POEM CLUB #10: 'A Love Poem: From Snail to Slug' by Jamie McGarry

Jamie McGarry

Things are getting busier and busier at the Emma Press as we gear up for the next few months of releases and events, so I think this will be the last of the (mostly) weekly Poem Clubs. I'd like to write some more pieces about the inner workings of the Emma Press and I don't want to crowd this blog, so Poem Club will become more of a semi-regular feature, brought out when you least expect it!

What could be more fitting for the last in this series of Poem Club than a poem by my fellow twenty-something self-employed publisher, Jamie McGarry? I acquired his book of snail poems, The Dead Snail Diaries, for the Emma Press quite soon after meeting Jamie last summer, so it's very exciting that it's finally out. As with previous editions of Poem Club, I'll post the poem below along with some of my own thoughts to start things off.

* * *

A Love Poem: From Snail to Slug

God made us brown so we’d be hard
to spot upon his fertile soil;
to hide from the birds (which he made as well),
to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.

But slug does not hide, or flinch back.
His coat? Uncompromising BLACK.
He turns defence into attack.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God gave us shells to weigh us down.
Without them, we would HURTLE round,
so common sense suggests. Who’d beat us,
across a distance of ten metres?

But slug, dear slug, you have the grace
to not rub freedom in our face;
you slow your stride to match our pace.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.
He taught us manners, and restraint.
He taught us not to stay out late,
we’re model garden citizens.

But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!
He goes out seven nights a week!
Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

I’d sell my soul to be like him.
Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.
I’d go twice weekly to the gym,
if doing so would let me in

to doors in town that say ‘slugs only’.
But slug accepts no fake, no phony.
I’ll love, but I will never be
a slug – oh glorious slug.

— by Jamie McGarry, from The Dead Snail Diaries

* * *

Emma's thoughts. This is adorable, right? I think this is an incredibly charming poem, and I especially love all the rhymes. The rhyme scheme is irregular but relentless, with rhymes firing off all over the shop in an irresistibly fun way. My personal favourites are the virtuoso 'Who'd beat us/ten metres' in the third stanza and the climactic barrage of solid monosyllabic rhymes in the penultimate stanza – 'him/skin/gym/in'. The rhymes and rhythms don't feel forced, and just beg to be read aloud (you can hear Jamie reading it here). I think this is the kind of poem that could convince someone that poetry is for them, and is worth investigating further.

Your thoughts. We had a lovely long comment from Sarah Parkinson, which I'll quote in full: 'We have a children's book at home which is about the different animals God has made, and which contains very similar meter and rhyme to this poem. 'God made the busy working ants...' etc. This poem for me evokes some of that childlike perspective on the world around us, exploring something that is innate and yet that we sadly so often lose in adulthood. The snail's longing to be something other than itself is given a plaintive cast elicited by the almost sing-song readability of the poetry. I find the pathos in it - that the snail is not content with its own identity - is also highlighted by the structure, and emphasised effectively by the occasional half-rhyme and loss of rhythm. A very touching and thought-provoking poem.'

* * *

The Dead Snail Diaries

What do you think of 'A Love Poem: From Snail to Slug'? Do you find it romantic? What's your favourite bit? Do you like the rhymes? Let me know in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! Just let me know what you like about the poem or what it makes you feel. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #9: 'Bonfire' by Rachel Piercey

POEM CLUB #9: 'Bonfire' by Rachel Piercey

Rachel Piercey

We had some nice comments for 'Night music' last week, so let's have another poem from an Emma Press Pick, our series of short, themed, illustrated pamphlets. This one is from our tentative first publication, The Flower and the Plough, which began my collaboration with Rachel Piercey. As with previous editions of Poem Club, I'll post the poem below along with some of my own thoughts to start things off.

* * *

Bonfire

I have felled
all the trees in my wood
to keep you going,

thrown old faithfuls
and flimsy, startled
saplings into your

hot ears and come-
to-bed mouth.
Then all that was left

was the pointy scent
of gum
and the bellow of an oak.

