One Night Stanzas

OK, I don’t actually know that, because I haven’t read it yet. BUT Everybody Lie Down And No One Gets Hurt, published by my own lovely pamphlet publishers Red Squirrel Press, is being launched tonight at Sofi’s Bar in Leith, from 7pm. You should come along, because Colin is excellent, and he will be reading some of his excellent work in excellent fashion.

To celebrate the event, I decided to re-post this small poem of McGuire’s which first appeared at ONS in 2008. Enjoy!

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McGuire: “A thin Glaswegian man, touch giddy in the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty prose, sporadic drummer, drunken grammarian, waffler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher, pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shadows, irritating whine. Studied global politics at Caledonian University, has worked a colourful mish mash of menial jobs (postman/salmon farmer), has been writing poetry for best part of twenty years. He has previously produced a book of poetry and short stories called ‘Important Nonsense: scraps from a Glaswegian immaturity’ [also known as 'Riddled with Errors.'] He intends to start reading when he gets over his fear.”
McGuire blogs at Notes from a Glaswegian Immaturity.

Chaffinch

Little bird
upon the branch
singing;
you have no
National Insurance
number and that
is beautiful.
You fly, live die
and cannot be arrested.

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Reducio Ab Absurdum

Shakespeare’s more a performance poet
a throat poet, a fire and tongue type.
A poet of larynx, a diaphragmatic breathing poet
Not a serious poet in a gentleman’s jacket.

I’m a page poet; a take the time and consider
the exact length and breadth of the line poet.
I am an architect with form but never formulaic.
I am a master of design but not mastered by design.

Heaney’s more a performance poet;
a wave-your-arms-and-gesticulate-wildly-and-know-it.
A show it all and throoooooow it at you poet.
Not a serious poet who reads the classics and shows it.

I’m page poet, a literary allusions and allegorical conclusions poet.
A lay subtle structure which unravels a slow-burning conundrum poet.
I take the time to make something so delicate even a breath could break it
yet it withstands that breath, and you cannot fake it.

Sexton is more a performance poet; a shout at the top of your soul poet.
A rant in the mirror solipsistic I-alone-exist-and-will-prove-it-poet.
A should have been an actor instead but never knew it poet.
I wrote this on the loo and you can whiff it poet.

I’m a page poet with stable demeanour and quiet composure.
I build poem liners out of the thin matchsticks of words
and they set sail quietly on calm waters across oceans of eyes.

Rimbaud is more a performance poet.
A of the internet-attention-deficit-quickly-type-it-with-no-edit-poet.
A scribbler of slapdashery, a knee jerk reactionary bound to be burned
as waste under the well read eye of reality.

I’m a page poet. An on the crusade poet. Here to explode
the false dichotomy of page and perform it, show and tell it poet.
Let the words carry the weight we carry. Let tastes divide.
Quality lingers upon the shelf life longer than the debate will have it.

(In the jungle the soul’s wild eyes glare white in the shadow.
The cauldron of the heart sounds like a warm drum.
We continually reach out to that which is comprehensible.)

McGuire: A thin 30 year old Glaswegian man, touch giddy in the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty prose, sporadic drummer, drunk grammarian, waffler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher, pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shadows, irritating whine. He mines the darker regions of Scottish Culture and Psychology. McGuire has produced a collection of poetry and short stories, printed by ClydeSide Press called - Riddle With Errors - and is currently working on a pamphlet due for release in 2013 with Red Squirrel Press. He reads regularly in Scotland and England. Find out more at: http://a-glaswegian.blogspot.co.uk/

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Want to see YOUR poem featured on ONS? Read this post first: submission guidelines are at the bottom. Good luck!

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

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It’s been ages since this happened, but as you know, I haven’t been keeping up with ONS very well lately. But I can’t let this go by without mention: I got a bloody lovely review from The Great McGuire, over at Cheeky Little Article.

Because I am perhaps the laziest poet in the cosmos, I haven’t really done much to market my pamphlet, The Mermaid and the Sailors, which was unofficially launched at StAnza in March 2011 (my laziness is so all-encompassing that I never even got round to an “official” launch… oops). Somehow, I managed to sell out the first run by August just with a few Facebook status updates and the odd mention on my beloved Twitter. As a result, not many reviews have been forthcoming… in fact, this is only the second (the first is here) I’ve received. (I really don’t mind. The idea of being reviewed is kind of scary.)

But McGuire’s smashing, thoughtful, in-depth review is worth a million shorter, more general responses. I love the fact that he starts out with the etymology of my second name (or rather, the adjective “askew”) rather than just leaping in to analysing the book… I particularly like the fact that by the end of the first paragraph I’ve been somehow promoted to Lady Askew (expect this to stick, folks). And he compares me to Neruda. NERUDA. Do reviews get any better?

However, I’m ultimately grateful to McGuire for this: he has totally “got” what it was I was trying to do… what I’m always trying to do. These days, the poetry scene is such that poems like this are what get praised and published. Now, everyone’s different, and to some people, that’s a great poem — but I just aint the kind of writer who could bring myself to keep a straight face while writing a phrase like “jimmies the diasphora,” let alone while shoving it on a line-break so it draws a ton of attention to itself. I’ve started to realise lately that I write the kind of poems that some people look down their noses at, because they’re poems that are, sometimes, as McGuire so sweetly puts it, “wholesome as a loaf.” But that’s my schtick. To some poets, “wholesome as a loaf” might be an insult. My first response to this review was more, “I want to find McGuire right now and hug him!”

So thanks, dude. I owe you a beer!

