free verse even when the subject expressed a personal preference for the free verse poem, which would seem to suggest that the brain itself finds rhyme physically pleasurable. The skillful use of rhyme is part of the craft of poetry even if we choose not to use it, how sound works with meaning is not old fashioned or ‘establishment’ it is for me part of the excitement involved in creating a poem.

I have had several people contact me wanting to read my Bear story ( see previous post) so here is the link to open it from my public folder.

Thursday, 3 January 2008

Into the New Year with Bubba Ho-Tep and Kathleen Raine






Happy New Year reader, welcome to the first blog of the year; more specifically Happy 2008 as new years occur with frightening rapidity or so it seems. To at least label them firmly helps to create the illusion of the earth’s orbit slowing down a little, to the pace of a life well lived at least. Of course the happy well lived life tends to feel as if it is often fleeting but it is comforting to think that unhappy times turn at the same rate as happy ones so should be equally fleeting but personally I have to concentrate far harder to make the hands move on the clock during sadder times.

I read the collected works of Kathleen Raine over the holidays. She was a great scholar of Blake and Yates and her own poetry is shot through with a search for the transcendent and spiritual. She is a good poet to read at the turn of the year as she often manages to marry that sense of the momentousness of a moment with the everydayness of each second.
I note that she chose as one of her favourite quotes something by Yeats that echoes that.

"I know now that revelation is from the self, but from that age-long memoried self, that shapes the elaborate shell of the mollusc and the child in the womb, that teaches the birds to make their nest; and that genius is a crisis that joins that buried self for certain moments to our trivial daily mind. " - W B Yeats from Autobiographies

Her poem Into What Pattern seems to speak to me about all that breathless excitement and also slight trepidation that a new year can engender. It is a twelve line question; no full stops just that final question mark, which imbues it with that full pelt headiness of hope and fear. What next is a question we all ask ourselves, good fortune tellers make their living out of that question.

Today I am off to meet with an American based friend and her husband who have returned to clear her mother’s flat as she is now living in a residential home. My friend tells me that her mother, who is in her nineties, can no longer recall her old flat and therefore this transition is far from painful and she is ensconced in her delightful room being as awkward as she always was but with a greater audience to attend to her refusals. However, as we both remarked, in your nineties you are allowed to remain in your dressing gown all day if you so choose and not socialise with the other residents, regarding the racing on TV from Kempton and old videos as better company. I shall be equally awkward I’m sure, unwilling to change the habits of a life time at an advanced age just to fit in with others. I will try to keep just the pleasant side of difficult and see myself as mildly eccentric rather than a mad old bat. I shall insist on playing scrabble on line and losing to American High School Students, Indians and Koreans and octogenarian Mexicans. I will dance by myself to Tamla Motown and download old DVDs of obscure films like Bubba Ho-Tep, which if you haven’t seen it is a priceless, funny but mad B movie horror in which an elderly Elvis Presley and an elderly black John F Kennedy, now resident in a squalid old peoples home, fight against the evil mummy Bubba Ho-Tep who wants to suck their souls out of their anus….now that’s a movie to watch when you are old and grey and don’t want to sing Daisy Daisy round the piano with the other residents!