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Commiserate is a monthly experiment in poetic collaboration.

This Month: Alec Newman

Alec Newman is the editor at Knives Forks and Spoons Press, and an occasional poet.

Alec says: The original concept for this piece was to juxtapose the conditions of Manchester’s working classes in Little Ireland, which stood by the Corner House in the 1840s, with the conditions of the working classes in Chongqing China today. My section would be assembled as found text from contemporary sources, whilst Ryan would compose poems in response to his research.

Of Manchester Of Chongqing

 

Who wouldn’t want to build a new world
who wouldn’t change a childhood
or take back a bloody word
spit at a mother? If you build it
maybe the ghosts will come
dressed in white and swinging
for forgiveness.

*

recall the new town || off oxford road ¶ 1801 – 1851 ¶ life expectancy calculated at 25.3 years ¶ in contracted, crooked courts and passages || the air choked with factory smoke and shoddy dust || 4,000 human beings || have reached the lowest stage of humanity ¶ in streets sunk in pools of shit || a weaver || in a dark, wet cellar, in measureless filth and stench || had to bale out the water from his dwelling every morning

*
An empty beach will not be silent. Diggers
will not rest, not in the open air, not when you must
go so far down to rise. Liveable, safe, the future
goes both ways. I don’t want to talk about food,
what we eat, what mother swallows, what father
dug the holes for. So many buildings marked
for demolition, buried for a better life, mother
crane, father concrete, not even on a map. Puddles
fill the dark and faces bloom orange over a brazier
and the bang bang army shoulders
their quads for 50 kilos of rice, 50 kilos of leaves,
50 kilos of lime, 50 kilos of mint, life
a little better here and sometimes things are heavier,
sometimes we earn less.

*

talk about food || what they eat ¶ adulterated, poisoned provisions ¶ weaving cotton 69 hours a week for 11 shillings ¶ sometimes they earn less ¶ the villainy || of mixing gypsum, alum or chalk with flour ¶ tainted meat || taken from diseased cattle ¶ a pig found dead and decayed || 4d for pork-chops at the butchers

*

Megacity, weren’t we capitol? Megacity means princes and the heavy smiles of those who lay under princes. Megacity, 18 is still quite a lot. Megacity, give us this day our daily cheap parts. Megacity means bridges of glass, walls of glass, whole faces of glass. Megacity, means never having to take the stairs. Megacity, when will you send your eggs to India. Megacity, means Moet & Chandon. Megacity, it is 5 O’clock somewhere. Megacity, rev your engines red, no speed limit, no cop no stop, no glitter till we’re at sea. Megacity means never having to say ‘I’m sorry.’ Megacity, Megacity, doo wah diddy.

*

it should be noted BLOOD that many of manchester’s victorian buildings exploit the semiotics of neoclassical architecture to reinforce the concept of divine-order BLOOD and therefore legitimise the british class system YOUR GRAND HOUSES WERE BUILT WITH THE BLOOD OF YOUR WORKERS the stout doric columns represent the working classes and occupy the ground floor where they support the middle and upper-classes THE MORTER WAS MIXED WITH SWEAT AND TEARS the ionic columns THE WIND HOWLS THROUGH YOUR ESTATE LIKE THE CRY OF A FACTORY CHILD which represent the middle-classes adorn the second floor YOUR WALLS OOZE BLOOD whilst the exquisite corinthian columns representing the aristocracy articulate the third floor

*

No contradiction, no story
no destruction, no balloon
no power station, no smoke
no smoke, no heat
no fire, no hot water
call the rivers coincidence
call blight, landmark
call it making work

call your bed obsolete, your house obsolete
fence a patch of grass big enough for a gnome
fence a corner, leave it a few years /come back /
and call it / stranger / call it miracle / call
your favourite restaurant deja vu / would you
press pause or raise high the roof beams
call graffitti whatever you want / one day /
it will be framed / all one hundred flowers red
or yellow / will be vased / sipping tea we can’t
talk about anything else / whenever we ask
the answer is always ‘someplace else’

where skyscrapers spurt from plains
like creeping plants / I can place
different things in different boxes
– a rubber chicken, a banana –
but there is little I can change
I name my son / I take my photo
I hang what I can on the line
and wait for the concrete to dry
*

Ryan says: when Alec suggested this theme, I was daunted because I never start a poem that way and Chongqing, China was way out of my comfort zone. I was spurred on by Alec’s responses and by the juxtaposition itself. A solid idea which I hope I didn’t fuck up too much. x

More from Commiserate 2013

In advance of my show at the London Literature Festival, there was a little interview (and big picture) of me in the Sunday Observer Magazine. Come see me for a glass of port and some poems while I’m in London 31 May – 1 June.

I recently joined Steve Wasserman on his podcast “Read Me Something You Love” to discuss a poem by Michael Burkard, “Tooth”. In it we talk about the following: Unfolding Poems; Illogical Teeth; The Lost Son; Coming Open To Closed Poems; She is Fucking/Human (Divergent Synapses Firing); The Misery That Is Going To Pass.

