Satirical and satyrical, extramural and intramural studies: Alexis Lykiard’s ‘Schooled For Life’.

One’s first impulse on reading Alexis Lykiard’s latest verse collection, Schooled For Life, is to adapt Wilhelm Busch’s famous dictum Ist der Ruf erst ruiniert, lebt es sich recht ungeniert and remind ourselves of its possible converse: Wird der Ruf erst mal geehrt, lebt’s sich gaenzlich ungeniert. In other words:

Once your reputation is won, 

You can live a life of fun.

For there is no doubt here that Alexis, having claimed his bardic laurels to join the pantheon, is having a great deal of fun at the expense of a number of cockshies, including settling old scores for slipper-thrashings from the missile-throwing pedagogues and catechising clergymen of his schooldays, as well as taking well-aimed pot-shots at vaunted British poets of a certain vintage and at pundits who have earned his opprobrium, not forgetting his risking lese-majesty with broadsides unleashed to singe the monarch’s kin. 

Bitingly satirical and mischievously satyrical by turns, but always classically-Attically aphoristic (Alexis’s signature grace note), these poems may be enjoyed for their allusiveness just as much as for their neatly turned wit and banter. Witness, then, his chronicling of the privations of prep school life, where the nascent poet was . . .

. . . definitively marked for life.

Marked for Life — despite, we suspect, his schoolboy essays most likely scoring Alpha Plus — was no doubt an alternative title the poet spiked for this verse collection. In fact, such a poignant phrase captures the mood of Alexis’s troubled post-war childhood of exile and assimilation, as he seeks reassurance, recording the past in B-movie monochrome; how he was:

. . . desperate to fit in, own up, and accept my fate . . .

                                          . . . Those times,

elusive yet recurrent, slow to fade away,

aren’t so disturbing to return to — younger days

of ’48, remembered rather as dark grey,

exhaustingly austere, too drab for love or hate.    

A mood he countered, we learn, by his immersion between Chapel and Corps (organ music was a sonorous bore) in eclectic reading matter, including the novels of Charles Kingsley, a boyhood taste shared by a poet of enviable metrical brilliance from an earlier generation, Roy Fuller. In fact, Fuller’s account of reading Hypatia* is to be found in his fine novel of 1959, The Ruined Boys, in which he charts lost innocence much as Alexis does here in his own verses . . . 

New troops of ruined boys fall in now, older soldiers gone . . .

and, of course, both poets appropriate the Master’s foreboding voice of 1930, Auden’s They gave the prizes to the ruined boys. 

Readers of Alexis’s verses have learned to be alert to such allusive ludic nudges to his confraternity of pantheonic heroes born of his omnivorous appetite for the bon mot. When he isn’t head-butting sycophantic laureates and other toadies or savaging ‘Faberized’ fellow-travelling poetasters and flâneurs, this hircine omnivore is — satyr-like — more characteristically in Dionysian pursuit of the teasing evidence of bliss or of the true life [that] goes on forgotten. (A quest for the cleansing truths he admires in fellow poet D J Enright, which prompts Alexis’s penetrating and touching tribute, Master of His Arts.)

It is due to that same omnivorousness that Alexis has absorbed the finesse of favourite precursors in his verses, we are pleased to find, particularly in a suite of poems documenting Alexis’s recollections of prison life as writer/teacher-in-residence in the 1980s, with such redolences as . . . 

. . . before this rapid cloudburst’s done

its worse, made space again for blue.  

. . . high chainlink fence. And so the shutter clicks

to recollect our borrowed time. 

In Captive Audience the observation of barracking inmates is demotically spot on: 

. . . Young dopers relish any whiff of farce . . .

. . . aware

enough to suss that Art’s 

an ancient con, a fancy caper, mere

time-displacing trick. 

These witty poems of reluctant pedagogy where roles are reversed, with pupil turned educationist or even graduating to Brit. Council bratpacker, recall to mind the night classes taught by sometime Movement poet, Laurence Lerner, whose Those girls, those girls . . .  (who imbibe a knowledge they believe to be / objective: not about themselves or me) is still remembered with fondness, an unresolved conundrum of Socratics that also calls to mind the case that the works of pedagogic poets comprise an actual genre in the classification of verse and here, in Alexis Lykiard’s Schooled For Life, there’s a respectable portion of it.

So an English education, both private and state-run — in all its incarnations and incarcerations, extramural and intramural — is Alexis’s overarching theme. Alexis’s atavistic Greekness and his relish for the niceties of English idiom are especially apparent in his first memories of school in 1946, when hors de combat on the . . .

First day at day school, 

in the Morning Break, I broke

my arm . . .

and he becomes even more the Hellenist when invalided out of school . . .

. . . as lapsed Stoic, 

my first words to the doctor

had been “I suffer”.

