Poem of the Month

Poem of the Month: May

Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

This month to mark Dementia Awareness Week (17th- 23rd May) we chose a couple of poems from Sarah Hesketh’s The Hard Word Box. This collection is a result of the twenty weeks Sarah spent in a residential care home as part of a project called Where the Heart is. This month we’re also featuring a Q&A between Kyra and Sarah which delves further into this fascinating project and behind Sarah’s creative process.

Spoons

   Spoons break up the day.
Yes. No. Out of mouths
    wedged in the spaces
between who and when. In
    bookshelves and along
windowsills, bright slugs
   who came in for the night.
Such shiny visitors,
    they give us back to ourselves,
our faces strangely curved.
   Small windows into tiny worlds
we hold to impossible angles.

The Hard Words

Look, let’s be clear: don’t imagine
there is anybody here who enjoys
dribbling poetry. If you think we’re
holding stars on our tongues
that’s your eyes want testing.
If you hear music when we grunt
you haven’t understood exactly
what it is we needed to say.
You might enjoy the ruins
of our grammar, the way we
chew up our nouns to song.
It’s not your hand that’s getting
thinner on the blanket.
Please don’t ask us to speak
the hard words all at once.

Did you do a lot of research into writing that has already been produced through working with Dementia patients? If so did that influence how you approached the project?

When I first started on the Where the Heart Is project it was all quite daunting so yes I did start by trying to research and read as much as I could. I was already familiar with the work of the artist David Clegg and The Trebus Project, so that was a huge help as a starting point. What I quickly discovered was that there wasn't all that much writing out there that had been produced as a result of working with people with dementia. I read a lot about memory, both scientific and more literary works. Penelope Lively's book Ammonites and Leaping Fish was very helpful. Most of my research ended up being more around form and the crossover between visual art and text, because as well as the book, I knew my poems were going to have to feature in a physical exhibition, and that was a new kind of work for me.

I love the fragmentary form of these poems. I think you've perfectly captured in poetic form how memory works - we don't remember things in a linear way yet often as writers we attempt to impose this linear narrative structure, so I think the poems work because not only are they reflecting the disorienting, disintegrating aspects of Dementia but of life generally which is fragmentary and disordered. Did that kind of style come about because of the project or were you already naturally inclined to write that way?

The fragment form was something that I was already very interested in. I'd already started a fragment sequence on another topic, but these parallels that you're describing were part of the reason why I was so attracted to the residency opportunity in the first place. I'm very interested in gaps and what readers choose to put into them, and I think that the experience of reading a poem, and the experience of having a conversation with someone with dementia can be very similar and require similar strategies for extracting meaning.

You work with found material and the collection includes conversations you've transcribed. Did you find it challenging balancing your own poetic voice with the voices of those whose stories you were communicating?

From the outset, all of the artists on the residency were encouraged to think of the work we produced as collaborations with the people we were working with. I wanted my own impressions to have a place in the book, but I was also very keen to capture the voices of residents, relatives and the care staff, and also to find a way to represent those who were no longer able to speak, but were still full of communication. In some ways I thought of the book as a group portrait - a picture of a certain group of people at a certain time. I think that image also stops people from looking for too many general 'truths about dementia' in the writing.

Can you tell me about the inspiration behind the title?

The title comes from a line in an Anne Carson poem, 'Mimnermos: The Brainsex Paintings,' that features in her collection Plainwater. Carson's poem is, as you would expect, a complex one, but one of the ideas she's exploring is the pressure we place on people to speak and tell of themselves, and that was something I was very interested in during my residency. It's also a line that gestures at the difficult connections between dementia and language.

As it's Dementia Awareness Week and I know the project was keen to get past the simplistic use of the arts in health care settings, maybe you could comment on the value of poetry in particular in exploring the topics of Dementia and old age.

I'm very wary of making any special claims for any kind of arts practice in dementia settings. I think the arts can bring a huge amount of joy and interest into people's lives - whether you have dementia or you don't. I don't think the arts should be positioned as a 'cure' or a 'treatment' for dementia, because I think that can lead to situations where the arts end up as a smokescreen for bigger problems in a healthcare setting. I do think that art, and perhaps in particular words, can be a great advocacy tool for improving care for older people. People with dementia are largely voiceless in society at the minute, and I think artists and writers can help to amplify those voices and encourage them to be heard.