Recently a series of my poems have been translated into Bulgarian by Open Book Magazine. They are:

Untitled (Howe)

Oregon Train

My 100-Year Old Ghost

summer nights, walking

Untitled (Lincoln)

The Apartment

Waiting for the Ocean.

If you are a Bulgarian speaker, enjoy! Thanks to Literature Across Frontiers for making this happen.

Commiserate is a monthly experiment in poetic collaboration.

This Month: MEHMED (MEŠA) BEGIC

An Elementary Sequence in Four Parts

I.

BLACK WATER BLUES

The jar returns to the well till it breaks -
i heard her saying that soft as water
without knowing how hard
water could be
Crickets cry their song again
you know the song it goes on
and on remember me when all is gone
The water near my house is often yellow
the water of my father’s house is grey
my love’s water is red she calls it blood
She says It is easy to make a list
of what was lost
or who was abandoned;
chocolate melting in the sun,
stones baking in the heat,
water black below light.
and lights are dim as comes the night
So, you broke a jar, so what, he says
you gonna buy the blouse
will I write all over it
the black waters blues
You gonna invent the summer
and break the days which ran away
and for good over the sweetlife hills
It’s easy to point the finger
it’s easy to make a list
of all that was lost or who’s to blame, i heard
her say, as if anything is different when you fall

II.

WATER WITH WIND

It gets complicated sometimes
the air is a desert
with no sound
It gets easy sometimes
the water is warm
do we fly or should we dive in
to the yellow forest of thoughts
growing on your weary little hands
birds of those woods
know it is time to sleep
despite pigeons racing
tiny worries
on their legs,
elsewhere
the sky; a whole net of stars
as if romance was something
we had never done before

III.

WATER WITH WIND, LATER FIRE

The wind slams the wood
door closed like a mouth
slapped in the rain
Quiet night with no lights
The fire begins inside
an old dry mattress
rolls over and hugs
the whole house to ash
Where does one go from there
Like you want to go anywhere
What will they think of you
when your loving
misshaped body is found
forming this coal metal thing
will they be able to tell what is what
it is easy knowing nothing
with the lights out i was just a normal guy
and then I woke up and was
still just a normal guy
seeing half a woman
who thought she was seeing
two men and all was right
with the world. Night. Ships.
Stars. Water with wind, later fire
soon the earth
which I’m told, we will inherit
when you are dust
who will separate you from the wind

IV.

EARTH

No man can die twice but the grief
we cause returns like a sweater,
can be mended. And dirt can fill
that hole with short breaths

of intention between panic
and thrill. And like those hints of pain
the earth has neither a beginning
nor is an end getting close.

What has been spoiled
through man’s fault

can be made good again
through man’s work. You knock
on the walls to call out the ghosts.

And you’ll throw a pebble

down a well just to hear
where the bottom is
but it just keeps going

for so long you remember a crystal
and it’s never there when you need it.
Some summits carry names, stall minds

but everything we need to know about time
is in the mountain which has moved
slowly around the earth again.

*

Ryan says: When Mesa and I started this, I didn’t realise how fast and good it would be. We started with the water and finished with earth in a drunken night of back and forth email between Edinburgh and Nicaragua where he now lives. We had no intention of doing a sequence of any sort, but I think we both enjoyed the volley so much we couldn’t stop. The last time I saw Mesa it was at a bus station in Sarajevo. I was wearing stupid sunglasses. He, as always, looked excellent. You can find out more about him on his webpage.

Mesa says: It was natural, our writing experience. Damn, we should write a book. Tell the publishers to find us. <and the glasses were not stupid, they were full of love (parade)>

– Read More From Commiserate 2013 –

–

Commiserate is a monthly experiment in poetic collaboration.

This Month: Katherine Leyton

Ryan says: Originally from Canada, I’ve known Katherine since her days of study in Edinburgh. Her mature, considered, (occasionally angry) voice and rare concern for The Poem struck me from our very first workshop together and, indeed, my first collection remains indebted to her eyes.

Since then she’s been at work on her craft and it has been my privilege to read her poems as often as she cares to send them along. Having just read her recently finished first manuscript, I remain excited about the future.

Katherine’s poems have appeared in places like The Malahat Review, The Edinburgh Review, and Room. She was also the founder one of the more exciting poetry projects I’ve seen in a long time — How Pedestrian. Without any funding or sponsorship, Katherine took poetry to the streets and got random people in random places to read poems aloud. You’ll want to dip into the project. But, first, have a read of our poem which was loosely inspired by a Tomaz Salumn poem which might have been called ‘Notes to My Wife’ (though, I’m not 100% positive) but was definitely in ‘A Ballad for Metka Krasovec‘.

–

notes to a husband

I.

When I feed the ducks
my hard heels of bread

I hate how the black-
necked geese often do not care

for my crumbs.
That’s not really news

but it’s what I care
to report.

II.

The bed is cold ground
when you’re gone

my obsessions sweat
through the sheets
and I blink
at the ceiling

as it lowers itself.
In the morning
I think about our kitchen window–
the time a sparrow collided with our reflection

we’d been eating toast
hands gripping mugs
everything like any day.

