INCIDENTALS by Mary Gilonne
If light fails, follow darkness
in my eyes she says, unfolds the map
engraved on her, marks him with a cross
and draws him in.
(“The Woodman’s Tale”)
Just as the recently-deceased Nicolas Roeg’s film Insignificance plays lightly with several kinds of significance, only the foolhardy would draw easy assumptions from Incidentals’ title. The name of Mary Gilonne’s debut pamphlet may imply asides, but far from being casual, these poems arrest and examine moments, in both their strengths and frailty, before they are allowed to become fleeting. Incidentals offers small spaces of unexpected revelation, self-awareness and determination. As observed fragments, they are all highly significant and resonant.
Perhaps it’s worth considering the fitting nature of this publication’s form here. Currently, there is a real renaissance in poetry pamphlets, their scale appealing to many, for many reasons. Ally this with some very vibrant independent poetry presses which are producing exciting, well-designed and highly-affordable books. Pamphlet specialists are brandishing sometimes laudably subversive challenges to the established presses. How marvellous! 4Word Press is a recent arrival, and it is already earning its place as an adventurous publisher. As with their other publications, Claire Jefferson’s distinctively elegant cover sets the bar high from the outset. Mary Gilonne’s lines fulfil that promise.
English-born Gilonne has long been resident near Aix-en-Provence, where she works as a translator. The languages enjoyed here are drawn from three continents and there’s even an acrobatic foray into an English/ Esperanto macaronic. Her linguist’s delight in the layering and provenance of words is embedded in every poem; throughout, there is a feeling of travelling and of place. The poet’s cartography is a sensuous one, drawn on flesh, and indeed tattooed through all of the senses. These are opulent poems, often gracefully, yet tautly erotic. Narratives are communicated in painterly visuals, and sound-rich imagery. However, this poet’s careful crafting, and her formal restraint, ensures that these heady elements are wisely harnessed. Gilonne has a cleverly undercutting way, particularly with sharp stanza ‒ and poem ‒ ending lines, sometimes in the form of a refrain, and she slits into her riches intriguingly. This poet writes beautifully of textiles, but she is equally adept at conveying muscle. Reader, be wary!
When from bed to wall lies a litter of windowed
moons to use as stepping-stones, and light slices
through our kitchen thrum, as if your voice and mine
cut blunt with metallic glints of old nicked knives,
I’ll leave you.
In “Cardinale Frucci Covets Snow”, the poem’s initial impetus was ekphrastic, as it first appeared online in Visual Verse. However, it’s very satisfying to read it here. The poem works convincingly without that pictorial connection, allowing the reader a certain wander and wonder, before perhaps choosing to seek out the accompanying image. Then, there is the gift of almost another poem. The equally visual “Quietus” evokes detail and sadness, rather as Millais’ Ophelia does, and makes the reader pause to consider kintsugi’s broken and mended quality. The pausing seems essential to the whole collection.
If Incidentals contains the sombre, including grave ill health, death, difficult and sometimes painfully pragmatic choices, there’s also the bitter-sweet of “Findings”, the “paged archaeology” of “a Twiggied girl in party Quant and curls”, and the glorious energy, both in word and typographic arrangement of “Sunday With Lili”.
Gilonne has a colourful, highly textured way with metaphor, ideally suited to exploring the sensory losses of “Ageusia”. Equally, “Equilibrium” allows her the balancing act of moving in and out of metaphor,
toeing a fine line between sense and none,
while high-wired idioms suspend my views.
She is no less adept with simile, for who could not be drawn to “skin indolent as wine”? Her closing poem offers procrastination of the most appealing kind.
Mary Gilonne’s publication and competition successes are impressive, and this gathering of her work is timely. Incidentals may be physically small, but its much larger allusions and connections make it perfectly formed.
GIRL GOLEM by Rachael Clyne
Family lies at the heart of this collection. Its narrative arc moves from a Jewish childhood through to the tender recounting of clearing elderly relatives’ homes after their death. Its focus on family members who fled oppressive regimens of the mid 20thCentury is specific but also resonates with the plight of more recent refugees.
The first poem in the collection small histories remind us how houses and indeed lives become littered with the detritus of the past . This is a cleverly structured poem, cleft into two adjacent stanzas that serves as a visual reminder of the fragmented nature of memory. Indeed, Clyne has a gift for using structured to effectively reinforce meaning. A later poem, Art of Erasure replicates with enviable skill the shattered thought processes of a brain beset by dementia.
