Poetry as Art?

This month an article appeared in PN Review 239, Volume 44 Number 3 by Rebecca Watts and is entitled "The Cult of the Noble Amateur"

Read it here if you don't want my precis.

The thrust of the article is that literary poetry, as an art form, is being subverted and potentially destroyed by the rise of the "amateur poet". This poet is typically young, not educated in literature and representative of a group normally not represented in the established poetry scene. This could be white working class, BME, immigrants for example - she singles out young female poets - the poetry tends to be raw and perhaps more suited to the growing live spoken word scene. It's so easy to self publish these days - blogs are free, YouTube is free and it's fairly cheap to create and print a pamphlet or book if you want to.

Her point is that, while she clearly thinks that some, if not all, of this is not of literary merit, she also believes that the establishment is losing sight of whether work has intrinsic value and longevity and their critical faculties are being compromised either because they have a genuine desire to expand the appeal of poetry or because they are scared of appearing elitist. That good poetry is not just about connecting with an audience and playing to it using your own experiences - it can and should also challenge; ideologically and intellectually.

There. I've just saved you reading what is a long winded, at times rather petulant, piece that is trying to defend poetry as something you have to work at, not just splurge out as a stream of consciousness to your fan base. (As an aside, the conclusion that pure poetry is the last bastion that will save us from Trump and Brexit is just the sort of assertion that makes Joe Public even less interested in the form.)

But does she have a point? It would be easy to attack her as another snob who wants to keep poetry as a cosy, elite club that allows the occasional working class person provided they've got a degree and know how all the correct terminology.

I will now declare an interest before I proceed - as the rest of my blog shows, I am an "amateur poet" whose higher education is in sciences and who last studied English at O-level. My interest in poetry and writing it is after a 40 year gap and some of my poems are a bit ranty and aren't intended to have literary merit. They're just a way of me expressing a view, hopefully challenging perceptions or bringing stories to light that I feel need to be told. I am also trying to create more intellectually satisfying work - studying structure, classic poetry and reading work by as many people as possible.

I have been to a lot of open mic events in the last 6 months and I have heard some very interesting and challenging work from people who you would think are the least likely to have produced poetry, at least by traditional thinking - sometimes it's been brilliant. I've also heard a lot of poor work - one in particular springs to mind where the poet's total lack of preparation, care and respect for his audience was outweighed by the mindless, immature drivel that spewed forth for the next 3 hours - it seemed like 3 hours but was probably 3 minutes. I genuinely wanted to punch him - for his own good. Still, that's open mic and I'm sure some people have been waiting impatiently for me to finish when I've been on. 

I think there is a difference between "Performance Poetry" and poetry that works best on the page, where it can be savoured, re-read and you can take from it what you will. Sometimes, what you take from it is not what the poet had in mind, but he or she cannot control that once it's out there. You can either write very one-dimensionally to make a clear point or you put layers of meaning into your work. Once you do that those meanings are open to interpretation. Anyway, that's a separate issue. If you can pull off both, you're really on a winner. If you can read or perform a multi-layered poem that people enjoy listening to and then want to read, that also stands alone on the page without its author's vocal interpretation, then you've hit the Holy Grail. John Cooper-Clarke's Beasley Street has been around for 40 years and absolutely stands up in print today - and it stills packs an even bigger punch live.

I think that an understanding of form and structure, and looking at poetry that has stood the test of time, is an ideal way to improve what you are writing. If you can blend the words and emotions that speak to the modern generation in a way that also makes it timeless then that's got to be worthwhile, hasn't it? I am very lucky to have found Read To Write in Mexborough - to read great poetry, analyse it, discover what we like and don't like; look at how poetry is "of its time" yet timeless. This definitely helps adapt your work - there's no point slavishly copying Byron or Dylan Thomas but you can improve your poems, both by learning and by allowing people to constructively criticise your work.

I don't care whether the poetry establishment accepts loud, unstructured, spoken word practitioners or not - that's up to them. I know they are powerless to stop it, just as the establishment was unable to stop Rock'n'Roll. Elvis was the brash, scary, threat that was part of the movement that changed music forever back in the 1950s - by the 1970s he was churning out standards in Vegas. I'd rather see the two meet halfway, where people attracted to poetry via the Spoken Word scene feel encouraged to explore other, perhaps more intellectual, forms. And where people with Ph. Ds who work in libraries or for literary publications and spend a year crafting a 16 line poem about a beetle can appreciate other types of poetry.