(The Mermaid and the Sailors is currently, sadly, sold out. A new print run is coming… once I get my butt in gear and send off new proofs to correct the first run’s inevitable typos. Sorry for the delay! You can read more about the book here, though.)

One Night Stanzas loves mail. Say hello via [email protected]. NB: I am physically unable to reply to non-urgent stuff unless I have a free afternoon and a cup of tea in my hand. Please be patient!

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Stuff I’m reading, and what I thought of it.

The Testament of Gideon Mack by James Robertson
I’ve been lucky enough to see James Robertson read three times in the past five months. The first time, we appeared on the same bill at the May Shore Poets event (I was first up, he was the headliner), and he read a selection of his poetry and poetry translations, which I really enjoyed. The second time, he’d come to speak to the students of the summer school I was teaching at, and he read a selection of work — some poems, some of his Scots translations for children, and excerpts from his newest work and from The Testament of Gideon Mack. Most recently, I saw him read at the Edwin Morgan tribute evening at the end of the 2010 Edinburgh International Book Festival.
As our paths kept crossing — and as I really enjoyed Robertson’s readings every time I encountered him — I decided I should probably buy one of his books. He’s written a lot, but chances are Gideon Mack is the one you’ve heard of. It was longlisted for the Booker and even got a nod from Richard and Judy, the ultimate accolade in fiction these days, it seems. It’s also about Satan — a bloke who never fails to interest me.
The Testament of Gideon Mack is the story of a Scottish minister called — unsurprisingly — Gideon Mack. Mack ministers to his small rural parish, runs marathons for charity and lives in the shadow of an overbearing father. He’s also a determined atheist… until one day he bumps into the Devil.
The book is a lovely, smooth read, but deceptively clever. Gideon Mack is the narrator of his own testament, but not the narrator of the novel — the testament is being quoted verbatim by an Edinburgh publisher, who’s grappling with the potential legal and moral implications of making it a commercial public document. Throughout this meta-narrative (the aforementioned publisher butts into the testament at the most inopportune moments to offer editorial notes, suggestions and clarifications), Robertson constantly plays with the reader’s ideas about truth, trust, reliability and doubt. Mack is determined that his tale is 100% true, and insists that he is of sound mind even when recounting his conversations with the Devil. You want to believe him, though it’s clear that his congregation do not, and though all evidence points toward mental illness and delusion. In spite of his innate duplicity (only at the very end of his tenure as a minister does he impart to any of his parishoners that actually, he’s never really believed in God), Mack is alarmingly convincing, and when the novel’s epilogue begins to blow holes in the reliability of the testament, it comes as a jolting shock. Robertson is gleefully messing with the idea of the unreliable narrator, as well as making sure that the reader is never able to draw a line under anything — there are no absolute truths in this novel. Does Gideon Mack really reject God entirely? Did he really meet the Devil? Is the testament a fiction? Is the diligent publisher really quoting it totally verbatim? Can we trust anyone’s version of events? None of these questions are ever answered. I absolutely loved the book, not just for its cleverness — it’s also just a damn good story, and it’s full of nods to great, classic Scottish Literature (primarily Hogg, obviously, and a good smattering of Stevenson, too). By turns dark, funny and painfully real, it’s a novel that will stick in your mind long after you put it down.

Riddled with Errors by McGuire

I’ve got shockingly behind with everything this summer. It’s been a weird old time — ending my relationship of five years, moving house at short notice, teaching a highly intensive summer school and trying not to lose my grip on my term-time job, PhD and other commitments in the process. A lot of things fell by the wayside, including several promises of reviews here on ONS. I’m finally righting the balance, and beginning to work my way through the books I should have featured here months ago.
First up is McGuire’s debut collection, Riddled With Errors. If you’ve ever visited ONS before, chances are you already know a little bit about McGuire. You possibly know that he’s a former Featured Poet, or that he’s one of the 100 poets contributing to the this collection project. You’ll almost certainly know that I think he’s pretty darned brilliant.
To me, McGuire’s work is criminally overlooked in the Scottish poetry scene, though he is beginning to be talked about here and there. A gifted performer, there’s nothing quite like hearing him read his own work, but reading Riddled With Errors, I was surprised by how well the poems translated to the page. I was also surprised by the influences I was able to see in them. If you’ve spent any time at all at One Night Stanzas, you’ll know that I am a massive Allen Ginsberg fangirl, so comparisons to the great man are few and far between. But here is a poet who genuinely echoes a true Beat style and aesthetic. Check out, for example, the final stanza of Commander Poetry: “many beautiful things occur / sun rise milk and glancing / much horror much terror / world blood and bombshells / much private hell”. Or Thunder roars tonight!: “And many shut their windows, / rub their hands together, / close curtains, boil the kettle / and watch television!” Or Concrete Irrationality:

DADA IS GOD! DADA IS EASY!
DADA IS ALGEBRA! DADA HAS TEN BILLION TANGIBLE
SOULS! DADA SLEEPS FOR ETERNITY WITH EYES OPEN!
DADA EXPLODES!

But however much he is indebted to the Beats, McGuire is never derivative. These poems manage to remain fresh, original and somehow innately Scottish. Like Ginsberg, this poet is not afraid to shy away from sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll — if any poetry collection were to come with a Parental Advisory warning, it ought to be this one. But it’s the immediacy, the urgency and the candid, roving eye of these poems that gives them their edge. This is free verse that is truly free, refusing to be pinned down. Read it if you dare.

What are you reading this week?

(Photo by pedro vit)

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