Jewishness enriches the portrait of a family with the use of dialect, customs, history and indeed cultural expectations on children. The cast of characters includes an eccentric grandma who with skill ‘re-pins ‘the child’s dressing gown . There is precise and effective use of detail here as the elderly lady’s mouth holding the pins is described as having ‘ gummy lips’ . She ‘ cackles at her own jokes’ and ‘ indulgently feeds the child egg-fried bread ‘ mum and dad clearly do not approve of . Revealing here that grandmother-granddaughter alliance that often leaps a generation. Yet this is no soft and fluffy grandmother as she is also given to ‘rage. Like the time she flung a pan of peas, cursed in Russian.’ Tailoring is the family trade , carried with them to the new country. The narrator’s father is revealed as master craftsman who in a touching poem makes , The Only suit he made me that allowed her to ‘strut my stuff on Lord Street’ during the swinging ‘60s.
The verse set in a post war childhood is rich with details that will create recognition in the reader familiar to this era. The poem That Was Downstairs evokes the austerity of a post war house lacking modern conveniences and comforts. The tone is blackly humorous with terms such as ‘Bathroom was a bastard ’ and recalls the dreaded harsh toilet paper that’ slid off bottoms.’ In a sense this poem subtly infers a family occasionally at war with itself, not quite settled in its new country, still haunted by the violence that drove it from mainland Europe. In other poems there are echoes of violence, the grandma alters the child’s dressing gown with ‘a razor blade in her trembling claw’.
Poems focussing on the older family members who lived through the flight from Russia are beset by memories of the horrors of war and indeed of the lost homeland. Jewish words pepper these works. They are verbal cues that create flashbacks to the horrors of the holocaust and pogroms. There are touching references to family members who did not escape such as the great aunt who worked for Coco Chanel. The illusion to the family trade of tailoring and this specific detailing serves to make the horrors seem more personal. Inevitably the referencing to Jewish refugees resonates with the horrors of more recent and on-going atrocities and the flight of civilians who are collateral damage. Nothing it shows has changed. The poem Toadsong is particularly effective poem in that it conveys a double meaning. Whilst on the surface it deals with toads who invade the house and are tolerated but on another level it obliquely references, refugees as the four characters ‘shared childhood tales of being Jews’. Their sense of unbelonging strikingly evoked in the words ‘The ugly undertones, sense of foreignness’.
Yet the works are also keen to reveal how inter- connected we all are. Not just in our shared sense of family but also in shared repercussions to worldwide catastrophe. This is best seen in Chernobyl Museum where the shocking man-made disaster in Russian, has repercussions years later when it ‘spawned a cancer, in a friend’ in Wales, ‘that took decades to flower’.
At the heart of the collection lies the eponymous Girl Golem whom we take to be the narrator herself. The poem starkly reveal how the child almost resisted birth ‘clung bat-like to the womb wall’ somehow knowing that she was destined to carry the hopes and dreams of that family’s future. More than this her role was to ‘compensate for millions’, ‘make up for the lost numbers’. Born into such expectations it is inferred that this child would never fit into such a mould.
Growing up she self-defines as a ‘a hotchpotch golem /that would never fit’. It is inferred further that being gay she would never be accepted by the family or indeed be able to fulfil the family expectations of providing grandchildren so consequently left ‘in search of my own kind.’
The latter sections of the poems hints at reconciliation albeit when the relatives are elderly and, in some cases, losing their memory. These are starkly honest poems with experiences that resonate with us all. A father figure is paid respects to after his death. Again, fine details are tenderly deployed as his personal effects are handed to the daughter. Hints to his personality subtly betrayed in the ‘fake Rolex’, ‘credit cards’ ‘clothes in a black bin bag’. The realities of clearing a family home after death are then looked at. Again, the lost personality is revealed in things. The father stock piled clothes deemed bargains, hoarded everything from clothes to ‘pinched’ Asda plastic spoons. This very need to hoard harping back to a time when as a refugee, personal effects were few. False teeth are a motif throughout the collection bringing with them the images of the piles of dentures found stacked in concentration camps. They are a bizarre but also macabre image. Again, in this poem Taking Account they are darkly humorous as fourteen sets of dentures tumble on the narrator’s head from head from atop a wardrobe. The up- shot to such hoarding is a staggering 80 bins of items left out for rubbish collection.
This is a very fine collection that deals with families and our place within them. It demonstrates too how on the wider political stage, nothing changes, conflict still sees civilians as collateral, who become dispossessed, and must struggle to find new homes. The poet is particularly adept at using structure to reinforce meaning and using very fine imagery throughout to make this a vivid piece of work.
