aloud the following lines: you can hear water
cooped up in moss and moving
slowly uphill through lean-to trees
where every day the sun gets twisted and shut
with the weak sound of the wind
rubbing one indolent twig upon another
Sound is fundamental to [Alice] Oswald's poetry, though never, she hopes, at the cost of sense. Negative reviews trouble her, especially if they question her meaning. "I hate not managing to speak clearly," she says, as agitated as she gets during our al fresco conversation. "I really hate it. I get a feeling of claustrophobia--like I'm locked in my own head--if what I've said hasn't reached someone."
from The Independent: Tales from the riverbank: Nature poet Alice Oswald on her own turf
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1 comment :
The original article on 'Nature' poetry by Stephen Knight (not an original poet himself) smacks of sycophancy. Nature poetry is the last litle enclave for the british poetry to crawl into. And this book by oswald about the moon is in a universal sense, worthless. In 1917, Mayakovsky said 'nature poetry is not-up-to-date enough' he was right. Despite this the english poet will continue to be fascinated by god's circuit board. The hubble telescope photos should have by now reduced the moon to no more than a speck of grit in the human eye. Certainly it should not
have still the mythological pull it has today. In short the moon's long duration for earth dwellers as something magicical is over. Lets hope this is the last little volume of verse we have to read about the moon, or the lilly, or the weed. Alas, i fear it is not.
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