Jamie McKendrick: Out There: Faber & Faber: 2012
Jamie McKendrick: Out There: Faber & Faber: 2012
Readers who like poetry and, more specifically, those who like the poetry of Jamie McKendrick won't be disappointed by this volume. Others seeking a more restless, engaged voice which seems to be reaching out to the reader and the world may need to look elsewhere. Its not the language that the author deploys or the esoteric knowledge and polyglot foreign languages that are all amassed with some panache that will disappoint because, in some superficial sense, Out There, is a pretty persuasive volume of poetry. The language is dense, thought-provoking and multiple layers of references cleverly arranged cannot detract from the author's efforts. The trouble with this book is the author's dearth of anything much to talk about. In a poem like Psychostasia which seems to meaningfully sum up the futile stasis of the poem, a cathedral of language replete with references to Christianity, Classical mythology and the Ancient Egyptian religion describes how two lizards fight to the death. In McKendrick's mind the encounter must be tantamount to Ali's 'rumble in the jungle', however to the casual reader the effect is disconcerting and odd. In fact the author was visiting Torcello which is not far from where this reviewer is now. Torcello is an island in the Venetian lagoon and it was the first island in the lagoon to have a settlement before Venice was established. At one point more than 20,000 people lived on Torcello engaged in the commercial exploitation of the salt in the lagoon but de-salination began to occur, wrecking the economy and transforming the locality into a laguna morte. Today only 20 people live there. Practically the only thing left to see on the island is the cathedral with its Byzantine mosaic of the Last Judgement. Incidentally the poem on the facing page is another description of a Last Judgement image found in St Vitus Cathedral, Prague intimating that the poet is presenting contrasting poems on either page and this indeed is how it is.
In another poem Toscanelli the subject matter is the death of the poet Apollinaire hardly a name conjured with presently in Britain although it may be gaining weight given that it is now the centenary of the Great War when the poet was unfortunately and prematurely shot dead. The name must be more familiar along the Champs Elysees anyway but nowhere does McKendrick ever countenance anything as innovative as Apollonaire's concrete poems preferring slick, multi-layered lyrics instead, sonnet-like structures, snippets of foreign languages and lots of mythology. Every technique, in fact, that Modernist writers deployed. The reader gradually builds up the impression that McKendrick must be an avid purchaser of tickets at the Easyjet website for he seems to visit so many places only to stay for a poem or so before whisking himself off to another locale. Could anyone really live like this? The espresso cooling in the Milan cafe while the poet is evidently enjoying another port of call, another illustrious gallery or monastery or bridge or museum, another poem to write. The author who comes to mind as a reference is Ezra Pound although McKendrick references Dante as his authentic forebear (who did his fair share of wandering to be sure but without, in that day, the services of Easyjet or any other low cost airline. It would be interesting to conjecture where Dante might have ended up had he had a plane ticket but nowhere that would have matched the riches of his imagination, probably.)
McKendrick is at his best when he writes about nature because a plethora of rare beasts litter the pages of this volume from the white salamander of the Skocjan caves to the snow vole. McKendrick is obviously fascinated by the natural world and this fascination is evinced over and over again in this volume but these birds and beasts might have been a more valuable focus than the contrasted material around them which doen't seem to often fit.
Paul Murphy, San Dona di Piave, near Venice
Readers who like poetry and, more specifically, those who like the poetry of Jamie McKendrick won't be disappointed by this volume. Others seeking a more restless, engaged voice which seems to be reaching out to the reader and the world may need to look elsewhere. Its not the language that the author deploys or the esoteric knowledge and polyglot foreign languages that are all amassed with some panache that will disappoint because, in some superficial sense, Out There, is a pretty persuasive volume of poetry. The language is dense, thought-provoking and multiple layers of references cleverly arranged cannot detract from the author's efforts. The trouble with this book is the author's dearth of anything much to talk about. In a poem like Psychostasia which seems to meaningfully sum up the futile stasis of the poem, a cathedral of language replete with references to Christianity, Classical mythology and the Ancient Egyptian religion describes how two lizards fight to the death. In McKendrick's mind the encounter must be tantamount to Ali's 'rumble in the jungle', however to the casual reader the effect is disconcerting and odd. In fact the author was visiting Torcello which is not far from where this reviewer is now. Torcello is an island in the Venetian lagoon and it was the first island in the lagoon to have a settlement before Venice was established. At one point more than 20,000 people lived on Torcello engaged in the commercial exploitation of the salt in the lagoon but de-salination began to occur, wrecking the economy and transforming the locality into a laguna morte. Today only 20 people live there. Practically the only thing left to see on the island is the cathedral with its Byzantine mosaic of the Last Judgement. Incidentally the poem on the facing page is another description of a Last Judgement image found in St Vitus Cathedral, Prague intimating that the poet is presenting contrasting poems on either page and this indeed is how it is.
In another poem Toscanelli the subject matter is the death of the poet Apollinaire hardly a name conjured with presently in Britain although it may be gaining weight given that it is now the centenary of the Great War when the poet was unfortunately and prematurely shot dead. The name must be more familiar along the Champs Elysees anyway but nowhere does McKendrick ever countenance anything as innovative as Apollonaire's concrete poems preferring slick, multi-layered lyrics instead, sonnet-like structures, snippets of foreign languages and lots of mythology. Every technique, in fact, that Modernist writers deployed. The reader gradually builds up the impression that McKendrick must be an avid purchaser of tickets at the Easyjet website for he seems to visit so many places only to stay for a poem or so before whisking himself off to another locale. Could anyone really live like this? The espresso cooling in the Milan cafe while the poet is evidently enjoying another port of call, another illustrious gallery or monastery or bridge or museum, another poem to write. The author who comes to mind as a reference is Ezra Pound although McKendrick references Dante as his authentic forebear (who did his fair share of wandering to be sure but without, in that day, the services of Easyjet or any other low cost airline. It would be interesting to conjecture where Dante might have ended up had he had a plane ticket but nowhere that would have matched the riches of his imagination, probably.)
McKendrick is at his best when he writes about nature because a plethora of rare beasts litter the pages of this volume from the white salamander of the Skocjan caves to the snow vole. McKendrick is obviously fascinated by the natural world and this fascination is evinced over and over again in this volume but these birds and beasts might have been a more valuable focus than the contrasted material around them which doen't seem to often fit.
Paul Murphy, San Dona di Piave, near Venice
Comments