This canny adaptability of the chameleonic émigré — alert to local colour — is confirmed later when [following a kangaroo court in the dorm] . . .

Holding fast under duress, 

hedonist Greek, I feigned becoming Spartan

A representative example of his narrative voice is his Chaps in Chapel and its elegiac conclusion that hints at immanence when recapturing his awkward past . . .

The Truth did not belong to some religionist 

more likely to ‘All people that on earth do dwell.’

Fate or capricious genes will dole out our few days;

The sole concern is living well. Yet idols cast their spell:

Vainly we look skyward, though shadows need no praise. 

However, this callow crisis of belief apart, it is difficult to quite see why Alexis the Dionysian maker of verses — whose flannel shorts stayed up via serpent-clasp elastic belt — dismisses the motto of his old school as obscure. (Radley: Sicut serpentes, sicut columbae. ‘Be wise as snakes and gentle as doves.’) 

Surely there is no better motto for summoning up the uneasy duality that haunts the exilic poet?

Sicut serpentes, sicut columbae.
‘. . . . I’d learned enough from books, from boys behaving badly,
The time was ripe to take my leave of privilege and Radley.’

For more musings on precocious schoolboy poets (writing in Latin and in Herodotean Greek), see:

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/sussex-exodus-of-altisonant-frogs.html

* For the Hypatian Erotica Awards (inspired by Charles Kingsley’s novel) awarded for  High Victorian literary texts teetering on the carnal brink, see:
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/hypatian-erotica-awards-high-victorian.html

Lure of the List: Doomed Excavations of the Ur-Text and Other Futilities (Palimpsestic Texts Part 1)

I studied the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins for GCE A Level Eng Lit, and I still refer to his On the Origin of Beauty: A Platonic Dialogue (1865) as a theory of aesthetics worthy of application to most decorative arts, even to the descriptive passages in my fictions. 

Mind you, you would have to look very hard indeed between the lines to detect their masked presence.

However, it’s my own Theory of Palimpsestic Texts I wish to put to the test on this occasion. 

My theory proposes that, despite the most rigorous scholarship, the critic can never be sure that an ur-text is not waiting to be excavated that prefigures the literary effusion under review, whose uniqueness had seemed at first reading so promisingly sui generis.

Yes. So often when the Enchanted Reader peels away the palimpsests, the Disenchanted Reader finds older writings still legible beneath. 

Take, for instance, the love English poets have for shopping lists...

The Lure of the List.

Consider the poem, In the Valley of the Elwy, by Manley Hopkins (whom Kingsley Amis bibulously considered a neurasthenic whose spirituality was crippled by an ‘obsessive affectation of singularity’, and who should have drowned in the wreck of the Deutschland) ...

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales. 

Is it unfair to recall here the cadences of Tennyson, from Ulysses (1842) some thirty years earlier...

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

But do these cadences derive from a work even earlier in the century of their youth?

Look at Wordsworth’s Composed upon Westminster Bridge of 1802 to see the lure of the list assert itself ...

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

(... although, as has been pointed out, you could also see Croydon from that point of vantage).

... Nor, I belatedly add, should we ignore the potency of this effect when observed in Milton’s Paradise Lost ...

Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers . . .
. . . Princes, Potentates, Warriors, 

 

or

 

Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death . . .

 

or. yet again, 
Alice Through the Looking-Glass

 

To talk of many things: 

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —. 

Of cabbages — and kings —.

compare with Richard II

 

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; . . .

 

Liverpudlian Precursor.

There must be a passion akin to a cataloguer’s or indexer’s or, in the case of John Lennon, aged thirteen, a nascent lyricist’s, to see a tabulated itemisation metamorphose into art; see Lennon’s Met Office Weather Report in Eskimonisian from the witty schoolboy magazine he edited, The Daily Howl (C1953) ...

Weather Report. Tomorrow will be muggy, followed by tuggy and weggy. The rest follows. ‘Ǫoglé hînķle wýrtle fóò.’ You may have noticed that it is written in Eskimonisian, especially for our Eskimonisian readers.  

Yet, that power of rhythmic memorization, which drove the precocious John Lennon to his garbled rendering of ‘Dogger, Humber, Wight, Rockall, Faeroes’ is also found in a frequently cited work by a fellow Liverpudlian (by culture not birth), the poet Carol Ann Duffy.

Her Prayer, 40 years later than Lennon’s, concludes with the moral relativist’s lines: 

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer — 

Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Carol Ann Duffy                                     John Lennon

 

The Sisyphean Task of the Ur-Textualist.

So, in this special case of the Shipping Report, where does the ur-textualist begin an excavation? 

