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This is another first collection from a poet who has been
around for quite some time. Briggs won an Eric Gregory award in 2002 and
although I'd not been familiar with his work this book proves to be an
interesting debut from a mainstream poet dabbling his toes in the more
experimental depths. As Clare Pollard says in one of the cover blurbs - ÒThis
is seriously good, intelligent poetry for those who like method in their
madnessÓ. For someone like me this is both a strength and a weakness because
there were a number of occasions when reading this book that I yearned for a
bit more of the 'madness'. That said, there is an elegance to the
construction of these poems which I can't help but admire and there is enough
humour and skewed nostalgia in the collection to keep the pages turning.
Briggs has a knack for arresting opening lines:
The
manufacturers of cultural viruses
were hawking
liquid pep-me-ups
laced with
pharmaceutical cocaine,
(from 'Cultural Static')
The tone of this poem implies a mixed
response to the virtual reality of the 'information overload' society, an
almost haughty (at times) impatience with what you might call cultural
relativism which nevertheless becomes the 'subject' of the poem in a manner
which embraces both the writer's irritation and the surface diversity of the
chosen material. Briggs' need to conclude the poem in a satisfyingly
'rational' manner - that Augustan sense of the poem as reasoned argument -
weakens its overall effect for me, although it is that kind of poem and I'm sure others will admire its
conclusion:
more a consequence
of the
ill-timed fanfare of a meta-ironic,
polyphonic
ringtone which, these days,
I suppose, is
what passes for personality.
(from 'Cultural Static')
Elsewhere, in poems such as 'My Year of
Culture' and 'A Portrait of the English Technician', for example, Briggs reminds me of Luke Kennard,
where the mildly surreal narrative, aided by repetition and listing, becomes
a method whereby a social critique combines with a playful sense of ritual
nonsense to produce something entertaining and weird - but not perhaps quite
as weird as it could be. There are occasions - as in the title poem - where
such irrational estrangement works more effectively, or perhaps appears more
in tune with its apparent subject:
Both men made
their bread discerning
the lines
etched by Fate in palms and foreheads.
Me, I always
learned enough by firing
my full
quiver of arrows at random
and observing
the manner of their falling.
(from 'The Method Men')
Here I'm reminded of Ian Duhig's work, partly because of the subject matter -
as a point of contrast - and partly because Duhig's use of the occult and the
'irrational' is part of a project of oppositional culture which is developed
throughout his poetry. Briggs' work feels more 'apolitical' to me though this
may simply be a matter of being of a different generation.
There's certainly a rich cultural mix of materials in these poems - Briggs is
clearly an erudite guy - but I do find his habit of concluding his poems with
a neat underlining closure, often in a 'finger-wagging', sermon mode, a
trifle irritating as it often spoils what goes before. It's not always such a
problem: for example, in 'In the Senior Common Room', where the concluding
'But/how do you know they're our bees?'
- actually adds to the effect, whereas in 'Bruce Cockburn (In the Falling
Dark)', the ending - 'Two
became lawyers, one a teacher, one a clerk / That world faded out like an
overheard remark.' - simply reinforces the whole tone of the piece, a mild
rebuttal of youthful attitudes which feels negative and ungenerous in all the
wrong ways.
Some of the poems in 'Seven Stages of a Record Collection', particularly
those on Rod Stewart, James Taylor and Nick Cave are better, mixing
convincing nostalgia with the occasional good line; and 'Snow' is a more lyrical
piece which avoids cliche in a subject area filled with potential pitfalls
and also has a lovely ending. The final poem, Pulse, is neat, taut and beautifully effective, mixing a
commentary on writing with the thing itself, difficult to pull off and with a
haunting, lyrical aspect which I found entirely convincing, one of the best
poems in the collection. I also enjoyed the much longer penultimate poem -
'Bloomsday' (prefaced by a quote from Ulysees, of course, a hard act to follow!), which has room
to breathe, partly because it is a longer, more discursive piece. The inner
dialogue feels unforced, the relationship between persona now and (younger)
self is abrasive and convincing while the multitude of material is given
plenty of space in which to frolic. This poem mixes nostalgia with feelings
of irritability and loss and does so in a stream-of-consciousness manner
which is filled with colourful textures, varying registers and unforced
erudition.
Overall then, this is a mixed bag. I found plenty to admire and enjoy in this
varied collection of poetry and also material which I wasn't convinced by
because it felt more like a writing exercise than 'the real thing'. That
said, I've discovered a new writer (to me) whose work I've found stimulating
and whose next collection I'm looking forward to reading.
© Steve Spence 2010
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