So I hacked off my hair
with barely
a second thought,

and both ears
were carelessly slung in,
then my thumbs

with their crucial
opposability.
I’ve got my toes lined up

and my unaccountable hips
and my knees
are ready too,

so please
give me more
of your particular brand

of alchemy.
Because when you temper
scraps into treasure

I think it’s worth it,
and when you
spit out glass

though you only got sand
I think it’s worth it.
Because I could

spot you
a mile away
on any frightening night

and when I got there
you’d soften me.
Because I hope

that when I’m down
to just my heart in the open air
you’ll keep it warm.

— by Rachel Piercey, from The Flower and the Plough

* * *

Emma's thoughts. This poem has a very special place in Emma Press history, as it's the first poem by Rachel that I ever read. I had an instant, visceral reaction to it, and was amazed by how she had described exactly that insane leap of faith you can take in a passionate relationship. I love how the wild, raw imagery captures the exhilaration of going all in for a love affair. My favourite bit is 'when you / spit out glass // though you only got sand', because it expressed how a loved one can feel like both a miracle-worker and a miracle in themselves.

Your thoughts. Tom gave a great reading of the poem in the comments below, which I highly recommend reading in full. He was particularly struck by the violence of the poem and concluded: 'I know the fire could be read as creativity or something, but you know a bonfire the next morning is just damp ash. For me it's like the poem says the whole *point* of love is to destroy yourself; and maybe that's actually what we want; what we're trying to do.'

Kristen also had a great response, with a slightly different take to Tom on the escalation throughout the poem: 'This poem has a spectacular longing that I remember from early love affairs, giving it everything I had and then getting creative and trying to be new and interesting just to keep the fire going ('old faithfuls and flimsy') when in the other person was happy to let it die down. Rachel has captured it beautifully, and I can see why it's a favourite.'

In this penultimate week of Poem Club, I'm going to award a book to both Tom and Kristen!

* * *

The Flower and the Plough

What do you think of 'Bonfire'? Is that how falling in love feels to you? What do you think of the forest metaphor? Which is your favourite image? Let me know in the comments section below. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #8: 'Night music' by Kristen Roberts
--> POEM CLUB #10: 'A Love Poem: From Snail to Slug' by Jamie McGarry

POEM CLUB #8: 'Night music' by Kristen Roberts

Kristen Roberts

There's just a month left in our call for poetry pamphlet submissions, so this week's Poem Club poem is by someone we encountered wholly through our first open call for submissions, back when we were on the scrounge for mildly erotic verse. Melbourne poet Kirsten Roberts first came onto our radar with her gorgeous poem 'Cool change at midnight', and when she submitted her pamphlet proposal for The Held and the Lost we were smitten. The poem featured below is the first poem in the collection, and it's one which sets the tone and resonates throughout the whole book. As with previous editions of Poem Club, I'll post the poem below along with some of my own thoughts to start things off.

* * *

Night music

After the party we lie beneath open windows

and listen as insects play night music. 

Each note glimmers like a tiny white light in the darkness, 

incandescent against the solid noise of the semi-trailers

that groan up the highway’s climb and whine down.

In the kitchen, a flock of wine-stained glasses 

has settled at the sink 

and bottles stand, awkward as pelicans, among them. 

The floorboards relax into our silence 

like fingers releasing the night,

like the house exhaling a long-held sigh.

There is laughter soaking the walls, 

smiles and exclamations still glowing amber on the deck, 

waiting for morning’s breath to reignite them.

We’ll gather them when we wake

and carry them home in our pocket seams like sand, 

each memory a tiny constellation

to be discovered on our ordinary days. 