Tim Fellows
January 2018

Bang Bang You're Dead

As with many others, I am bewildered by America's attitude to guns. It seems that no outrage is too great for them to do anything about it.

Bang Bang You're Dead
  
Bang Bang you're dead
said the cowboy
as he roamed the Wild West
Apache, Pawnee, Sioux or Crow?
Old white hat probably didn't know
when he shot him in the chest

Bang Bang you're dead
said the gangster
in the bar in Chicago
His rival was just selling booze
Now his photo's in the news
for drawing slower than his foe

Bang Bang you're dead
said the policeman
in an alley in New York
The young man who was running
just never saw the bullet coming
as it made its deadly mark

Bang Bang you're dead
said the addict
as he robbed the family man
who tried to pull his own gun out
and win the deadly street shootout
but it didn't go to plan

Bang Bang you're dead
said the toddler
when he reached in mommy's purse
and found her dinky little gun
that didn't have the safety on
a life of guilt will be his curse

Bang Bang you're dead
said the loner
as he walked into that school
armed to the teeth with bitter hate
teachers and kids all met their fate
never again he'd be labelled "fool"

Bang Bang you're dead
said the bigot
as he let loose fire and hell
he'll make the country great again
a torrent of blood red angry rain
of a thousand repeating rifle shells 

Bang Bang you're dead
said the President
as he gave the executive order
to send the missiles crashing down
on the devastated war torn town
by some distant lonely border

Bang Bang you're dead
said the nation
called the brave land of the free
where killing sprees and random death
follow the Reaper's icy breath
stuck on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
for all eternity.

(c) Tim Fellows 2018

The Knockers

Knockers (or Bucca) are part of Cornish folklore - underground spirits that became part of the mining scene when men were working underground and heard strange noises. The stories then travelled to America with the "Cousin Jack" emigration and became called "Tommyknockers" - this then transferred to coal mining and indeed to become generic malevolant spirits.

"Where there's a mine or a hole in the ground,
That's where I'm heading for, that's where I'm bound.
Look for me under the lode or inside the vein.
Oh where the copper, the clay, where the arsenic and tin,
Run in your blood and get under your skin,
I'm leaving the county behind,
And I'm not coming back,
So follow me down cousin Jack."

(Steve Knightley - Cousin Jack)

Stephen King popularised the term Tommyknockers with his 1987 book but it really doesn't apply properly and it's not one of his best.

I have taken the liberty of using this theme for this short story, set in a coal mine somewhere south of Leeds.It was read out on Sheffield Live's Write Radio on 19th January 2018.

The Knockers


 

This story was passed down to my granddad by his granddad. Back in those days boys would be sent down the pit at 10 years old - they'd only just made it illegal for under 10s to work underground. The boy's name was Arthur, and this is his story:

It was my first day down the pit and I was scared. I was 11 years old. There were a couple of bigger boys in the cage but most of the men were like giants looming above me - laughing, swearing, joking. That first day was horrible - it was dirty, noisy and the men were just shouting at me to do stuff and I didn't know what to do. At the end I was so tired but one of the men, Jim, slapped my shoulder as we walked back to the shaft and said "Well done, lad. Tha'll do alraight."

The next day as we were getting into the cage another man called George said "Hay, lads, we haven't told Arthur about the Knockers". "Aye, we'd better tell 'im" said Jim. I looked at my dad but he just nodded. So they told me - we'd had a big accident about twenty years before and the roof had caved in - it was bad. There was no chance of clearing it away so after two days they gave up. Thirteen men were behind that rock fall. "I hope to God they were crushed" one of the men said - I didn't understand why he said that at the time like I do now. After a few weeks some men working in the mine could hear noises coming from behind the seam - "Knock, knock, knock, knock". Whoever heard it (and not everybody did) would always end up in an accident - sometimes dead. "Old Billy Reardon had his foot chopped off after he 'eard them Knockers" said Joe Birkenshaw, quite casually. 

A few days later we were working when suddenly I heard some strange knocking sounds from what seemed like the other side of the seam. George was working near me but didn't seem to notice. "Knock, knock, knock, knock" - every few minutes. I was starting to get nervous and eventually I asked George if he could hear anything - "Aye, man, I can hear you yammering!". Later that afternoon, in the quiet after we'd blasted the face, I heard a voice, quite clearly, say "Arthur, it's your turn. Run" - nobody else moved. "DID YOU HEAR THAT!!" I yelled. "Hear what?" said Joe. Then all the lights except mine went out. Well that was it, I was gone. Up that face towards the shaft but with only my candle to see with. Suddenly the ground went strange - softer. My light had blown out and it was pitch black - I really panicked then and started crying and sat down.

