Showing posts with label Ian Hamilton Finlay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ian Hamilton Finlay. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 March 2019

From unpublished notebooks of L v. K


In a deserted room


the mirror shows 

a hyacinth

above

the fireplace


hyacinth

fireplace


a circumstantial affinity

the glass

does not

deny


L v. K  (Paris 1937)                                            


In a previous post . . . 
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/dotty-premature-embalmment-of-anti-art.html
. . .  is found mentioned a particularly recherché (even prophetic) example of la poésie concrète from The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K.  It prompted me to add a further example of L v. K’s ‘deep continent’ brand of polymathy, see . . . 
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2016/04/circo-perfuso-fato-sanguinis.html
The eleven works are exhibited at the Arts Council Poetry Collection website administered by the Poetry Library at Royal Festival Hall in London’s Southbank Centre:



The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K 
(1902-1939)

A Memoir of a Numeromaniacal Futurist



Saturday, 16 April 2016

Dotty? The Premature Embalmment of an Anti-art? Ian Hamilton Findlay and la poésie concrète.

I suppose I was first struck by the possibilities of la poésie concrète when I encountered in my youth the delightful verses of Ian Hamilton Finlay, a first impression that must have been significant in my emotional life because I still have the faded clipping here on my desk, a survival of so very many idle decades that I hesitate to number them.

Nevertheless, that regret aside, I don’t have to explain to you the reasons why I was refreshed by the clarity of expression and by the simplicity and immediacy of the poet’s vision . . .  you can see at once for yourself why I was hooked

(Rousay refers to the small, hilly island
about 3 km north of Orkney’s Mainland,
off the north coast of Scotland,
where Hamilton lived a
fter WW2.)

So I claim this first reading as a defining moment and, reflecting on this memory, I realise it must have been the seed from which many years later sprang my curiosity to restore to readers the Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K, including his prophetic concrete sonnet of 1938, Exhibit V, displayed as his memorial in the reception room of his apartment in Avenue d’Iéna, Paris, shortly after his death following the signing of the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Treaty (23 August 1939). 

See the eleven exhibits at the Arts Council Poetry Collection website administered by the Poetry Library at Royal Festival Hall in London’s Southbank Centre:
http://poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/recordbfb6.html?id=9440



The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K 
(1902-1939)
A Memoir of a Numeromaniacal Futurist

 V
‘FELDSCHUSTEREI’* – SONNET IN METRICAL FEET WITH MASCULINE AND FEMININE ENDINGS (1938): 112  miscellaneous unmatched items of abandoned footwear, including children’s slippers and orthopaedic boots, arranged in 14 rows of 8 items, with additional line endings as follows: Lines 1, 4, 5 & 8 – knieschützer†; Lines 2, 3, 6 & 7 – women’s satin dancing pumps; Lines 9 & 12 – schaftstiefel‡; Lines 10 & 13 – wooden clogs; Lines 11 & 14 – young girl’s gilded sandals.
*   Field shoemender’s shop
†   Parachutist kneepads (half rhymes noted by L v. K)
‡   Jack boots or Marschstiefel


Not all British critics, though, at the time of Hamilton Finlay’s witty innovations were entirely tolerant of the revival of these Dadaistic forms, according to my clippings file   . . . and the question remains: Was the ‘anti-art’ of ‘anti-print’ prematurely embalmed?

  

See also, poésie trouvée, the unsought text:
and

Saturday, 6 December 2014

No Poetic Makeweights, Thank You, Pastry Cooks Excepted . . . . . . . or Finishing School for Versifiers (part 2).

When is a metrical makeweight ever acceptable to a poet?

Padding? Never!

Tennyson’s Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, for example, is not by the merest jot weighted with such dud ballast.

Tennyson does not stumble at his envoi by interpolating a school-marmish stage direction:

            So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
            Into my bosom (Write it!) lost in me. 

I ask this question because for some time now I have striven to reconcile my admiration for Elizabeth Bishop’s much-lauded villanelle, One Art, with certain misgivings, which I expressed in an earlier post: ‘Do other readers share my doubts when considering the concluding lines of the final quatrain?’

           the art of losing’s not too hard to master
           though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Even the charm of Cameron Diaz when stumblingly reciting the piece in the movie, In Her Shoes (2005), cannot redeem the parenthetical padding of that clumsy antepenultimate metrical foot, which to me always seems as though it’s been desperately shoe-horned into a fit unsuited to it. Metrically, it seems like – as we English say in the demotic – like a cop out. 


Pastry wrappers. ‘It’s all poetry is good for.’

I can think of only one poet whose makeweights have been indulged by his followers. I am thinking of ‘the pastry-cook of poets,’ Ragueneau in Cyrano de Bergerac, whose brioche pastries were shaped as lyres since they additionally gained worth by the burden of his verses. You may remember that those who consumed his confections (bardic cavaliers who numbered Cyrano in their company), whose poems were regarded as currency, saw their screeds cut up for paper bags by Ragueneau’s wife in her perpetual war to defeat Orpheus by punishing the Bacchantes. 

As Mme Ragueneau says, ‘It’s all poetry is good for.’

Yes. It’s one of the very few cases of utilitarianism in the history of poetry, apart from that other witty confection, Thesis, Antithesis and Synthesis (Fence/Gate/Stile), created by Britain’s supreme exponent of la poésie concrète, the poet Ian Hamilton Finlay, for his garden of contemplation in South Lanarkshire. 


The Incredibly Obvious Manoeuvre.

But, you know, it is my belief that the stumbling closing line that so vexes the reader of Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art could have been fixed so very easily because the secret mechanism for perfecting the verse was hidden from her all along in her antepenultimate line:
I shan't have lied. It’s evident
Since the structure of a villanelle is surely to reconfigure the poem’s principle elements to extract new and surprising nuances (from such words as ‘evident’ and ‘intent’, say, which provide the secondary rhyme), then it should follow that, when the poetic metre is implacably trochee and suggestive of a revaluation of evidential experience viewed in maturity, the perfect trochaic component – far from being a superfluous padding out (Write it!) – should noticeably possess for the final inevitable clincher the inherent potential to practically write itself

In short, it is possible that a poet can be blind to the compelling dynamics of her own invention even while those dynamics are seen to operate with an irresistible momentum within the closed system that is a poem’s argument.  

As a gifted cryptologist declares in my recent post of November 16: ‘The correct solution can often be found hidden in plain sight . . . in this kind of business, we learn to recognise the Incredibly Obvious Manoeuvre.’  

In other words, even the most proficient magician can miss a trick.

So, in my view, the answer to the One Art problem has been embedded in the verses all the time, intrinsic to the text. And, therefore, the poem’s conclusion – defined by its own special impetus –  should/could more directly read:

            Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 
            I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
            the art of losing’s not too hard to master
            though it may look like evident disaster.

Well. Free of independent thought, driven only by the propulsive energy of the unique devices the poet had set in motion in her masterly verses, that’s what I would have done . . . had I been in her shoes.

Cameron Diaz
In Her Shoes