A poem just before the new year

Action Steps

What are we doing?

We hardly know.

We hardly can know.

Not knowing, we do it anyway.

We say it is our right and our way.

Brian Davis channels Philip Larkin

Out of Interest

Purely out of interest, let me put my hand up your skirt and see if I can find your G-spot.

I’ve had a few and maybe it’ll end in farce:

Instead of pleasing you and seeing you grow hot,

I’ll doubtless put my fingers up your arse.

Purely in the cause of research, officer, let me knock your antiquated helmet off and see if you’ve got hair.

You may well have a barnet in the style of Gareth Hunt;

In love and war, I know, everything is fair

But, let’s face it, you’re a bent and racist cunt.

Purely by the by, Tony, let me ask you what you think of welfare, health, farming and Britain’s rails.

Isn’t it true that all of them, once great, aren’t worth a hillock?

You stand and posture, suck Clinton’s cock and claim you’re gonna blaze trails

To the future, when actually you’re a cheesy pillock.

Purely out of interest, please cough,

And then, the lot of you, fuck off.

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Hmm?  So, it's a poem meant to break cultural taboos, question authority, and expose national hypocrisies.  It's satire.  It's extended dirty limerick.  It's proletarian rant.  It's social comment.  It's . . . common.  It's the kind of stuff that maybe Brian wouldn't want seen on the Internet, if he were serious about writing poetry?  It's just mental diddling.  It's bad!  Yes!  And it's great fun if you recite it out loud!

One or two references worth noting:  What is a "barnet," a kind of period hair-do?  Yes, in the sense of British (typically Cockney) rhyming slang; a reference to Barnet Fair, a horse fair, and so, I guess, a wig or a spectacular coif?  (The cockneyism is supported of course by "arse" ending the first stanza.)

And who is Gareth Hunt?  An English actor of the '70s who appeared in some Dr. Who episodes and, for two seasons, on "The New Avengers."  According to Wikipedia, Hunt also apparently shipped out with the Merchant Navy in 1957 (at the age of 15), jumped ship in New Zealand and, after a number of years, was apprehended then deported back to Britain, where he served some months in jail for going AWOL.  So, a bit of an anti-authority guy himself, like the persona behind the poem.  Also, a handy pairing for a raunchy rhyme.

Let's assume we all know what G-spot refers to, but do we know the origin of the name?

Another Brian Davis poem

Stopover

The neon lights their imperfections. Awkwardly, they call

For cigarettes as dim loudspeakers broadcast dull commands.

Before, they took the world to task for being small;

Now, grounded, they can barely focus on their hands.

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So what's the deal with this poem?  It's all perspective, a point of view with no clear referent.  The title suggests its placelessness and the use of the third person pronoun reinforces the poem's impersonality.  Could be anyone viewing any group anywhere.  You get the impression of a lone subject observing events from a place (a world?) apart.  From the first line, though, you must note that this subject, the speaker-observer, is actually quite engaged and is commenting, not merely describing--unless you take the reference to imperfections to be totally without judgement.  In the third line, the observer could simply be recounting an opinion.  But the fourth line grounds "them" in some kind of limitation, a failure, maybe.

This kind of poem is awfully hard to think about because its emotional content feels stunted (what does the observer of the situation actually feel?) and its referents are vague.  What imperfections are we talking about--physical (that is, something that can be seen in the light)?  Spiritual?  Psychological?  Cultural?  Is the reference supposed to be ambiguous?  I have held onto many a lame line of poetry in the name of modernist ambiguity!  How can a loudspeaker be "dim" (a mixed metaphor)?  And why are there loudspeakers through which commands are being issued, and whose commands are they?  Why did "they" once take the world to task for being small?  And what does it mean that these characters are "grounded" and barely able to focus on their hands?

So, the question to ask is, what's the quality of this as a poem?  In fact, is it a poem?  That's harsh.  It's a poem, I suppose, because it falls into lines and cadence, because it is direct and lyrical (musical) and rhymes.  Rhyme, of course, draws attention to the language of the poem and poetry is just that, a shaping of language, an acknowledgement of the materiality of words.  Another observation: there are four lines comprising three, effectively four, sentences (a properly used semi-colon separates two independent clauses--two statements that can also be sentences!).  All four structures are loose (that is, subject-verb-object order), a common technique in post-Modernist style whereby poets can reduce poems to series of simple statements and position the voice as "merely" observational.  It's a means of evading responsibility, a little like watching a mugging from across the street.  This, too, is common in post-Modernist poetry, and in poetry borne of inexperience.  But this poet has trouble fully disengaging from the situation he describes.  And I admire him for his effort to comment on what he sees, even if he can't quite say what it is he feels about what he sees.  You can see that struggle in the transitional adverbs (all editorial and value-laden) leading off each of the last three sentence structures of the poem. 

Finally, it's a poem of nearly complete privation, on all sides, isn't it?  I mean, where's the life?  I guess that's what stopovers are all about: they have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, reassurance, community, sense of place, hope.  For some people at least.

A correspondence with Emerson

Five years ago I write this poem . . .

This Is Life in North Carolina

—for AWH

Mosquitoes swarm above the grass

in the front yard, in the back,

challenging us to come and try them out.

We hesitate going outside,

knowing the biting consequences

and their old discomforts.

World, we suspect, isn’t meant for us,

though we admit we don’t mean

anything of the sort.

Then, one night recently, I stumble upon this aphorism while reading Emerson:

"Do what we can, summer will have its flies.  If we walk in the woods, we must feed mosquitoes."

Can I never say or write anything original?  Why would I want to?  I belong to the general conversation, and am requited there.

Who is Brian Davis, London writer and poet?

Some friends recently shared with me poems written by Brian Davis, a British writer, wanderer, and, as far as I can tell from my friends, lifelong lost soul.  Brian, whom I never knew, or even heard of before my friends shared his poems, died mysteriously (no foul play involved, but mysterious all the same)--a fall from a window.  At least, my friends think it was a fall.  What makes his end so mysterious to me, or perhaps intriguing, is one of the poems my friends shared with me . . .

Chet Baker

A true story

Even if you were blind drunk and all strung out on speedballs,

You could sing My Funny Valentine and, guess what? I would have

close calls

With the heart surgeon. As a wise guy said, you never could

resist a pretty tune:

She Was Too Good for You. Your Future Just Passed. You

Wished on the Moon.

You had the looks, of course, ravaged maybe, but Dean-like,

magic;

Your fate was written in the stars, lucky ones, not tragic.

I got lucky myself: remember that Paris boite where you

chanced upon me

And asked: “Having a good time? You look like you need a

drink or three.”

Sure. We didn’t talk of music, to which you danced so

Beautifully,

But of places to stay in Paris. You were at a favourite and said:

“Feel free

To go there, tell them you’re a friend of mine and you’ll get

a special rate.”

You left me to resume your set, asking the barman to keep

me in drinks. Funny. Fate

Decreed that, after this terrific night, I had to leave and I

never stayed

At your hotel. Well, time’s passed and you’re all played

Out. Vain

Perhaps your exit, jumping out a window in the

Leidserpleine.

Hey ho. I’ve got a deal in Paris, so I’ll go there and lie at

your place. Bet

I love it. It may not be the Hyatt, but I can say, quite loudly,

“Bonjour, monsieur, j’etais un ami de Chet.”