— by Kristen Roberts, from The Held and the Lost

* * *

Emma's thoughts. I could dive right into this poem and stay there! Kristen captures that spaced-out, floaty feeling you get after a really good party, when peace descends, your ears are still ringing and the house is a mess. This isn't a perfect moment, but it's as perfect as it gets in the very real, defiantly mundane world Kristen often writes about. The poem is stuffed with details of gentle, unstoppable movement – the ebbing away of heat and the passing of time – so overall it feels like a celebration of the small joys of mortality.

Your thoughts. I think it's safe to say this poem was a hit! Everyone seemed to enjoy Kristen's post-party snapshot, and we had some lovely responses. MonochromeThief commented: 'I love how all aspects of the poem's world are animated: the corporeal and the mundane.' She responded with her own images: 'The radiating warmth of smiles & laughter "still glowing amber" remind me of hot stone underfoot in summer, long after the sun has sunk below the horizon.'

Claudia Harkavy was similarly charmed, commenting 'I love this too – agree completely with, and can't outsay your wanting to dive in and stay there.' For her, the poem evoked 'the absorption of good times – their sounds, their twinkling in us - into ourselves, and our habitats which can throb with these memories when such times are scarce.'

Courtney Landers, our victor from last week's Poem Club, shared some great insights, commenting: 'I love the Australian-ness of this poem. I can hear the crickets, smell the still-warm bitumen and feel the cool breeze coming in through the windows.' She added: 'It's a happy poem because the high is still there from the party, but a sad poem because the party is over, and now 'real life' must be begun again.'

And the winner of this week's 'Most Thoughtful Commenter' prize is... Courtney Landers!

* * *

The Held and the Lost

What do you think of 'Night music'? Do you recognise the feelings described? Is this is a happy poem? What do you think of the ending? This Poem Club is now closed, but you can still let me know what you think in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #7: 'Raspberries' by Andrew Wynn Owen
--> POEM CLUB #9: 'Bonfire' by Rachel Piercey

POEM CLUB #7: 'Raspberries' by Andrew Wynn Owen

Andrew Wynn Owen. Photo
   © Belinda Lawley

We had some very exciting news last week, that Andrew Wynn Owen had won the Newdigate Prize. We published Raspberries for the Ferry, Andrew's first pamphlet, so we are incredibly proud of his achievement. This week in Poem Club we're going to look at the opening poem of his pamphlet, which gave the collection its title.

* * *

Raspberries

Available, but not for long,

They look like lesser fruits of Eden.

So sweet they force you into song

And fill your head with dreams of hedon-

istic gymnasts born in Sweden.

These luscious buds should be illegal,

Reserved for emperor and eagle.

Yes, don't they make you salivate?

That danglingness, their regal nods

To passers-by as if to state

A bloodline running back to gods.

You'd like them to arrive in squads

And drag you screaming to a cell

With sticky fists on each lapel.

These friendly triffids catch your eye

Across a busy motorway

And beckon you to have a try.

Their trimming is décolleté

With underbrush for négligée

And crimpled leaves that make you think 

Of Cleopatra draped in mink.

The provenance this clustered fruit

Can claim is unlike any berry:

Venusian origins impute

Its power to party and make merry.

When Charon chauffeurs in the ferry

The only bribes to turn his head

Are juicy, globular, and red.

— by Andrew Wynn Owen, from Raspberries for the Ferry 

* * *

Emma's thoughts. I love this poem for many reasons, not least of which is that raspberries are also my favourite fruit. They deserve a hymn, because they're wonderful: a great shade of pink, sweet and tart, and delicious. I also like the layers of menace eased into the poem, which create a sexy kind of tension between the speaker and the raspberry: they 'force' you into song, should be 'illegal', and, err, 'drag you screaming to a cell'. Is fruit erotica a thing? With Andrew Wynn Owen at the helm, it should be!

Your thoughts. A couple of great comments this week! ThatBookGirl had the only natural response to the poem, as far as I'm concerned: 'This poem makes me want to go and eat all the raspberries in my garden, but now I think of Swedish gymnasts when I chew them!' I hear you, ThatBookgirl.