Suddenly I saw a light - a lamp, I was saved. As the light came closer I could see a miner's face. It was old and wrinkled and the light reflected from one milky eye and one piercing blue one. "Now then, lad", he said, "what tha doin' 'ere". I told him what had happened and he chuckled but I didn't think it was funny. "Oh, they got you, didn't they!" "What do you mean?" I said. "Well, all the new boys get this - they know 'ow to make them noises and voices so that thi sound like it's comin' from behind t'face", he said in his raspy voice. "It's a joke, but they've put you in a bit o'trouble - tha sees, darn there's the old workings and tha ran past t'danger sign. Nar, walk slowly in t'direction I point thi in and when tha comes to a wall, tonn left, keep guin and when tha gets to't next wall, guh rait. Tha'll be safe then - there's no Knockers." Then he leaned over me and said "When tha gets back, tell 'em this.." and he whispered a message in my ear. Then he relit my candle and turned me round, pushing me lightly in the back. "Off tha' guz, lad". I set off and followed his directions.

At last I was back on the seam. "Ayup, 'ere 'e is!" said Jim - they all laughed but my dad looked relieved. "You do know it worra joke!" said Joe. "Yeah, I do. A miner found me and sent me back. 'E told me what you did." "Good, that's that then." said my dad. "One thing," I added, "'e told me to tell you that the thirteen said to take more care." Everybody went silent. Joe had gone whiter than normal behind his coaly face. "Are yer sure? What did he look like?" he asked. "Old," I said, "with one blue eye and one milky one, Raspy voice." The silence continued. "What's wrong," I asked, as they all looked at each other. Then Dad said - "That was your mam's Uncle Tommy." "I don't know him - I know all our family who's down 'ere", I said. "Oh no", Dad said, "You never met 'im. 'E was one of t'men buried in that accident 20 year ago."

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Another year (JE Fellows)

Written, and illustrated, by my dad in 1980

 

1

Another year is past and gone

Another waits unused

A Calendar of daybreaks new

Unsullied, unabused

2

And while the azure Earth rotates

And day proceeds each day

The populace survive in hope

Whilst politicians play

3

They play the game of Human Chess

Mere men and women Pawns

 Whilst Bishops totter in dismay

On Monarchs, no light dawns.

4

The hopes of Nations "Peace on Earth"

are Castles in the air

The only piece, (the warlike beast)

The Knight, they move with care

5

And so with Earth their checker board

The game of life is played

They'll make the moves and counter moves

Unless their hand is stayed

6

So far results are stale mate

The victims are the Pawns

Is this, then, what the future holds

'Till the day of judgement dawns

7

Let man continue, games to play

Till Christ the Judge shall come

"Check Mate" is called, the Kings lie down

The game of life is done

John Edward Fellows

Love and Hate

There is little room in our world for hate 
Life is short, so we have no time to lose 
Malice within our heart hangs like a weight

We can be the masters of our own fate
When between love and hate we have to choose
There is little room in this world for hate 

Our own self is burnt when we feel irate

at the expression of another's views

Malice within our heart hangs like a weight

When we refuse to contact and relate
we resort to exclusion and abuse

There is little room in this world for hate

The world in turmoil, see its sorry state 

our anger rises as we watch the news

Malice within our heart hangs like a weight

Dark execration will our fears gestate

as from our soul the light will slowly ooze
There is little room in this world for hate 
Malice within our heart hangs like a weight

(c) Tim Fellows 2018

This is my attempt at a villanelle - a villanelle has a very rigid structure with iambic pentameter throughout and only two rhymes. the first and third lines repeat regularly throughout the poem. Probably the most famous villanelle is "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas which I have included to show how it should be done.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Psychopath

Psychopath

I wait for her, silent and still;
Ready; the excitement held within
knowing she will be along soon.

I need to be close; close enough to smell her scent;
close enough, if I wished,
to slash and kill with a single swipe 

But that would be a waste, to end it that quickly.
I want to take my time, to savour the
fear in her trembling body

I may let her think she can escape
only to be waiting again to continue my fun
oh such fun

My mouth on her throat, choking
until she almost slips away
then letting go, then choking again...

She will come out once again
fetching food for her family
but I know where she lives

I catch the movement in the corner of my eye
It's her! She is watchful but
she stands no chance

When it's over I might remove her head or
eat her sweet flesh

For I am the psychopath
The silent, heartless killer
of the mouse for
I am Felix.

(c) Tim Fellows 2018