– Fiona Sinclair
Review of Girl Golem by Rachel Clyne, 4word Press. 2018 For Tears in the Fence Reviewed By Jessica Mookherjee (author of Flood, Cultured Llama 2017, and forthcoming Burst, Nine Arches Press 2019)
We know Rachel Clyne from these poems and from her previous collection “Singing at the Bone Tree” (Indigo Dreams 2014). We know from her biography that she was an actor, artist and psychotherapist and so well versed in the art of re-creation and performance. But we know Rachel Clyne from her poems. This collection, Girl Golem is aching in both hiding and being seen and in escaping. The Golem is creature from Jewish folklore, made of mud and the perfect servant, a Frankenstein like monster, animated to do the master’s bidding, often animated by a magic of some sort.
“I was made as a keep-watch,
in case new nasties tried to take us away.
The family called me chutchkele, their little cnadle,
Said I helped make up for lost numbers –“
Clyne’s collection of magic words brings her Girl Golem to life, a creature that is more then the sum of her words, and a creature that is bold, untamable and no one’s slave or victim. The secret pronunciation of the Slavic and Yiddish words, the way the ‘la’ is said at the end of the word cnadle, the secret endearments of ‘knicknack’ and ‘dumpling’, these are magic words, of heartbreak and hearth. These are words that could easily have disappeared in genocide, these are words of survival and power. This is the mix of mud-words that give Girl Golem power, because Clyne is escaping the loaded survival of the Jew as much as she is escaping the fixed identities of ‘survivor’ and ‘victim’ and ‘Jewish’. She is creating herself in these words throught the collection, she creates and dismantles.
“wore off the peg. I ironed my hair straight
under brown paper, like Cathy McGowen’s”
This is a coherent collection of 29 poems, bound beautifully by 4word Press. Clyne is accurate and assured which immediately gives her readers confidence from her first poem ‘Small Histories’ which opens in a ‘mirror’ form of two reflecting poems that can be read as one poem or two separate fragments – each speaking to each other and the last two lines of the poem/s sparking the life of the collection with
‘Sorry for your losses repeated arguments
All the love yous gather dust.”
The collection begins with the creation of the Girl Golem and continues a domestic and biographical narrative from a fairy tale, child-like point of view, where we hear of the ‘nose-picker’, the ‘grandma with big teeth’ and an
who made chicken soup with garlic”
Like all good East European folk tales things are just a little bit ‘foreign’ and out of place, where objects are people and the people behave inexplicably and unpredictably, particularly in Britain where we don’t eat olives for breakfast. She personifies her family into spaces.
“the bathroom was a bastard”
Clyne makes great currency of foreignness in the poem “X-Rated” where we see her version of the ‘great escape’ is not ‘plucky chaps’ with gung ho zeal but the smell of shit and sewers, Andrzei Wajda’s shit. This shit belongs to someone with a name and Clyne calls it out. This is immigrant poetry calling to ancestors, this is also a masterful use of contemporary poetry techniques to re-animate the ‘foreign’ inside everyone. Clyne will not be defined by being a Jewish poet writing about the Holocaust. Why should she? She contains more then that, but she can also not fully escape that, and neither can we, for Clyne reminds us that we all live in this world where we must know that the horrors have happened over and over again to countless, nameless people.
“Holocaust is not my middle name.
As if gypsies, Lakota and bison, gorillas
and black lives don’t count, or a Palestinian
and tiger have no claim. As if Tartars did not burn”
This collection that starts biographically in childhood speaks of maturity and a life spent unpicking the roots of identity and escaping from it’s boundaries. These are not poems of youth. Clyne tells us she has come of age in a world of plurality, in a place where we are free to construct our own identities and yet we can not escape our histories.
“Final in the forties, when it is pregnant
with me, they were naturalized.
So I was originated, British as mustard
and new health services”
The collection collapses time, we are taken to Odessa, to Warsaw sewers, to the Kings Road, to the English Suburbs, to Lancashire. One of the most moving poems uses the technique of ‘erasure’, made more poignant when we know that letters were redacted in the war, that people were erased. Clyne uses wonderful last lines to great effect in her poem “The Art of Erasure”
“That one wipes the war between them
leaves the daughter lost for “
This collection left me yearning for more yet the “Girl Golem” is a perfect length. The use of objects through the book is subtle, and then violently visceral when we read of the father’s ‘Magic Suit’, how in death we are all that is left of us, “hearing aids, glasses” and the awful pull of the words when we know the horrors of genocide left these objects behind. Clyne is defiant, there are big horrors that take us politically by the neck and yet we will all loose a parent and have to put their debris in a bin bag.