Courtney Landers had a similar response, and gave a helpful blow-by-blow account of her reading experience: 'The first time you read it you think ‘oh that’s cute, I like raspberries too', the next few times you start to catch the multiple layers, and then each time you read it you’re giggling because ‘did he just say THAT, about RASPBERRIES?!’ She gives an in-depth description of her favourite bits in the comments below, so I'd highly recommend you scroll down to read it in full.

And the winner of this week's 'Most Thoughtful Commenter' prize is... Courtney Landers!

* * *

Raspberries for the Ferry

What do you think of 'Raspberries'? Do you think it is funny? Do you think it is sexy? What's your favourite line? Bearing this poem in mind, why do you think we choose 'Raspberries for the Ferry' as the title of the book? This week's Poem Club is closed, but you can still let me know in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! Just let me know what you like about the poem or what it makes you feel. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #6: 'Brown Leather Gloves' by Oliver Comins
--> POEM CLUB #8: 'Night music' by Kristen Roberts

POEM CLUB #6: 'Brown Leather Gloves' by Oliver Comins

Oliver Comins

Last week we had a great response to Liz Berry's poem from The Emma Press Anthology of Motherhood, so this week we're going to look at a poem from The Emma Press Anthology of Fatherhood, which we published in May. It's a fantastic collection of poems about becoming a father and the experience of fatherhood, but the major concern of the book turned out to be the poets' fathers. Many of the poems deal with generational differences and difficulties of communication, and the poem I've chosen for this week's Poem Club is one of the more positive ones: still heartbreaking, but in an uplifting way.

* * *

Brown Leather Gloves

These are my Father’s gloves
with which I am wrestling
as I walk down to the station
on another crisp morning
of frosted cars in a frozen suburb.

Who's holding whose hands now?
Inside the fingers there's
more of him than there is of me –
all those years of rubbed skin and sweat.

Leather gives a better grip,
doesn’t really overcome the cold.
But it’s better than nothing,
this thin layer of brown
which keeps the weather off.

On the platform
I remove one Father,
reach out to greet a friend.
My other Father holds me steady.

— by Oliver Comins, from The Emma Press Anthology of Fatherhood

* * *

Emma's thoughts. It was impossible for me not to reflect on the broad differences between the Motherhood anthology and the Fatherhood anthology, not least because lots of people asked me about it. The answer I usually gave was that the Motherhood book was full of raw and often disturbing emotions, while the Fatherhood book felt muted in comparison, with more poems about unspoken, unacknowledged feelings. 'Brown Leather Gloves' feels like a good example of this, because I find it deeply moving, but I also feel that the pain and love caused by the implicit distance and miscommunication are all buried beneath several layers of reservation and stiff upper lip.

Your thoughts. We had a great set of responses to this poem, and several people felt a strong connection to that last stanza in particular. The combination of deep emotion and those tactile details about the gloves seemed to resonate especially with Anonymous and JHumble, who shared their own memories of items of clothing. Phyllis Klein loved the relatable yearning of the poem, asking 'How often do we want a piece of clothing to keep the memory of a parent with us?' She added, 'Then there is the fact that leather gives a good grip but doesn't overcome the cold and how this line opens into a deeper part of the poet's relationship with his father. I can imagine the father gripping the son's hand without tenderness or emotional warmth.'

Joseph Coelho and Emily Tealady were both struck by the second line of the poem, drawing out the meaning. Joseph Coelho commented, 'I found the idea of 'wrestling' very interesting to me', explaining that 'it suggested the struggle we all have of those that have passed between the real person and the idealised (or not so) memory.' Emily Tealady had a similar thought but took it in a different direction: 'The initial lines make me think of images of boxing gloves and of wrestling – those disagreements and fallouts we have with our parents as we grow up.'

We had some quite lengthy comments this week, so I do recommend you scroll down a bit and read them in full, as they are fascinating. And now, I'm delighted to announce that the winner of this week's Poem Club is... Phyllis Klein! 

