William Blake had a gift for writing hallucinatory poetry and walked the streets of London, a raving madman, buried in his own 'hood – in Bunhill cemetery – early in life, like so many great writers and musicians of his time. He was a tender crafter of words, a visionary, who was a forerunner of early science fiction writers such as Shelley. He was the 18th century face of London poetry, after Shakespeare. There is a digitized manuscript in the British Library, where you can see his visions sketched in his notebook for real. It identifies his place as a sketcher and a dreamer and a man at odds with the world in which he lived, haunted by ghosts in his mind.
Since poetry is such a hard thing to categorize – bandied about in some circles, as creating "significance from thin air" is celebrated for its freedom whilst is derided in other circles as being too wordy, preachy or posh, you might wonder what was it about poetry that took your attention in the first place?
Then consider this...
Perhaps you are home early from work. You managed to beat the rush in the Tube. You've gotten through The Standard noted the want ads are all for sales jobs that you don't want. You feel a sense of guilt for having been absent from many things, lost contact with family, friends; perhaps you have been paralyzed by the recent money woes of the recession, perhaps lost contact with your heart's desire, your true mind's desire, the love of your life?
On the side table is an anthology that's been sitting there for some time as well – abandoned. It reads London: City State.
City State: State of What?
You look at this meager little book which you have in your hand. Surely if it was not now in your possession it might be slotted away in a desk in a room in the house which is rarely used.
The title stands: City State. Yet the question remains: State of what? State of Mind? State of a mad mind held captive by uncertain thoughts?
Blake, Shakespeare, Smollet (Tobias) were all pretty shady characters who roamed the streets of London, incognito perhaps, but who left their mark, no?
Relationship Poems?
Though most of the young poets in City State: New London Poetry are twenty or so and have yet to publish their first book of poetry (in many cases) their interest in London and the fact that they are active and come from varied backgrounds including university, art, TV, event promotion, academia, working in courts, teaching and sales illustrates they have found a calling which they are likely to pursue, despite what their parents might want. Are they writing about the same things you were thinking about when you were that age? Well yes. After all, in dangerous times, people tend to come together. Especially those living in a city with draconian banking charges, student protests, murder of protesters in the square mile as well as full body scans and fingerprint identification passes to buildings.
In Wayne Holloway Smith's poem the immediacy of two young lovers out on a date is evident. In
Beloved, in case you've been wondering
Smith's voice is assured as any established poem you will read though there is the sense that this snapshot-of-life poetry is self-reverential, a little too sure-of-itself as the star. Holloway-Smith the character writes:
"...that old man so adamant that he take our picture
on our first date, as we queued outside The Fiddler,
he with his white eyebrows and moustache –
timeless as a clown behind the bulb's flash;
the same one we swore was on stage at Live 8
craning that big lens our way, between Elton John's legs..."
This has a reader quality to it and you can hear the voice of the poet, spare a little tense and aloof, but hopeful that he has captivated you nonetheless. Later when the excitement has died down there is more of this langour.
"...we ate 99s on a wooden bench by the Thames,
happy as snowmen:.."
We are taken back to our own musical festival moment, Live 8, 2005. Well if WHS is twenty-odd now, and married, how old was he when Live 8 came out? He has staked his claim early then, no?
Shades of Peter Ackroyd?
Alex Davies has written a poem for Hawksmoor. This one stands out because it comes close to the stark beauty of the text of Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor and there are merry little suprises in the poem:
In which the Mad Dean Climbs the Dome of Saint Pauls
"...Behold a ramshackle public house populated by sideburns and neckerchiefs...
...(a) Beast chokes on the pantone fumes...
...Atop the dome the climbed Dean peals...."
Ackroyd himself, alludes to the importance of older poet Iain Sinclair in his own work and Chivers has paid homage as well.
New Discoveries
Other discoveries such as Swithun Cooper, Kirsten Irving, Barnaby Tidman, Anna Katchinska stand out. As well former Old Street poetry haunt The Foundry make another appearance with co-host Steve Willey, co founder of openned with Alex Davies with a poem from Source, a walk through Battersea bomb sites. However – because I have heard so much about him, – where was Sean Bonney in all of this? And what about the voice of the open mic turks, surely there would have been one who cut through the dreck and had a voice for Shoreditch? Still. Is this the next crop of poets to write about relationships in the fabled city, burned, bombed and gutted by a financial disaster and student upheaval?
The next ones?
So what can you say about these poets, are they the next Keats and Blakes and George Barkers' and Dylan Thomas'? It is hard to say because they are just starting out. Northerner Chris McCabe appears, a fixture on the London poetry scene for a few years now. Others, not included by virtue of age, such as Tim Wells, Annie Freud, Roddy Lumsden and so on have staked a claim on the city already and they have nominations and awards to show for it. It is good to see such a collection of poets put together in one place. Others such as Amy Key and the editor Tom Chivers must be commended for their ability to weave together a gaggle of young poets who have a passion for living in London at a certain time. In Conviction, just out of her teens, Ashna Sarkar laments a doomed relationship "...just a man but still all boy." Locked in post coital moment she considers the potential for further interludes.
"All things considered you did well. I know you were only in the mood for a hand-job while you nodded off."
Perhaps with time this anthology will prove to be a marker of time as well. It certainly came to life for me, under the window in the relative silence of a small bedroom.
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