by Glyn Maxwell
*
In terms of what you say – love everyone and everything, all, any, every, all – you rise beyond-all other poets, writers, statesmen and philosophers, and you leave the zealots of your day and mine all babbling from their mill-ponds. You leave the
*
What?
‘Talk of the devil!’
Jeff Oloroso was standing by Student Services, zipping up his brown leather jacket. But he was on his own, so his comment made no sense. Then again it was cheerfully made, and he was holding the door open, so in we went together.
Kerri was typing silently at her desk. Someone had splashed out on a slimline laptop for her, and she wore pink tiny earphones which were probably advising her to Ignore Professor Maxwell, for ignore him she very capably did.
Jeff eased behind the desk and said: ‘Pull up a chair, my friend,’ then, as I was doing so, his friend, he sought in his hard black briefcase, ‘I haven’t really had a chance to say that I very much do like your work, that formal technique of yours!’
Formal technique of mine, okay, you ever read the stuff out loud?
‘Now now, are you giving me homework?’ he grinned, ‘I’ll make a note. Didn’t really have you down for a performance poet.’
I didn’t say I was, I said read the stuff out loud. I don’t come to your house and do it for you. The poetry’s in the voice, on the body, in the echo,
‘Indeed, indeed, now we’re going to make this easy, we’re all of us very busy, you can’t teach here any more, we all like you, we admire the work, New Formalists do dwell among us! but, shall I just run through it all, shall I?’
Knock yourself out, Jeff, I’m only dreaming anyway, it’s my New Form,
‘Ah now I’ve heard that said about you,’ and he implicated Kerri without looking at her, ‘can I call you Glynn?’
If I can call you Jefff.
‘You see, as it goes I’m only dreaming too. . .’
Are you, go on,
‘In my dream I teach Contemporary Literature at a fine Academy, I teach all my favourite texts, and everything goes swimmingly but for one intractable visitor who sets up his gatherings so they clash with ours,’
Is that right.
‘And whose coursework is playing-cards, felt pens and toy soldiers, and who uses our support staff to summon various eccentrics from the fields hereabouts, and who gets them intoxicated, and his students moreover, on Academy property, who sends them all out intoxicated to their classes just last week, and who demands that they, where is it, here, all “touch one another”, and who, having successfully applied for an Adjunct Position in the Academy, proceeds to, well, do we know where this is going?’
Some adjunct position, I suppose,
‘On Academy property. Were you aware the person in question is married?’
No, mate. Was the person aware she was?
‘The person was very much aware she was.’
Is this in your dream or mine?
‘In my dream, mate, letters are going out to your students this afternoon. If they wish to continue attending your – events -they’ll be required to cease their studies in the Academy. We’ve also informed the readings agent that we do not need a visit from Mr, where is it, Mr Walter Whiteman,’
In my dreams you’d know his name. In fact you’d sit in on my classes.
‘In our dreams we’re all happy, the whole world sits in on our classes. . .’
Well. You got me there.
‘No hard feelings.’
Absolutely none.
‘Then we’re good here.’
What?
‘Then we’re good here.’
I think your dream got stuck.
‘Maybe your dream got stuck.’
*
Walt Whitman sir, your lines are the utmost reach of your breath as it praises all it finds, recalls, imagines. You rise to what’s there, you say it till it’s song, you sing it till it’s gasping, you gasp it to its final ebb. Then the breath is over and the white space washes in, and the hush is dumbstruck wonder, as the next surge of praise begins to form, because it can do no other.
There’s more Life than there is Art, your poems seem to say, and the glory is in the reach, the stretch, the straining ever upwards, like plant-life in the sunshine. Your ecstasies won’t wait in the shade to get themselves in order. Order is not theirs to bestow. There’s too much light to meet, there’s too much warmth to oh in the bin we go, my friend. . .
*
There’d been two hours to kill before class. I decided I would go to class as if nothing had happened, that was a skill I was skilled in, I would go at the appointed time, I would see if anyone came. Perhaps they hadn’t received their letters yet. Perhaps there’d be farewells to say. I’d want to be ready for those.
In the meantime I went home. I stood in the dead centre of my humble digs. Contained multitudes, contradicted myself, decided not to pack. No one had told me to leave. They could stop me teaching but I was free to dream a fortnight’s holiday. I made a pile of Browning and Byron books why not, I read for pleasure, then I went for a long walk.
On my long walk I said hi man to Jake Polar-Jones in his huge gold headphones crossing the road by Saddlers – Saddlers looked closed for something, the blinds were all down –
I said !hola amigosl to Heath and format sipping coffees outside Benson -
And hello there to the little girl McCloud as she wheeled her bike along the lakeshore. I was reciting,
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood
and air through my lungs. . .
‘Is that by W B Yeats?’
No Fiona, it s by W Whitman.
‘I didn’t say to stop.’
Thank you. I won’t.
‘I have to go home now. O revoir then!’
*
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-coloured sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice, words loosed to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms. . .
