Showing posts with label vanessa gebbie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vanessa gebbie. Show all posts

Monday, March 7, 2016

Memo random

I recently reviewed Vanessa Gebbie's Memorandum, poems for the fallen, published by Cultured Llama. I thought it would be memorable to write the review on memos and post to Twitter under the hashtag #Memorandum. I was thrilled to see Cultured Llama have gone to the trouble to write a lovely thank you for my efforts, including "This has to be the most unusual and beautiful review format of any of our books." and this. But just in case you have trouble reading my handwriting, here's a transcript:

 
Memorandum
poems for the fallen
 
Vanesa Gebbie
 
 
 
Reviewed
by
Rachel J Fenton
 
 
 
Memorandum (memo)
from the Latin memorandum
est, "to mention, call to mind,
recount, relate,"
"it must be remembered (that)
a document that helps the memory by recording events or
observations on a topic, such
as may be used in a
business office
 
 
 
The title evokes
Tennyson's requiem
for his friend
Hallam, "In Memoriam".
 
 
 
Like Tennyson's poem,
Memorandum is a
meditation on grief,
mortality and nature
in light of the
man-made.
 
 
 
Cenotaph, the first
poem in the collection,
pays respects to its
literary heritage as it
sets down its themes.
 
 
 
"Under duress, " the poem
begins the process of
dissolving the elements of a
monument as though
describing the erosion of
crustaceans on the sea bed.
But these are "Veteran shells"
and the reader is presented with an
understated question about
the nature of war.
 
 
 
With Gebbie's guidance, the
reader undertakes an
imaginative journey into
the fabric of the memorial
itself. So subtle is the
transaction that the
realisation it has taken
place is as startling as
discovering the sea bed is
man-made.
 
 
 
There's irony with this act
of disarmament. It's only
with "Transfiguration" the
reader becomes certain
they are where their
guide intended:
"accompaniment to
serious alchemy".
 
 
 
Then it's "us" in "The
Soldier's ragged choir,
St Pancras New Church",
and here Gebbie's short
story apprenticeship becomes
evident in the colloquial
narrative via which she
demonstrated her aptitude
for ventriloquism.
 
 
 
From St Pancras to
Euston Station, these
poems are crafted like
inter-linked short stories
and could feel contrived
were it not for the
obvious emotional investment
the author has with her
subject matter, and the very
real people who inhabit it.
 
 
 
Gebbie's sincerity is
palpable in the care
with which she details
the employees of
Waterloo Station, Smithfield
Market's meat porter, and
"The Quarryman and the
Fusilier" - ordinary people
paid heroes' respect.
 
 
 
It's in the second section
of the collection where
Gebbie's mimicry comes
into its own. There's
no longer the feeling
of participation here
but witness.
 
 
 
"Suppose / Alf Norman
wasn't really here?"
(Alf Norman
Grangetown Memorial, Cardiff
p19)
But he was. And the
reader is and must be.
This is necessary
remembering.
 
 
 
Of the sixteen poems in "Other
Memorials" "Remembrance,
Sunday" stands out with
devastating singularity. Perhaps
it's an effect of "something
I wrote in blue biro", the
unpretentiousness of the fact -
for this is fact as opposed to
feigned inhabitation. Gebbie is
not imagining, she is
remembering her father, all
the more poignant as his own
long goodbye is revealed,
eleven poems in.
 
 
 
The final section of the
collection takes the reader
through "Western Front
Battlefields" and is more
in keeping with the war
poetry many readers may
be familiar with: Ivor
Gurney and Siegfried
Sassoon spring to mind.
 
 
 
A number of these poems
were previously published
in The Half-Life of Fathers
(Pighog Press) and are
familiar to this reviewer,
though it is a testament
to the richness of Gebbie's
writing that their placement
here channels new
readings.
 
 
 
It is in this final section
that the theme of cost
that has been steadily
building really begins to
weigh on the reader.
The book's central segment
now seems like a fulcrum.
Money is in one pan, in
the other the reader must
balance the cost.
 
 
 
There's a last echo to
"In Memoriam" in
"La Boisselle pastorale,
diversionary tactic,"
written in memorial of
Gebbie's "second father".
"A few short weeks and
Christmas will be here.
I'll miss my father's face at table
again."
 
