Poem by Jenny Pagdin

Eyewear is very pleased to welcome the poet Jenny Pagdin (pictured) to its pages this Friday. I first met Pagdin when she was studying at The Poetry School (well, before then, we were introduced to each other by the American-Canadian poet Eric Ormsby). Since then, I have followed the development of her work with some interest.

Her earlier poems, of three or four years ago, were small, complex works, combining near-scientific observation with sensuous, sometimes erotic, emotionality - all wound tight with brilliant diction. Her new work, it appears to me, is opening up, and growing in stature as it assays traditional forms, in surprising ways, sometimes employing more colloquial, and directly sexual, or personal, themes.

Pagdin is completing the MA in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia. In between times, she works as a charity fundraiser in Norwich. Her poetry has appeared in magazines including Nthposition, Agenda, Dream Catcher and The Frogmore Papers. Do expect a very fine collection from her in the next few years.

Retrospect

The cool ones then are cool no longer,
The beauties faded pretty soon
But that was no consolation at the time,
When your place in the league table was all.

The beauties faded pretty soon
But when we were fourteen
And our place in the league table was everything
We weren’t to know that.

When we were fourteen
And everyone had an eating disorder
We were not to know that
All of us hated our bodies.

Everyone had an eating disorder,
A body top and a lumber jack shirt.
We all of us hated our bodies
And wanted a blonde, crispy perm.

In our body tops and lumber jack shirts
We got thrown out of Boots for opening the bottles.
We wanted blonde, crispy perms:
They were having none of it.

We got thrown out of Boots every Saturday:
Lilac eyeshadow was the most popular
But they were having none of it
And we couldn’t afford even one.

Lilac was the most popular eyeshadow.
If we’d not heard the latest james or Brian May
Then we couldn’t afford anyone to see
- And nothing would ever beat Bon Jovi’s lips.

If we’d not heard the latest james or Brian May
If we had our ties on properly, or our skirts not rolled up
Still, nothing could beat Bon Jovi’s lips
Or sleeping under a Ryan Giggs duvet.

With our ties on properly, our skirts unrolled,
We looked much younger.
We slept under Ryan Giggs duvet covers.
And wallpaper collaged from magazines.

We looked much younger without the makeup.
We aspired to A2 art folders, to drinks in cafes
And wallpaper collaged from magazines.
But the tuck shop sold wham bars and irn bru and whispas.

We aspired to art folders, to drinks in cafes,
But the canteen sold jackets and plastic cups of cheese.
The tuck shop, wham bars and irn bru and whispas
And the cloakroom had rows of River Island bags.

The canteen had its jackets and plastic cups of cheese
Matron dispensed pills, hot water bottles.
The cloakroom was full of River Island bags.
And buses were the place to meet boys

Matron dispensed pills, hot water bottles,
We wore netball skirts and sports knickers
And buses were the place to meet boys
- Boys we kissed against the six-foot fence.

In our netball skirts and sports knickers,
Some of us attracted attention
From boys - pressed up close against the six-foot fence -
We knew through casual unions.

Some of us attracted attention….
It was no consolation at the time,
But I know from casual reunions since
The cool ones then are cool no longer.

poem by Jenny Pagdin

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se. What do I mean by smart?

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and Silence of the Lambs . I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

THE SWIFT REPORT 2023

I am writing this post without much enthusiasm, but with a sense of duty. This blog will be 20 years old soon, and though I rarely post here anymore, I owe it some attention. Of course in 2023, "Swift" now means one thing only, Taylor Swift, the billionaire musician. Gone are the days when I was asked if I was related to Jonathan Swift. The pre-eminent cultural Swift is now alive and TIME PERSON OF THE YEAR. There is no point in belabouring the obvious with delay: 2023 was a low-point in the low annals of human history - war, invasion, murder, in too many nations. Hate, division, the collapse of what truth is, exacerbated by advances in AI that may or may not prove apocalyptic, while global warming still seems to threaten the near-future safety of humanity. It's been deeply depressing. The world lost some wonderful poets, actors, musicians, and writers this year, as it often does. Two people I knew and admired greatly, Ian Ferrier and Kevin Higgins, poets and organise

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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