Maybe this comparison only goes to prove that the lyric voice of an idiot savant (a possessed tongue, in general, I mean, though the voices of John Lennon, Dylan Thomas and Arthur Rimbaud spring to mind) is likely to defeat the ur-textualist in search of the buried remains of a causality that could predate what is claimed to be a first occurrence.

Take a look at another poet, Philip Larkin, to test the Palimpsestic Effect. 

See, for instance, the end of the penultimate stanza of his magnificent Whitsun Weddings (1958) ...

I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

Then refer to the opening lines of W. H. Auden’s As I walked out one evening (1937) ...

As I walked out one evening,

Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

Were fields of harvest wheat.

And compare Larkin’s ultimate line – Sent out of sight – with Sassoon’s on; on; and out of sight (Everyone Sang).

Who, then, are the precursors?

Are they, I wonder, my old friends Mr and Mrs Anon? See
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/commoners-rights-to-heroic-quatrain.html 
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/mr-and-mrs-anon.html

Here are some of the most beautiful words in the English language (Thomas Nashe’s In Time of Pestilence, 1593) ...

Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us. 

And yet.

And yet, the oldest hand-book of English Proverbs, one that harks back to paraemiographia and Adagia collected before Thomas Nashe lived, records an English saw from the lips of the ‘inglorious’ ignoramuses (as Kingsley Amis would have it), citing this old saying ...

Fair fall truth and daylight.

The ‘Here is Where’ Formula.

However, I will sign off this posting with the reluctant acknowledgement that Kingsley Amis in his own poems could nail with savagery the egregiously unoriginal in poetry, satirizing the earnestness of those poets unblessed by a lyric tongue. 

Here, in Here Is Where (from A Case of Samples, 1956),  he damns the insipidness of certain versifiers (just open the pages of the New Yorker from any issue in the last four decades and you’ll find any number of such formulaic constructions).

                                 Here, where the ragged water
                                 Is twilled and spun over
                                 Pebbles backed like beetles,
                                 Bright as beer-bottles,
                                 Bits of it like snow beaten,
                                 Or milk boiling in saucepan ...

                                 Going well so far, eh?

Ah. 

When things start writing themselves you should know that it’s truly time to stop.

Afterthought.

In the end, though (vis-à-vis originality), I think certain writers in English of an acquired sensibility must recognise, as Amis points out, that they are very often merely hangers on in a proscriptive system of artistry that constrains them to travel clustered in the same orbit, hung in perfect equipoise between the gravitational pull of mundanities and the limitless attractions of the cosmos, because they have all attained exactly the same critical mass.

 

Liverpudlian post-post-scriptum.

(30-09-13) I have just viewed for the first time the opening of Liverpudlian Terence Davies’s Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988), a movie about working class life in 1940s Liverpool, which begins with a radio Shipping Forecast voiceover ... a rather too familiar device for conveying emotional weather that seems to bear out my foregoing remarks

A solitary truck ... euphonious assonance.

Talking of poetasters. I should note frankly that memories of my youthful experiences when working on an academic publisher’s poetry list were refashioned as Elegy from a Locked Drawer in my Sister Morphine (Salt 2008). This is how I recall the first day at the publisher's office and meeting the intimidating editorial team ...

    I took to him instantly. His name was Toby Freemartin, the editor's copy assistant and general progress chaser. Opposite him, seated across the aisle, was our office section leader, Desmond, a small, fussy, mild-featured copywriter who could, nonetheless, unsheathe kittenish claws to rake his victims with a lacerating wit.
    Toby made a long arm and boldly withdrew from my grasp the cloth-covered writing-case I had brought with me which bore my name. He untied the tapes and riffled through the thin sheaf of poems I had not dared to show the editor.
    'Audenian,' he sniffed, passing each sheet ponderously to Desmond.
    'Macspaunday without the audacity,' Desmond purringly demurred.
    They were both absolutely right, of course.
    Soon a spirited argument developed which centred on my indictment of a number of curious imprecisions which, in my own view, annoyingly marred Auden's phrasing; I was soon citing '... a solitary truck, the last of shunting in the Autumn ...' as a particularly glaring example of such infelicities. Their protests were silenced when I mentioned my great-uncle had been a locomotive engineman hauling French Sleeping Cars on the Continental Express for more than twenty years. He had shown me his railway company's pre-war Signals Manual, I said, which proved conclusively that shunting in sidings was not exclusively seasonal work.
    ' "During darkness, fog or falling snow," ' I quoted, ' "the trackloading in either direction must not exceed ten goods-wagons and a tail lamp must be placed on the last truck by a handsignalman." '
    My great-uncle and his Marxist footplateman agreed that Auden's phrase was ultimately meaningless, I assured them airily, and simply a case of seductive euphonious assonance.
    Toby and Desmond exchanged thoughtful glances.
    I think I must have succeeded in impressing them.