* * *

The Emma Press Anthology of Fatherhood

What do you think of 'Brown Leather Gloves'? Do you find it moving? Do you recognise this kind of relationship? What do you think the poem says about modern parenthood? This Poem Club is closed, but you can still share your thoughts in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! Just let us know what you like about the poem or what it makes you feel. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #5: 'The Steps' by Liz Berry'
--> POEM CLUB #7: 'Raspberries' by Andrew Wynn Owen

POEM CLUB #5: 'The Steps' by Liz Berry

Liz Berry

When Rachel and I were assembling The Emma Press Anthology of Motherhood, we felt very strongly that we wanted it to capture aspects of motherhood which aren't often discussed or acknowledged in the mainstream media. While many of the poems in the book deal with the darker aspects of motherhood, the poem we're going to look at this week is slightly more positive.

'The Steps' is a beautiful poem by Liz Berry, whose first full collection, Black Country, is out with Chatto & Windus next month.

* * *

The Steps

And this is where it begins, love –
you and I, alone one last time in the slatey night,
the smell of you like Autumn, soil and bonfire,
that November the fourth feeling inside us.
There can be no truer wedding than this:
your bare hand in mine, my body winded
with pain, as you lead me to the car, to the
soon life. And we are frightened, so frightened –

Who will we be when come back?
Will we remember ourselves?
Will we still touch each other’s faces
in the darkness, the white noise of night
spilling over us, and believe there is nothing
we could not know or love?

— by Liz Berry, from The Emma Press Anthology of Motherhood

* * *
Emma's thoughts. The line from this poem which has really stayed with me is 'There can be no truer wedding than this'. It was echoed in a conversation with a pregnant friend recently and it popped up again during my weekend at the Southbank Centre's Festival of Love, which is a celebration of the legalisation of same-sex marriage. Both times I wondered what this line implies about the formal institution of marriage. It seems to say that having a child together is more meaningful than exchanging wedding vows, but I also read it as reclaiming the meaning and power of the word 'wedding' from all the formalities: if this tense, thrilling night is a true wedding, what else is also a wedding? What other shared, profound experiences could be considered weddings?

Your thoughts. We had some fantastic responses this week! Maggie recognised the fear and seismic changes described in the poem as similar to her friends' recent experience on having their first child, commenting 'I find Liz's lines moving and elegant. Her musing on the nature of love and the anticipation of what the future may bring ring so true.'

Sarah Parkinson also identified closely with the feeling described in the poem: 'That almost pleading question of 'who will we be?' grabs at my stomach even now, and we have been parents for ten years! And it's not just a question of the 'me' but, just as importantly, of the 'us', the we that produced the child – can we still have the relationship that we had before?'

Heather Walker drew out the darker implications of lines 2-4, which 'to me, speak of endings, the poem set as it is in autumn and in particular, November when things are slowing down and stop.' Like Maggie, she was struck by the way the poem captures the enormity of this new stage of life: 'Motherhood changes everything and there is indeed a death of a former life, that carefree, no responsibility life, which is why I love the line 'and we are frightened'. So, so true!'

And finally, Alison Brackenbury observed 'It catches an experience which I don't remember seeing in a poem before', which is something I had also felt might be true (do let me know if you can think of any others). Alison added: 'It doesn't skimp on the pain, but also brings that great rush you do feel at certain times of your life, which can be forgotten under a welter of bills and lost school socks.'

The winner of this week's 'Most thoughtful commenter' is... Sarah Parkinson!

