Skip to main content

Featured Poet: John McCullough



Eyewear is very glad to feature British poet John McCullough (pictured) this sunny London Friday, as The Selecter plays.  His poetry has appeared in publications including London Magazine, The Guardian, The Rialto, Poetry London and Magma.  He teaches creative writing at the Open University and the University of Sussex.  His first collection is The Frost Fairs (Salt, 2011).  He's one of the best of the young generation.

Known Light

Now you’re crossing that ocean, I have to confess
I’ve rather warmed to this shed where nothing is yours,
where your father consulted a sacred Bunsen flame.

Chipped oak, a gas tap, scores of powdered specimens –
the perfect stage for resurrecting my ‘A’ Level Chemistry.
I remember this much: each metal has a secret,

unchangeable colour.  A Nichrome wire dipped
in compounds, then in fire, bares their truer shades.
It’s a bit like those stars, the ones you rehearsed

on the pebbles at Kemp Town: the blood
in Betelgeuse, Rigel’s constant blue – they show
only with a telescope’s fiercer attention.

You have to inspire electrons if you want to unveil
calcium’s brick red, barium’s green,
the strange lilac which simply means potassium.

Loyal friends, they return now with the tiniest prod,
make me smug as an alchemist,
impatient for knowledge of the lone unlabelled jar.

Reveal yourself, sweet familiar, I whisper to glass
before I’m blinded by the white heat
of a magnesium heart.


poem by John McCullough; reprinted with permission of the poet, from The Frost Fairs.

Comments

Ysella said…
If you like this, I urge you to buy The Frost Fairs - it is a mesmeric,playful,adventurous exploration of love in all its forms and landscapes. It's delicious - dive in!

Popular posts from this blog

A  poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

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 ...

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....