...the black/and emergent pool...
...the black dog rolls...
...small white socks bob...
...purple and mystical...
...a black little finger...
...a long blonde hair...
...the yellow breeze...
...your purple name...
...a steep white cliff...
...so green...
...a pool of white plants...
...a silver dish...
...rots to black...
...blue bow...
...painted blue...
...whitely...
...pinkly...
...rose gold rings...
...one black leaf...
...short lines of blue...
...Lilac keys...
...lilac crystal...
...lilac leaves...
...purple period...
...plain yellow wallpaper...
...pink dungarees...
...the familiar cream ceiling...
...pure white dove...
...plain black dove...
...brown squares...
...its yellow fat...
...the large blue carcass...
...the large blue sea...
...black pennies...
...a black well...
...the indigo field...
...The green bank...
...The white ocean...
...bullish and red...
...with blue veins...
...poor white/blood cells...
...good white blood cells...
...a hot blue steam room...
...my mint deli uniform...
...my face was grey...
...the bastard black legs...
...a bright yellow crud...
...brown toxins...
...blinding white...
...the green and white striped awning...
...green parsley...
...green eyes...
...Blue expression...
...the forest blue...
...black leather skids...
...black cloaks..
...black and blue...
...lean black weeds...
...pale blue pinstripes...
...the pitiful rabbits'/eyes yellow...
...the water's grey...
...blue whales...
...blue breath...
...a blue ghost...
...a grey sheet...
...red door...
...the black and/emergent pond...

[As The Literateur has been closed, below is my review of Luke Kennard’s Cain, published summer 2016.]

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My review of the Rialto pamphlet Cold Fire: Poetry inspired by David Bowie has been published on Sabotage. I was obsessed with Bowie for about three years — I’m still a little now — so it was an easy review to write. I hope it doesn’t make it tedious to read.

 

I’m writing so little these days.

A Commentary on ‘Hennecker’s Ditch’

 

In 2013 I went to Oxford to see Kate Kilalea read at the launch of Bloodaxe’s anthology Dear World and Everyone In It. She wore round glasses that made a heavy noise when she put them on a chair. Of the few people on many empty seats, there seemed more poets waiting nervously to read than people there just to listen, which I took as indicative of poetry generally, although I’m not sure this is the problem it’s made out to be. I felt conspicuous, as if my part as audience carried unspoken responsibilities, more weighty considering we were few. I gripped my notebook, as if writing things down would help, as if it would account for me and turn the moment to some purpose, as if it would placate that hot, pricking question which rises again audible from the background at such moments: what am I doing here?

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My review of Luke Kennard’s latest collection, Cain, is published on The Literateur. It’s been a long time coming, in that I’ve wanted to write once again about Luke for the past couple of years. I was glad to then have the opportunity now that the new book is out.

My review of SJ Fowler’s collection {Enthusiasm} is published on Sabotage. This has taken me months to finish, so I’m grateful (as ever) to the patience of my editors. It’s an interesting book coming in what seems to be an exciting time for Test Centre, who are publishing consistently good stuff. I’m glad it exists.

In the review, as well as discussing the ‘mainstream’ as a necessary fiction, I describe what I think a real contemporary successor to the historical avant-garde would be: weird and uncool; written by/representing the marginalised; probably unconcerned with the rarefied theorising that weirdos like myself enjoy; and, most importantly, coming from within a broader context of political activism within the literary community in a way that addresses poetry’s position in society. I also look at the troubles with contemporary poetry that positions itself as ‘avant-garde’, and how that positioning, almost in itself, demonstrates the problem of its institutionalisation. In short, I argue that a contemporary avant-garde (or, rather, poetry furthering the avant-garde’s historical aims) might be possible, but that {Enthusiasm} isn’t it.

It’s perhaps a little unfair of me to use a review as a starting point for a discussion that ultimately condemns the book in question, when, for the review itself, the book deserves to be praised. However, Fowler’s book, and his positioning of his work, are a provocation towards some useful thinking. Hopefully it’s not just me who’s interested.

By order of appearance:

onion (halved); nut-like; melon; apple; nuts; apple; coconut halves; gumball; cauliflower; seeds; eggs; plum; egg; tomato; seeds; egg-knife; yolk; egg; slices of lime; seed; onion; lemony; seeds; the rind of something citrus; yolk; grapes; hollowed pumpkin; chestnut; beet; garlic; eggs.

(Also: asparagus; gherkins; crab; cake; fish; banana; banana; banana; banana; steak; fudge; chip; biscuit; leg of lamb; frozen lamb.)