Poetry in Motion
On Friday of 0th week, whilst the hoi polloi kick-start the term with a traditional post-Collections pint or ten in the Kings Arms, I smugly take a seat in New College's Long Room to await the arrival of, count them, four Great Women Poets. Sadly such novel, and I admit perhaps delusional, sensations of cultural superiority rapidly dissipate, as a surreptitious glance about the room reveals it to be packed with ladies of a certain age, kitted out in twin sets and sensible shoes. I briefly wonder if I've inadvertently wandered into a meeting of the WI, before recalling Germaine Greer's recent insight that middle-aged women in this country support culture like the men support sport. Crisis averted, brow wiped, I settle back as the first and best known of the evening's poets takes the floor.
Introduced on the leaflet as "the superstar of British poetry," a phrase which, in my cynical book begs the epithet "oxymoron," Carol Ann Duffy is nonetheless undisputedly one of the nation's favourite bards. Initially put off reading her stuff by an inexplicable association in my addled mind between poor Duffy and that cringe-inducing poet of the provinces, Pam Ayer, any lingering doubts are put paid to tonight. She reads excerpts from her long poem The Laughter of Staffordshire High, which tells of a contagious outbreak of hilarity in a girls' school, interspersed with shorter poems. Staffordshire High, with its stern school marms, comically over-accented language mistresses and high spirited gals, is reminiscent of Enid Blyton's Malory Towers, and certainly strikes a few chords with the WI contingency. It fondly evokes the irrepressible silly humour of a gaggle of young girls; often rude yet somehow completely innocent and endearingly unrestrained.
This poem begs to be performed and thankfully Duffy's delivery style is spot on, avoiding the monotonous drone that poets reading aloud often unfortunately fall into. She confidently inhabits the various characters in her poems, as when she raises one eyebrow and demands in a stern, teacherly tone: "Perhaps we can all share the joke?" However, she also has a certain quality of diffidence and reserve. Altogether this mix produces a crisp, understated drollness which makes the perfect medium for her poetry.
Although the "superstar" may be a tough act to follow, I still can't help feeling that Elaine Feinstein lacks a certain vibrancy in her delivery. Partly, no doubt, her poetry is less suited to performance, being of a more personal, reflexive nature than the character-based poems Duffy selected to read. Her lack of a strong poetic persona, however, does mean she is less captivating. Nonetheless, this lack of persona to hide behind is also a strength. Feinstein's poems are autobiographical, and out of all the poets she gives the most frank and extensive in-between poem explanations. Such anecdotes, mainly concerning her recently deceased husband and their relationship, are delivered lightly and without self-pity. They are all the more touching for it.
In stark contrast to Feinstein's whimsical style and gentle wit, Liz Lochhead's broad Glaswegian accent could not be more vital. Even more so than with Duffy's, Lochhead's poetry demands performance over mere recantation. Listening to her intoxicating and delightfully prosaic delivery, which sadly I will never be able to reproduce in my own head whilst reading her poems, I appreciate just what an unexciting experience the academic study of poetry can be. This frustration at the comparative lifelessness of the written word is only enforced by Nina Cassian. Her voice wavers and seems infinitely fragile, yet commands a magnetic emotional intensity.
So often she seems on the cusp of unspeakable feeling; you are certain her voice will break into tears but somehow she ends with a gentle laugh.
Perhaps it is her age which lends her voice this faltering quality and knowledge of her biography (in 1985 her satires of the Ceausecu regime were found copied into a friend's diary. The friend was tortured and killed whilst Cassian's house was ransacked) which lends it this intense affectiveness. So often, however, it seems as if Cassian hints at a poignancy beyond words. When she concludes by reciting her poem Self Portrait in Romanian, the semantic meaning may be lost, but her performance is just as mesmerising.
If there is one lesson to take from the evening, it is this: poetry is first and foremost an oral art (to use a phrase at which the girls of Staffordshire High would surely giggle). Obvious, perhaps, but easy to forget. The Great Women Poets tour is a fantastic opportunity to see four poets stamp their own personality on their work, squirming out of the straight jacket of those who, as Liz Lochhead incisively notes in Kidspoem/Bairnsong, think one must write "as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead."
29th Apr 2004