folio : short takes on the prose poem
Statement:
I became fascinated by prose poems in my high-school and university days back in the 1970s when I first discovered them in the writings of Kenneth Patchen, Pierre Reverdy, the British poet Cory Harding and others (I write more about this in the Fortnightly Review). However, it wasn’t until more than two decades on that I began writing them with any real sense of commitment. This was in part thanks to being inspired by the work of authors such as Rupert M Loydell, Sheila E Murphy, Linda Black, Lucy Hamilton, John Ashbery and Jeremy Over, in part because I suddenly found myself at home as a writer in the prose poem form, and in part because my prose poems began to be warmly received by editors such as Rupert M Loydell (Stride), Tony Frazer (Shearsman), and Michael Schmidt (PN Review). The prose poems that I admire and enjoy are those which take me into a different reality with its own logic, whether that reality be a more abstract one or one shaped mainly by narrative. Recent examples here are the poems of Vik Shirley, Lydia Unsworth and Marc Atkins.
Nearly all my prose poems make use of early morning writing, a time when I am still under the illusion that what I have to say might actually be of importance. The freedom of trains and cafes can also put me into the right frame of mind for writing. I jot down images, or small scenes, or odd phrases that come to me. Once or twice a week I will sit down with these and spend a couple of hours seeing what I can construct out of them. On occasion, I will collage from other texts. I have little idea of what I want to write before I start. I see my prose poetry as drawing on an ‘outsider’ tradition, which has no national boundaries.
Starting Point
I took a bus to the sea and went for a walk in the dunes. It was a blustery day. There was no one else apart from two small boys, who seemed to be absorbed by some animal they had captured. One of the boys kept poking it with a stick. They cast a wary glance at me, but then carried on as if I wasn’t there. I was only an old man, after all. Then the animal escaped and came running towards me, but stopped just a couple of yards away. It was a ginger and white cat, like the one that belonged to me when I was a boy. I bent down, clicking my fingers until it came close enough to nuzzle against my knuckles. This endeared me greatly to its lady owner, who had only just now arrived on the scene.
Greeting
The bus stopped in a hillside town. For a rest, as the driver put it, and so that he could have something to eat. I recognised the town as the place where I used to live and work as a young man, and I went for a wander round. Under the awning of a trattoria I saw a group of men all sitting along one side of a table, facing out towards the street. They made me think of the Last Supper. As I passed, I nodded and gave a small wave just in case any of them was someone I used to know. The man with long hair and a wispy beard, who sat in the middle, looked upset that I didn’t at least stop for a moment.
Adult Education
I was walking round the small castle on the hill, searching for the entrance to the museum. When I paused to look through a tiny bevelled window, I saw there was an art class taking place. A life model was on her hands and knees with her arse up in the air, offering a clear view of her vagina and anus. The middle-aged, respectable‑looking students sketched her with serious, intent expressions while I gazed in from outside, filled with unspeakable desire.