 
 
Again and again, Gebbie
catches the reader off
guard with the intimacy
and familiarity of these
memorials. The headstones
may be worn but the
names, in Gebbie's hands,
walk among us long
after the book has been
laid to rest.
 
 
 
Like "In Memoriam",
these observations
are not presented in
the order they were
written, but it is
hoped they offer
the reader comprehensive
insight.
 
 
 
Tennyson emerges
from "In Memoriam" with
his faith in God
reaffirmed.
What does
Memorandum leave the
reader with?
 
 
 
After so many wars,
its a challenge for a
poet to say something
new about this too
often tried subject. It is
credit to Gebbie that
she not only manages to
bring war's aftermath
into fresh relief but that
she does so with such
 
 
 
sharp focus as to make
the reader  reconsider the
fallen as if knocked-off-
their-feet with them.
This is a meditation
for those of us left
behind. For whom do
we grieve the most?
 
 
 
These are poems
for the fallen
but not forgotten.
They will be remembered.
 
 
 
 
Cultured Llama Publishing
2016
ISBN 978-0-9932119-4-2

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Harbour abridged

Painted from the impression travelling over Auckland Harbour Bridge left on me: after I went to see Emily Perkins and Dylan Horrocks present their graphic conversation "All Hail Ellie". I think the real bridge is much bigger.

First up, huge thanks to Vanessa Gebbie and Zoe King for all their help and advice and for housing my story "Sticking the Needle In", and poem "Words With Charlie", in Tom's Voice. I'm extremely grateful. Vanessa is the author of Words from a Glass Bubble, a collection of very touching stories, as well as Storm Warning, which I'm looking forward to reading (more links on the side bar).

It's been a stressful few weeks: my husband was told his company's Auckland office was closing at the end of November. The options were: move to Wellington or get another job. Now his office is moving down the road and there's a reprieve until April. I've been feeling unsettled.

I was going to post a poem about writing a poem but Dick's posted one which cannot be rivalled. Hats off to you, Dick. So you've got a repeat (no pun intended). I posted this a while ago, then removed it, and now I'm posting it again. I've written a few poems about stuttering. My husband stutters. It's hard to argue with someone when you have to wait for them to insult you. Laughter replaces intended crimes of passion. He doesn't stutter with our toddler, nor with animals (you wouldn't catch me talking to the animals). Thanks to Donna and Thomas who spotted and left lovely comments on this the first time around. And apologies to Lori whom I confused at the time.



Aubade to Balbettare




Refused your words, gum in a torn pocket,

they are caught within the fabric of your

tongue. Confidence droops like a shamed face, set

to counter exasperation. Breathe. More

lowered, your lids self shield. Self-healed you start

again, and, and, and conversation stalls

till late at night, when all but one dear heart

can be heard, you speak into me. Crystals

hang sparkling about my ears: sentences,

uninterrupted, unfinished by choice;

utterances full-stopped by our senses.

Bodily parenthesis given voice

to mock Aurora before she scatters

your eyes with her curse of fettered letters.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Cease her

Picture this: two faces framed in gilt. Ornately carved laurel leaves
intertwined with golden vine.

I was going to post today about how I go about writing short stories but this arrived in the post and I want to read it, and if you are interested in writing or knowing more about writing short fiction, you should, too.

One face turned aside, ear lobe cushioned to lip, receives the hidden word. Curiosity runs its fickle fingers down your contorted spine as you lean in closer.

I was going to pick out a painting to top my post: a pixilated prize for those who seek a visual lure. And then the words came and made a frame. Now all I have to do is fill it, or do I?

He, or is it she, stares ahead and would close her eyes if she thought she could hear better for doing so, and doesn't see anything but the shape of the words going into her ear. She doesn't see the way the body at her side is poised to flee; doesn't see the the thing that glistens in the hand, inches from her neck: a ring? A blade? A torch, perhaps? She is unaware of how the eyes set intent upon her do curve with narrowed lids which mask their unreal colour so that only a tease of it can be seen by you. But you know that the eyes are shaped by ugly satisfaction or grim enjoyment. Lies, you say? Lies it is.

But what's a painting if not words coloured into shapes? We squint at clouds, at clods, at the mottled colours until we can find lines which our eyes translate.

Now it's your turn. Go on? No? Then end it.