* * *

The Emma Press Anthology of Motherhood

What do you think of 'The Steps'? What do you like about it? Do you recognise the feelings described? Does anything about the poem surprise you? This week's Poem Club is now closed, but you can still share your responses to the poem in the comments section below. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #4: '52 Card Pickup' by Abigail Parry
--> POEM CLUB #5: 'Brown Leather Gloves' by Oliver Comins

POEM CLUB #4: '52 Card Pickup' by Abigail Parry

Abigail Parry

This week we're going to look at a poem from A Poetic Primer to Love and Seduction, a book of loosely instructional poems which are meant to offer advice both good and bad on the subject of romantic relationships. The book is arranged in halves, inspired by two works by the Roman poet Ovid: the Ars Amatoria ('The Art of Love') and the Remedia Amoris ('Cures for Love'). '52 Card Pickup' is from the latter half, which is less of a guide to falling out of love and shaking off your current partner (as in the Ovid) and more of a collection of poems about heartbreak and suggestions for recovery or - failing that - acceptance.


* * *

52 Card Pickup

nec te quicquam nisi ludere oportet

Start small. One half-open eye may survey thirty
square feet of bed for several hours. Note that not one
of the seven shining hells you built is half as hot
as this field of white linen. Know all your dreams
are now the same six confidence tricks, shuffled.

Trust nobody. Not the old goon at the instruments:
the nerves splutter imperatives, but all news
is duff gen, scrambled, haywire. Be resigned,
if not accustomed, to the rank flue that opens
between heart and mouth. Learn to bluff, and bluff.

Get superstitious. Develop a taste for patterns, pairs,
but know that you’re all out of luck. Here you are
sinking the black on a sure shot, snake-eyed, dropped
right in it with no getaway. You’ve got one bad hand
and you’ll play it. Sweet nothing, and you’ve stuck.

Tally up. Find the same spilt deck, the same face
turning up, whichever way you look at it. Bluff,
but fool no one. There he is again, the duff joist
that brings the whole lot down. This is the house.
This is you, in bed at noon. Weeks pile up, discarded.

— by Abigail Parry, from A Poetic Primer to Love and Seduction

* * *

Emma's thoughts. I love the nervy, disarmingly earnest tone of this poem. The litany of curt commands creates a paranoid atmosphere which becomes almost comforting, as it suggests the narrator understands the situation thoroughly and must have personal experience of it. The more extreme suggestions ('Trust nobody' 'Develop a taste for patterns, pairs') are balanced out by the observations which feel truthful and empathetic ('Be resigned / [...] to the rank flue that opens / between heart and mouth'), so the very end of the poem feels like a betrayal, with the narrator turning suddenly on the reader and stating coldly 'This is you, in bed at noon.' The fact that I'm often still in bed at noon (self-employed, baby!) irregardless, this clear-eyed assessment of the situation undercuts the sympathy earlier in the poem and is fabulously chilling.

A Poetic Primer for Love and Seduction

Your thoughts. We had a lovely note from Nellissima, who really enjoyed the poem, and, Emily Tealady commented: 'I love the image of the weeks piling up. I really get a sense of the emotion and almost the boredom of a break up; the bluffing, having to force yourself to get up.' I think she's spot-on about Abigail capturing the boredom of heartbreak. It's not something that tends to be discussed much in relation to heartbreak, or at least not in relation to the heartbroken person themselves - I'm sure we're all familiar with the idea that heartbroken people can be boring. As Emily Tealady explains, the process of survival and recovery can be just as tedious for the dumped: 'This poem reminds me of that utter uselessness and helplessness you feel after a break up; everything is such an effort and all the while you are calculating your 'hand'- what you have to give and putting on a facade.'

And the winner of the book this week is ... Emily Tealady!

* * *

What do you think of '52 Card Pickup'? Which is your favourite image? Do you think it's a good depiction of the aftermath of a break-up? Is this good advice? Do any stanzas in particular speak to you? What do you think of the card metaphor? Let me know in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! Just let me know what you like about the poem or what it makes you feel. All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.