Peter Grain was walking trimly along by the village green in a suit. I saw him see me, I saw him blanch and veer into the first shop – Mrs Gantry’s – and decided I’d mess with him by following him in. Bells jingled for him, bells jangled for me, and there he was all downcast in his three-piece suit.
Hey Peter, got a promotion did we.
‘I – no, oh the outfit, well – no.’
Come on man, think of something, jeez.
‘I – kind of a whim.’
Yeah really. So, my term is over, but then, you knew that.
‘I – no I didn’t. It’s, a pity.’
Yeah right. Those Academy guys don’t half know a lot about my private life.
‘I – don’t know anything about that, professor.’
Okay. Fair enough. Do your shopping, mate. She’s out of zombies but you might snag the last robot.
*
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hillsides. . .
‘Is this how you teach now Max, sort of shouting in the road.’
(Mimi Bevan and Roy Ford were sitting on two lopsided swings in a ragged garden near the halls. They both had glasses of red wine, like they’d spilled from an all-day party. Roy doffed his trilby. Some bloke was crashed out on the grass.)
No. I’m teaching later.
‘Not what I heard, Max.’
What did you hear.
‘Heard you were quitting.’
‘Hey no!’ said Roy, ‘that true?’
No it’s not. I’m not going anywhere. Not till the end of term.
(Roy raised a genial fist in approval. Mimi shrugged.)
That alri
ght with you, Ms Bevan?
‘Not my circus,’
Not your monkeys. Thanks for caring.
‘Who’s caring.’
My mistake.
‘No harm done.’
*
It’s prose because it’s to hand, and it’s verse because it rises and falls in the meadows of the lungs. The rhyming/metrical/stanzaic poet is formal, yes, balancing the freedom of imagination with the constrictions of breath and pulse and synapses and footfall – but you are too, you are no less, it’s just that there’s nothing set between your heart and the sky.
Now I see what Father Gerard saw. You are the great unstinting protestant to his gauging catholic splendour – catholic, small c for a poet, I’m rowing my heart out too in that little painted coracle with all the well-intentioned schemers. Yours, his, both are praise of life. Both are cries of vivid loss, lovelorn black upon speechless white, but the white of all the lasting poets is what in the end? – awe, gratitude, thanks that pass all understanding, for we don’t know who were thanking. . .
*
They came, they all came, as the bell was chiming three. They all did except Peter Grain.
Heath
Niall Caroline
Barry
Samira Ollie
Lily Iona
moi
You okay Niall? (he’s giving two thumbs up)
‘He’s cool,’ Heath said, ‘right mate?’
‘I’ve had a chemical reaction.’
Don’t have it again, all right?
‘No. It’s finished.’
I’m glad, I have an exercise for you. Yes! Please, please, control yourselves, your spontaneous outpouring of joy is overwhelming, it’s – touching, I’m here, you’re here, wherever we are, I have an exercise for you,
‘Hell yes,’ said Lily sadly, pulling out her notebook.
Put away all your notebooks.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed my London friend.
This is the Postures exercise. Put away everything. Hello Peter, very smart.
‘I’ve been asked to distribute these letters, if I may, just,’
Bit late for my birthday, man. Bit keen for Christmas eh? (nevertheless I let him, it was his day-job in this galaxy, they went round and they were opened. Read, re-read, folded, stared at, put away, frowned at, filed and I listen to all of ’em breathing. I decided not to be stopped) So! The Postures Exercise. . .
Caroline Jellicoe rose first: ‘It’s been an interesting class, lots to get your mind round,’ and she tucked her chair in with a scrape and was gone through the open door.
At the count of three, I want you all to assume a posture. It doesn’t matter what kind of posture, as long as it’s something relatively comfortable that you can hold for a few seconds. . .
(They were staring either at each other or the table.)
It doesn’t have to be natural to you, for example. Do you have another clash, Samira?
‘I do, I’m sorry, it’s my funding, it’s been memorable. Good luck though.’
(Samira left, Lily glared at her but she didn’t look back, Peter had backed out discreetly at some point, and now Orlando somehow sagged upwards: ‘Look they kind of have us over a barrel, man,’)
Oh you can fold your arms, put your head in your hands, you can lie back and look at the ceiling. You can lean forward open-mouthed, you can put your hands behind your head, you can bow your head, you can shut your eyes, you can stroke your chin, you can hold your nose,
(Ollie shrugged a doleful shrug and Iona said softly ‘Thank you for everything, Glyn,’ then they were gone, heads bowed, and Heath was stirring)
So remember, my friends, at the count of three,
‘Time’s up, mate,’ Heath went, ‘it’s been real,’ and he took Niall Prester with him, Niall raising a V for peace,
At the count of three you assume a posture, I won’t tell yet you why,
‘Laters at the Keys, chief?’ said Lily, not beating them joining them, but I just ploughed on:
You can pray with your hands, you can lock your hands, you can hide your eyes, you can plug your ears,
‘We’ll be there, chief, oh and look this belongs to you,’ Lily said, pressing a plastic toy into my palm, ‘adios, Baggs the Monkey,’ (and she was gone with a wave while Barry sat there troubled),
‘It’s like musical chairs, se’or,’ he said, ‘but more like the other way round in a way.’
