She didn’t get her break until her 70s, but the world now can’t get enough of Rose Wylie’s blissfully unruly paintings. On the eve of her solo Serpentine show, the artist shows our writer round her Kent cottage – then dabs her down with turps
I am in a lift, heading up to the forty-fifth floor, to Russell's apartment, 45-O, the studio apartment with the grand piano, the windows overlooking midtown Manhattan. On windy nights you could feel the building sway, ever so slightly. On cold nights – how many were there? – he lit a fire. I remember a fireplace, although it's possible there wasn't one. We'd make love, silently, because I was too shy to speak once my clothes were off. I thought my body should be able to say enough, to say all I couldn't, the words sliding off my body onto the bed, into the air, on our sweaty limbs as they coasted over each other—it's no good. I can't remember much about us back then. I do remember he made me scream once – that may have been the first time I'd ever had an orgasm with someone inside me – but that was in my shared apartment on the eighth floor, a West End Avenue sublet, books lining the walls of the curving entry hallway, where the two rooms radiated off. There was a piano there, too, but it was in bad need of a tuning, which my roommate and I could never afford, and the real tenants were living elsewhere, in Europe or someplace I only dreamed about at the time. Russell went on the QE2 from New York to London, where they had grand pianos ready for him. That January it snowed a lot and I waited for him to call me. I knew when he was returning but he didn't call for another week. The next winter he said he was getting married. Since I hadn't ever been able to talk to him in a way that didn't involve my body, I wasn't surprised, but I felt my heart craze against my stomach when he told me. I went to the pre-wedding party, a posh event in a huge uptown apartment. I don't remember anything about it except what I wore, and I expect I drank too much. My friends thought I was mad to go. I moved to London the following summer. Now I look him up on the internet and of course he has no idea.
From Barbara's collection To the Boneyard published by Eyewear Publishing. You can purchase it here.
‘For a poem to emerge properly, you have to avoid confronting it. You have to keep it in sight without looking at it directly.’ Fiona Sampson, poet, in Mslexia
Twelve years ago, I’d never written a poem. I wasn’t – so many say this – one of those people who started writing poems in their teens. At the time, I was a journalist whose paid work – the internet and falling sales of newspapers – was on the wane. I was unsettled, gloomy and undermined.
I decided radical action was needed on the writing front. I have always been a fan of lyrical language so I decided to try out writing poems. I knew – and this is key – that writing poetry was never going to earn me my daily bread but I wanted to do it for love. I had been on the hamster wheel of feature editors’ ever-narrowing commissions and instructions, this way I would re-discover writerly freedom.
Not that I expected it to be easy. I was in for the long haul. I signed up to City Lit’s Beginner’s course with contemporary poet, John Stammers at the helm. I’d never heard of him. His collection Stolen Love Behaviour had just come out and I devoured its post-modern bite. Here were poems that were crafted to the hilt, witty and John’s degree in philosophy drove the undertow.
Through John, I discovered so many poets – from Wallace Stevens to Clare Pollard – but most importantly, and this is a rare feature, I found out that John can actually pinpoint what works and doesn’t work in his pupils’ poems. Over the years, this has been such a boon as well as a pain.
For a long long time, my poems were embarrassingly bad. I’d have a few sizzling one liners, or a good title here and there but the struggle to write a decent poem was arduous and humbling. Luckily, I expected the climb to be arduous and was willing to plod on.
What is a good poem? Ah ha, there is the subject of many a book and author. Basically the content should be fresh, the voice should belong to that poet alone, the attitude should be ‘show rather than tell’ (ie cut out any of those literal lines), a big no to the overly poetic (John has a list of forbidden words and they include iridescence and meniscus!) and then the most difficult, something should emerge magically without the poet even knowing. Helen Mort who is well-known in the poetry world, has just won the Mslexia (a magazine for women who write) poetry prize and the judge, Sinead Morrissey said; ‘there’s a vortex in the middle of it that works like a spell.’ Exactly.
Funnily enough, I am still in one of John’s groups, now an invitation-only one with some damn fine poets – including Barbara Marsh, Judy Brown and Beatrice Garland who all have collections out, won poetry prizes and more. Wednesday afternoon is often the high point of the week for me. We meet in Covent Garden above a pub in Betterton Street while the Poetry Society does its refurbishment re The Poetry Studio.
The format is like this. We hardly ever discuss our personal lives. Only through the poems. John brings in three poems as photocopies, he doesn’t tell us who the poet is. He reads the first one and then we analyse/criticize them. He will bring in these poems for all sorts of reasons – they are badly edited, they have something but not everything, they sing with edge and vim etc – and we are in constant pursuit of what makes a good poem. This is a life’s work!
In the second half, we hand out photocopies of our own new poems to the group, read it out aloud to them and then stay silent while they discuss every aspect in terms of meaning and structure. I have squirmed many times in this position as it became apparent that my new poem didn’t make sense, was overegged – I have a proclivity in this direction – and just plainly did not work. Oh the ignoble position of the bad poet!
However, over the years, I’ve been in this group for five years – we published a group pamphlet Sounds of the Front Door in 2014 – my embarrassment has subsided and I now relish their comments even when they are constructively ruthless. Because that’s exactly what my poems need ie outside voices looking in.
In January, I’d just come back from post-Castro Cuba and written a poem Finding My Inner Orisha. A lot of it was in Spanish and through the group, I learnt that actually there was too much for people to understand so they suggested that I translate lines in both Spanish and English. I have now done that and hope it lends an incantatory aspect to the poem. Although I also decided that I didn’t want to do it all in that way as that was too much. The poet always has the last word. Although as we often discuss when reading other poets’ work, a good editor is also worth their weight in gold.
Killing your own darlings is such a useful lesson in life as well as poetry. Poets often have a proclivity towards something that takes them out of balance. Personally, I go for florid language and this can be so easily overdone. Restraint is needed. Going to The Group helps me refine my own editing skills. If I see that extra ‘fecund’, then I force myself to remove it.
This year, I found a publisher for my first poetry pamphlet – 20 poems and these days often called a chapbook - Tantric Goddess at the age of 64. It’s never too late to start. And I’m not giving up now, I intend to get a collection – around 60 poems – together next.