III

When I swim
I know only swimming

this water remembers my body

you will come back and say
I’ve memorized every inch of you

but your hands will feel cool
strange and I will shudder the first time

your mouth moves for my skin.

IV

My bookshelves prove
I will keep expanding
like a universe, unchecked

V

When you are here
and sitting still
I make you read to me

I lay my head in your lap
and you get nervous:
“She gave him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles.”

You stumble
and I reach up and put my hand
to your neck.

VI.

I don’t know whether to answer the telephone
or the emails or the door. I am too drunk

to eat fish. Windows or not,
your eyes are broken

and we have conversations
in my head like a television

on somewhere,
letters I don’t send.

VII.

Your job is to be forgotten
but present. A rattling

glass eye or some trashy
romance novel I never read

but refuse to throw away.

VIII.

Call me.
Call me and don’t say anything.
Call me and pray.
Call me and talk for the dead.

I will call you.
I will call you when my legs open wider.
I will call you when yolk sticks on the plate.
I will call you when night wakes me.

Call me when you buy carrots / when you feel like a run / it is raining / the bus is late /
you stop to help an old woman up the stairs/ I will call you

when i notice the moon again / when i rinse out the bottles / before the trash / must go out / call and there are no answers / no endings / i will call you when i remember
what it is / i entered / the kitchen for

–

Katherine says: I’m a bit of a fascist when it comes to my poetry, so I’ll admit I found this exercise very frustrating at first, especially since Ryan took the lead on it and decided both the context and the opening stanza.

Here, Ryan says, go anywhere you want, but only in this room. Or, in this case, be anyone you want, but only in the confines of this marriage.

In the end, of course, constraints are wonderful things because they challenge you to go places in your writing you normally wouldn’t.

And working with Ryan is exciting: what I like about his work is that it explodes in these unexpected places into deep grooves and melodies that I really want to get into, be a part of, and it was wonderful to have the opportunity to do that. I’m really glad he asked me to participate in this project.

– Read More From Commiserate 2013 –

Great news! Pakistan-based arts magazine The Missing Slate has included yours truly as part of a massively exciting bunch of emerging British poets in an extended feature/showcase. Even more excitingly, you can read the whole thing as a digital edition here! The feature includes an introduction from Todd Swift and work from Jen Hadfield, Jon Stone, SJ Fowler, Liz Berry, Lorraine Mariner, Anna Selby and a bunch of others. The whole collection is really worth a concentrated read, and I defy you not to find something to grab your attention.

On the site, just click on the button marked ‘Expand’ on the Winter 2013 edition. The Emerging British Poets section starts at page 52 via a totally fancy magazine viewer, or jump straight to my poems if you’re not inclined to read anybody else’s. But that’s a terrible idea.

The Missing Slate is a quarterly magazine run by a really excellent group of young editors and creators, and really worth keeping tabs on. You can check out regular features and articles on their main site, or if you like using Facebook, they maintain a really active and appealing profile here.

Really excited to have work published in Where Rockets Burn Through a super-cool anthology of science fiction poems edited by your friend and mine Mr Russell Jones, who has assembled a stellar cast of writers from across the UK. The poets involved are too numerous and blindingly brilliant to list on these pages, but as luck would have it you can check them all out at the Penned in the Margins store.

Blasting into the future, across alien worlds and distant galaxies, fantastic technologies and potential threats to humanity, Where Rockets Burn Through brings science fiction and poetry together in one explosive, genre-busting collection. Climb aboard, strap in and fire up the photon cannon.

Penned in the Margins is a great independent publisher that organises literary events in London’s East End.  Please support them by getting a copy of this killer collection of sci fi verse.

I recently had the pleasure of having a poem included in the art/poetry collaboration Estuary: A Confluence of Art & Poetry, in which “You Wanted to See the Lighthouse” is paired up with a couple of evocative images made by Arab-American artist Ilham Badreddine Mahfouz. You can read the poem and view one of Ilham’s paintings in all its high-rez glory here.

This was a really cool project to be involved in, and the end result, published by Moon and Mountain, is mighty pretty. If you got a pocketful of clams and a hankering for an art object, you can pick it up at their store. It makes a beautiful present — or just a gift for yourself!

Thanks to all the fine artists and poets involved in the collaboration.

Read ‘Untitled (Howe)’ online

in the Istanbul Review

I was very happy to have my poem chosen as ‘Poem of the Month’ for the Istanbul Review. Aside from reminding me of They Might Be Giants, the Istanbul Review is a fine supporter of emerging artists and writers and is one of those necessary magazines which we should all be thankful for.

 

The poem – Untitled – (but with a quote from Marie Howe) is one of those strange poems which burst out. I like the sea, I like looking at it, I like writing about it, and yes – I too think it is a useless teacher – and an exhausted metaphor. Yet, here we are again. Another poem about the sea. Soon, another song about the rain.  Enjoy the poem here (and remember to check out the rest of the magazine.)