“his clothes in a black bin bag.
As she handed me his credit cards
I knew there’d be debts to clear.”
Clyne has achieved her creation and let it escape the pages of the book and into our bodies using tight, clipped words, a semblance of the east European hard consonants creep into everyday language, strong visual line endings interlaced with a sense of ‘wrongness’ and ‘foreignness’
“Cheek-by-jowl neighbours chop vegetables
into enamel bowls. Between drug dealers
and satellite dishes, ghosts gather. Water sellers
tailors and a shiver that runs up my back”
Clyne ends the collection beautifully and escapes with the poems “In the Margins” and “Apocalypse Shoes” and she helps us, as a poet only can, survive the onslaughts of our own escapes into freedom, survival and ourselves. I look forward to more from this accomplished poet.
BLACK BICYCLE by Lesley Quayle
Black Bicycle – a superb book of poems from the hugely talented Lesley Quayle (though I do wish she would stop making me cry with some of her word-pictures!). Cannot recommend this ‘pamphlet’ (it’s not – it’s a book) highly enough. Many thanks for such pleasure.
Lesley Quayle’s poetry has a wonderful sense of the local without ever falling into the parochial. “Old Yowe In the Market” (“Old, barren yowe, teats dry as corn husks. . .”) is one lovely example, employing as it does the local Yorkshire word rather than the more standard “ewe.” And it definitely isn’t guilty of sentimentality:
Shepherds in greasy caps and shit-stained trousers,
belted, braced by baler twine, walk on,
rubbing their raw-boned hands.
The Yorkshire explored in several of these poems (Quayle lived in rural West Yorkshire for two decades) is not picturesque and the life, not easy (“We gather, a disparate flock, summoned to the desolation/of a winter quarry” is how “Fell Rescue” opens, while “The 7.25 to Leeds” enters bleak urban territory) yet what lifts these poems, alongside others in the collection rooted in other places, is a warm humanity and close attention to detail.
Several of the people who dance, drink, smoke, sing and dream in this collection are street people, rough-sleepers and hopeful buskers. They have names like Scarlet Mary, Holy Tola, Old Moley (“three coats, two waistcoats, jumpers, vests-/layered back to a museum of skin”), the names given them by passers-by, their “regulars.” And while one can feel sympathy for their difficult circumstances, there’s nothing in these poems that reeks of condescension or pity.
Quayle is equally at home with landscape, with Dorset as much as Yorkshire:
Smell the sea-
lungs brackish, brine rinsed
gulls bickering over a thin westerly.
(“Climb to Mupe Bay”)
Towards the end of the pamphlet she moves further still, into wider territory and into different voices, one of a man in Raqqa recalling the violent death of a friend, another in the voice of Edward Snowden. As in the street poems, there is a respect and warmth here for the individual and an honouring of the individual’s experience.
-Sheila Hamilton, poet ( ‘The Spirit Vaults’ published by Green Bottle Press)
I love these poems by Lesley Quayle! …such subtle music…they need to be read aloud to fully appreciate the rhythm and craft …often melancholy…lost people and places and times… wise and beautiful writing!
Journeying with Lesley is invigorating, fascinating, unexpected. The light she shines reveals the essence of whatever or wherever it falls. Her portraits of the ordinary, the outcast, the old, the quirky, glow in the beam of her humanity. She describes a landscape I know intimately myself. Her personal experience of it is expressed fearlessly. She paints the colours and sounds of life with knowledge and passion.
-Dame Josephine Barstow DBE
ANDROGYNY by Kevin Reid
Kevin Reid’s Androgyny is bittersweet, funny, hurt-filled, observed and heard. Pithy, quickly caught, and held for a lifetime. It’s huge strength is it’s never just one thing.
– Beth McDonough
AFTER EDEN by Stella Wulf
Stella Wulf’s poetry occupies a space of dissolution between reality and myth, historical awareness and immediacy. Her language is layered with the ruggedness and density of impasto, but there is also transparency and precision. The muscularity of verbs, the rich specificity of nouns and an underlying musicality keep the poems fluid through subtle formal placements. They are rhythmical and carefully wrought, moving from Wales to France, from personal engagement to archetypal human and non-human characters, allowing time and historical depths to be disclosed through compact and evocative images. The poems artfully interrogate the lives of women, the choreography of the sexual dance, with cool irony and grace. They don’t flinch from dissonance, allowing a sense of moral complication and verbal multivalence to prevail. This is a sensuous, alert, and impressive first collection.
– Graham Mort