Sarah Hesketh is a poet and freelance project manager. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from UEA and her work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies including The White Review, Soundings, Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot and Binders Full of Women. Her first collection of poetry, Napoleon’s Travelling Bookshelf, was published by Penned in the Margins in 2009. These poems are taken from The Hard Word Box (Penned in the Margins 2014). In 2013-14 she was a poet in residence with Age Concern Central Lancashire. You can read Sarah's blog on the project here: http://wheretheheartispreston.tumblr.com//

Poem of the Month: April

Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

This month we chose Keston Sutherland said by The New Statesman to be 'at the forefront of the experimental movement in contemporary poetry'. Sutherland’s radical poetics confront social and political issues. The Odes infiltrate the conventions of prose poetry combining a highly sexualised language with the jargon of capitalism, computers and the products of our rampant consumer culture.

Excepts from The Odes to TL61P

by Keston Sutherland

(NB.

In order to keep Keston's poetry as true to how it was published as possible we've had to create a image of it in order to get the line breaks and justified text correct)

Keston Sutherland is the author of The Odes to TL61P, The Stats on Infinity, Stress Position, Hot White Andy, Neocosis, Antifreeze and other books of poetry, and of Stupefaction, a book of essays about Marx and poetry. Lots of his essays on poetry, art, politics and Marxism are available online. He is the co-editor with Andrea Brady of Barque Press. He lives in Brighton and works at the University of Sussex.

These excerpts are taken from The Odes to TL61P (Enitharmon Press, April 2013) His collected works Poems 1999-2015 will be published in May 2015 by Enitharmon Press.

Poem of the Month: February


Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

This month we chose Sarer Scotthorne. Sarer's poetry is a visceral descent into the psycho-sexual. In this poem Sarer interrupts the domestic and the urban scene with words which ooze with the pulse of an ebullient female sexuality.

The Blood House
by Sarer Scotthorne

The stairs creak voices - ketamine thuds bleed through
a single skin of brick; floorboards leak every secret.

The clock reverses - intermittent Gabba - radar moon. Cats scream,
I scream, howl my longings into cotton sheets. I scratch at the floor,

draw words in the mist of breath on pane; look through letters
lit orange by the light of the city night, at my beloved street below.

Bodies crawl, fumbling for keys - staring into shadows.
My hand-printed curtains float, lifting up as the city's sweat billows into my room.

The shouts of children climb through my windows like burglars,
angry mother’s scream and drag them back out.

This house breathes for me - joists splintering with love,
the beat of slamming doors hides the sound of the past

that is buried alive in the red brick cellar below.

Sarer Scotthorne is a feminist, poet and martial artist who plays with film and teaches Kung Fu and Creative Writing. This poem is from her first published collection The Blood House (Hesterglock Press, 2015). She co-edits the poetry/flash fiction pamphlet Boscombe Revolution and Westside HERstory. She has a website here: https://thebloodhouse.wordpress.com/

Poem of the Month: January

Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should. This month we chose Alex MacDonald's poem to complement the release of Dan Duggan's Influx book Luxury of the Dispossessed.

Reasons for Asylum Admissions

by Alex MacDonald

Alex MacDonald lives and works in London. He has poems published in Poetry London, 3:AM, The Quietus and Clinic. He hosted a series of readings at the V&A Museum on independent poetry publishers and was recently the Digital Poet in Residence for the Poetry School. Reasons for Asylum Admissions was compiled from a list of real and imagined reasons people were admitted to an American sanatorium in the 1800s.

Poem of the Month: November


Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

Fist
by Hannah Lowe

When my brother put his fist through a window
on New Year’s Eve, no one noticed until a cold draft
cooled our bodies dancing. There was rainbow light
from a disco ball, silver tinsel round the pictures.
My brother held his arm out to us, palm
upturned, a foot high spray of blood.
This was Ilford, Essex, 1993, nearly midnight,
us all smashed on booze and Ecstasy and Danny,
6 foot 5, folding at the knee, a shiny fin of glass
wedged in his wrist. We walked him to
the kitchen, the good arm slung on someone’s neck,
Gary shouting Danny, Darren phoning for
an ambulance, the blood was everywhere. I pressed
a towel across the wound, around
the glass and led him by the hand into the
garden, he stumbled down into the snow,
slurring leave it out and I’m ok A girl was crying in
the doorway, the music carried on, the bass line
thumping as we stood around my brother, Gary talking
gently saying easy fella, Darren draining Stella in one
hand and in the other, holding up my brother’s arm,
wet and red, the veins stood out like branches. I thought
that he was dying, out there in the snow and I
got down, I knelt there on the ice
and held my brother, who I never touched, and never told
I loved, and even then I couldn’t say it
so I listened to the incantation easy fella
and my brother’s breathing,
felt him rolling forward, all that weight, Darren
throwing down his can and yelling Danny, don’t you dare
and shaking him. My brother’s face was grey,
his lips were loose and pale and I
was praying. Somewhere in the street, there was
a siren, there was a girl inside who blamed
herself, there were men with blankets
and a tourniquet, they stopped my brother bleeding,
as the New Year turned, they saved him,
the snow was falling hard, they saved us all.