One, Two. . . Three! Assume the posture!
Barry
Baggs
moi
Er. What’s your posture, Barry?
‘It’s just sort of, well now, it’s like this.’
That’s – just how you were sitting.
‘Well I liked how I was sitting.’
O-kay. . . What’s your posture, Baggs?
Don’t be shy, Baggs. Take care, Barry.
‘You take care, teacherman, you take good care.’
I’m waiting, Baggs. You just gonna sit there like that all day – what’s that? Sorry what did you say, Baggs?
Not my shircush, not my humansh.
Very sharp, Baggs, very sharp. Let me give you your money’s worth.
The Posture Exercise
One, two, three. Assume the Adjunct Position!
That’s good, Baggs. You’re seated, cross-legged, on the table, looking quite comfortable, with your right hand curled around your knee, and your left hand outstretched as if to make a point, and yet resting its elbow on the left knee. Your expression is mild, civilized, open-eyed, you are weighing up opinions. Dare I say — cautiously optimistic?
All the rest of the creatures would have their own. Were they present.
We would all look around at everyone’s posture. We’d go clockwise round the room, discussing the meaning of each one. How relaxed or how tense? How engaged or disengaged? How conscious how unconscious? How thoughtful or observant or focused or vague? What does it mean to be sitting in that shape? At the start, in the middle, at the end of an emotion? of a mood? a thought?
We would each of us choose three of the postures.
And we would seek the three that tell a story.
Let’s start with mine. I have my head in my hands, or rather it’s resting on four fingers, the index and middle of each hand, with the thumbs at my cheekbones. It’s not despair, it’s more like thinking through anxiety. Posture One.
Let’s say in Posture Two I sit back like this – watch me, Baggs – now I’m draped backwards looking skywards and my arms flop down beside me to the earth.
I have disconnected from thought. My body has called time on it, and now I’m slung back disinclined to go on. I hold this second posture like you’re still holding yours.
Ask yourself: what grew the second posture from the first?
Ask yourself: what grows a second line from a first line?
What if I do yours next? Yours is my third and final posture, Baggs, I’ll sit cross-legged on the table like you, look I’m climbing up and doing it, I open my eyes and engage with the world, I rest one arm and hold the other one out. A half-smile comes to me. I’m one thoughtful monkey.
In those three postures I’ve journeyed from – let’s say – anguished thought to wry resignation to renewal of hope. Do you understand me, brother?
We would write three lines that do that, three lines with breaks between them, for example, top-of-the-head (I mean really top-of-the-head)
There was now no moment left he could foresee [sit there]
so he ceased to see, he let go all the moments [lie back]
until time set them ticking like old toys it found [sit up again]
Whatever. Lines, or stanzas, two-line, three-line, it’s all about the progress between them and through them.
Do it yourself, Baggs the monkey, you fail too, fail better. I’m going to sit here on this table and write a letter to Walt Whitman, if it’s all the same to you, and then I’m going home.
*
Listener up there! what
have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Talk honestly, for no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then, I contradict myself.
I am large – I contain multitudes.
I concentrate towards them that are nigh – I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his days work and will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
*
Walt Whitman, old captain, I am so happy you will never see this letter:
Its about my fortieth effort! I’m at peace with that oblivion.
And sir, I am so happy you cant see your poor country at this moment in its history, because I love and revere the nation you describe, the land you exalt, the beautiful high bar you raised for it:-No god is its hope, no law – you are, 1 my captain, your work is its hope – what it says, not how it says it, but what it says, what your poetry actually SAYS — love everyone and everything, love ANY, EVERY, ALL!
You tried to sound America to the bottom of its soul.
But don’t look now, my dear – Look away, you rolling river ’
Most who followed, they fell for how you said it. As if your freedom were freedom from praising, freedom from the heart and the face of the sky, whether one infers a kind attendant Magus or a blind spiralling Nature – what can pertain but praise?
What one can hope is Heaven – what one can see through Hubble – what can pertain but praise?
But they will scuffle to their freedom. As if your freedom were freedom from oxygen, blood, skin, hair, spit; bone, enamel. As if it were freedom from time. As if the space between your lines were anything but Intake, the common trembling inhalation of humankind.
The obscurantists of my day have no time for praise. And yet they leave the gaps forms to flounder in, wondering What’s meant here? Am I good enough toget it? Can I give up my breath to a thing that’s got its back turned? But isn’t that just what the dead gods made us bleat out loud? Is it not what the lost white Lord insisted on our howling? WHANS MEANT HERE? AAi I GOOD ENOUGH TO GET IT? CAN I GIVE UP MY BREATH TO A THING THAT’S GOT ITS BACK TURNED?