Skip to main content

Guest Review: Adams on Pollock

Derek Adams reviews
Designs for Living
by Estill Pollock

Estill Pollock is a mature poet, secure in his abilities, assured enough to play the long game (witness this volume concludes the Relic Environments Trilogy), and like an angler with a lure he spins ideas through sequences of poems, confident his readers will follow.

The opening poem ā€œFaceā€ explores identity, wearing the faces of the dead, of others ā€˜These others as we, dreamers in their comasā€™, it concludes ā€˜The man you were, the face in the mirror: there you are. // Here I amā€™.

These others whose lives and memory affect our identity, who we wear on our faces, are at the heart of this collection, they are ā€˜the past, its ghosts/ devolved to son and daughter, these/ others of the blood.ā€™ In ā€œA Space in Timeā€ these others inhabit a dream. ā€˜ā€¦faint energies/ (some I saw right through)/ to share a space in time, its senses recollected.ā€™

Pollock is precise with his descriptive images - in ā€œEverything Elseā€ when lovers walk through rain, itā€™s not romantic rain, itā€™s hard: ā€˜the rain is nails,/ a rusty thunderhead of cut-wire sharps unloadingā€™, they reach a cliff that is ā€˜old continents scrummed verticalā€™.

There is a move away from personal histories in ā€œEx Cathedraā€, a river ā€˜with no memory of itselfā€¦ā€™ flows past a cathedral with reliquary and holy manuscripts ā€˜the preserve of white-gloved keepersā€™, in its library ā€˜The saved dead/ thread the margins, anchored in inksā€™.

Memories preserved in ink is also the subject of ā€œJapanese Tattoos in the Edo Periodā€ where we find ā€˜characters/ for Stay, Remain.// I am everything you made me.ā€™

ā€œThe Journeymanā€™s Taleā€, has an epigraph from Chaucer and Victorian style intros to four Bukowski-ish vignettes. ā€˜Part the Fourth, wherein Heavenly Music is heard, and a Wise Woman reveals the Resting Place of Heroesā€™, the construction worker is shown a bed ā€˜ ā€¦ Andrew Jackson slept in that bed/ No fuckin way I said/ Yep, she says, big as life and ugly with it/ She says it come down to her though her great granny/ And was worth a little something.ā€™ Here again the passing on of the memories of others.

The book is carefully constructed; poems interacting to produce a sum greater than its parts, however near the centre are four poems that feel awkward: ā€œTribeā€, ā€œField Notesā€, ā€œTribeā€ and ā€œRevolutionā€; each has political overtones and while these are fine poems on their own they seemed out of step with the rest of the collection.

The second half of the book is a sequence entitled ā€œAnimusā€ (a feeling of enmity, or the Jungian term for the masculine principle residing in the female psyche, perhaps both, the poems exhibit traits of each) - three long poems retelling five Grimmā€™s fairy tales in an adult way, these are highlight of the collection for me, exhibiting evocative storytelling and deft use of language.

ā€œTales of Wood and Ironā€ (The three feathers, Rapunzel) begins ā€˜Night and day, for all Godā€™s children, the same star/ dawn to dreaming, a little breath between/ lightā€™s constancy/ and the cold darkā€™. In the second half of this poem ā€˜far from festivals or tradeā€™ kidnapped Rapunzel, grows ā€˜ā€¦ and the girlā€™s hips/ widened womanlyā€™ until one day the witch ā€˜caught the man-scent,/ buckskin sweat and the spilled seedā€™. T rue to all good fairy tales Rapunzel is rescued by her prince, but each night in her dreams ā€˜ā€¦she stood, anchored in oak shade/ deeper than the worldā€™s dark heart, older/ than the cold, blind blink of heaven.ā€™; an obsidian reflection of the poems opening lines.

In ā€œThe Child Eatersā€ (Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel) a pubescent girl climbs into bed with the man/wolf ā€˜and pulling the knife/ still further, filleted the howl/ hissing for air in the Wolfā€™s throatā€™. In a famine struck land ā€˜bellies bloated, guts pinched and heaved with hungerā€™ we have Gretel pushing the witch into an oven, for a moment ā€˜considering her next square mealā€¦ā€™, cannibalistic overtones that reappear as the poem ends, ominously reiterating ā€˜It was a time of famine.ā€™

In ā€œA Mask of Mirrorsā€ (Snow White) the step-mother Queen is abetted in her murderous plans by a servant she could trust ā€˜not to talk and not to go squeamish/ when fine talk turned to sweaty jellyā€™. Snow White exacts revenge ā€˜ordered iron shoes, stoked and stoked red as a witchā€™s eyeā€™.

ā€˜ā€¦there was always Death and Judgementā€™ Pollock reminds us in the bookā€™s final poem ā€œAfterward: into the forestā€, where we find storytelling, oral history, time, memory, the ā€˜othersā€™ that are the preoccupation of this collection, who draw the blueprints we live our lives by, perhaps designs for living, a plan, a map for the path ahead. ā€˜Everything remembered// Into the forest, the path we took to meet ourselves// These others.

At 80 pages this is a dense ā€˜slim volumeā€™, with multi-layered intelligent poems that bear more than one reading. It is a book whose paths I shall revisit and I recommend it to you.

Derek Adams is a British poet and photographic artist.

Comments

Dave King saidā€¦
My thanks for that. It has interested me enough to make me want to buy the book. That's all you can ask.

Popular posts from this blog

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....

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

"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...".