Next generation poet Hannah Lowe was born in Ilford to an English mother and Jamaican-Chinese father and currently lives in London. This poem was published in her first book-length collection Chick (Bloodaxe Books, 2013), which was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection, the Fenton Aldeburgh First Collection Prize and the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize for Poetry 2014. Her published work includes The Hitcher (Rialto, 2011), R x (sine wave peak, 2013) and Ormonde (Hercules Editions, 2014). Her family memoir Long Time, No See will be published by Periscope Press in April 2015. She has a website here: http://hannahlowe.org/

Here is Hannah performing this poem and others at the opening ceremony of Norwich Showcase ’12.
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80DAj18Z_DA#t=13[/youtube]

Poem of the Month: September


Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

Disaster Outdoors
by Andrew Spragg

you are a beast today
nervous visits and on
the bench, or rather a log
talking in the light
over there are standing stones
made of concrete
and tucked into the recess of that
log is an empty foreign export bottle

becoming fascinated the park erupts
across a spectrum of cricket songs
and out in the wild flowers

insist that you can’t
work here reconsider our position
we didn’t buy it

Andrew Spragg is a poet and critic. He was born in London and lives there presently. This poem was published in A Treatise on Disaster (Contraband Books, 2013). His books include The Fleetingest (Red Ceiling Press, 2011), Notes for Fatty Cakes (Anything Anymore Anywhere, 2011), cut out (Dept Press, 2012), To Blart & Kid (Like This Press, 2013), A Treatise on Disaster (Contraband Books, 2013) and OBJECTS (Red Ceiling Press, 2014). His writing was also included in Dear World & Everyone In It: New Poetry in the UK (Bloodaxe, 2013). He writes reviews for The Quietus and Bonafide magazine. He has a blog: sectorhabits.tumblr.com

Poem of the Month: August


Each month Influx Press is featuring a contemporary poet you might not know but definitely should.

Congelatine
by Jennifer Cooke

here’s space punctured by skin where the linear races off tragic stories of a wanted self in Tescos noting codes or best befores the tracks there, meat running, soft pads ludicrous in aisles narrowed for hunting down sacheted emotions-for-one this id falls in the gap between civic art meets the drunk and both have something to say, yes, to each other, yes, this is

a fluted moment in precincts flickering of betrayals we sing wraps away me again shrinking and, breathe the cheese shop sign, breathe there’s Boots, oh, gains harden into paved passages duffed up and strangers are sudden and right fearful in the out placebos branded in blood-pumping force sidelooks of dislike reflecting me in many mannequined glasses

quick, there’s an apophatic quiz at the Brush Social Club a meat raffle for women who don’t own a thing from Ikea inching the animals out of market with cellophane-tightened muzzles while I is dreaming of spring onions growing from my scalp in a warehouse of chilled fruit there are busy plasma screens waxy-faced little slogans peep from boxes abroad, smuglike

empty they line canals awaiting youth and the dead fish so I say to the Booby Nymph “I think you should see someone, it might help” but I know he knows it’s no good because he just fell into the first sludge that caught his eye, camp stool and all. I can’t save him from his high street standards, I can’t love the animals because a tiger’s only perfect on TV, which it takes 369 months to yearn

with pretty hooves in your neon dessert eat more and wonder on jelly’s fat content, the least of its problems I’ve heard the singing is worsening in what looks outside every town like Asda but is more like footprints or stains. Closing down the shopped dreams and emptying the pubs not by force, oh no, by a boredom akin to waiting for a catch a pull a tug a faint sign of a

Jennifer Cooke is a senior lecturer in English at Loughborough University.
This poem was published in her first collection
Not Suitable For Domestic Sublimation (London 2012) from Contraband Press.