<--- POEM CLUB #3: 'Trickster', by Joy Donnell
--> POEM CLUB #5: 'The Steps', by Liz Berry

POEM CLUB #3. 'Trickster', by Joy Donnell

The Southbank Centre has just launched its Festival of Love, a celebration of the Same Sex Couples Act which runs until the end of August. It opened this weekend with a joyous, jam-packed programme of talks, workshops and art installations all themed around seven of the Ancient Greek definitions of love: Philautia, Agape, Philia, Pragma, Ludus, Eros and Storge. The Emma Press was representing Eros (naturally) in the Royal Festival Hall and we had an marvellous time encouraging people to write love letters and to experience an intimate reading of 'mildly erotic' poetry in a private booth.

Joy Donnell (@doitinpublic)

It was a huge honour to be involved in such a thoughtful and robust celebration of love, and I really relished the opportunity to revisit The Emma Press Anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse, the first Emma Press anthology. Standing amongst the other six kinds of love all weekend, it really struck me that Eros is quite unfairly over-represented in modern culture, at the expense of other forms of love which are more likely to lead to happiness. Erotic love is exciting and camera-friendly, but that doesn't make it more worth pursuing than Pragma (love which endures) or Philautia (self respect). I also think Eros is frequently misrepresented, which is why I decided to create the anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse in the first place: it was meant to reclaim the idea of eroticism as something more than just lust and sex.

The poem we're going to discuss this week in Poem Club is 'Trickster'  by the fabulous L.A. poet Joy Donnell, from The Emma Press Anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse. I'll share a few of my feelings about the poem to get things moving and then I'll suggest some ways of approaching the poem. Do add your thoughts below in the comments section. [UPDATE: this week's Poem Club is now closed, but you can still add your comments below.]

* * *

Trickster

Wolves either come or they don’t come.

She swears every rabbit or fox or crane

could fall prey by dawn

and where would that leave the laws of the universe?

Under such stars

my legs are open and chancy.

This intimacy is at best

peregrine

so I confess to not know myself any more or less,

regardless,

I suspect our breasts will become the storytellers;

somehow

all my damages get tricked into touch.

If between her thighs rests a border town too often

mysterious,

it tastes swollen and will surely riot, tonight.

— by Joy Donnell, from The Emma Press Anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse

* * *

Anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse

Emma's thoughts: I chose this poem because I don't entirely understand it and I'd be very interested to hear what other people get from it. I said a similar thing about Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi's 'Lys' in the first Poem Club, causing a friend to wonder if people might raise an eyebrow at my publishing poems that I don't fully understand; I replied sharply that I didn't see why this should be a problem, since confusion doesn't necessarily preclude enjoyment and I always enjoy the poems I publish.

I imagine the poem taking place in some warm, moonlit woods, full of vivid scents and sounds which almost engulf and erase this human encounter. I like the sense of wildness and danger, which chimes with my feeling that sex isn't just a glossy, pink, Ann Summers kind of a deal. Sex can be hilarious and down-to-earth, but it can also be life-changing, earth-shattering and transformative. I think it's highly inadvisable for anyone to assume that they know all there is to know about sex, which is why I like the image of the 'border town' so much. It's completely unexpected but makes a weird kind of sense, reconfiguring what's 'between her thighs' as something unstable, politically significant and full of vibrancy and life.

Your thoughts: We had a couple of great responses this week to the dark, powerful sexuality portrayed in 'Trickster'. Emily Tealady saw in in this woodland vignette a study of human desire and the familiar transition from arousal to sex to orgasm. She said: 'I get a sense of [...] this heightened awareness which you get when you meet somebody and you feel that sexual connection, and also of climaxing itself.' I think this is a poem you have to feel in your gut, responding instinctively to the words and phrases, so it's fascinating to see how Emily's reading of the poem picks up on the subtle ramping-up of tension and the dizziness evoked by violent, extreme words like 'riot', 'prey' and 'damages'.

MonochromeThief homed in on the feminist slant of the poem, reading the threatening atmosphere as a commentary on society's understanding of the female experience of sex: 'The imagery of prey hints at the fear and violence of female desire and its threat to 'the laws of the universe' (which I read as the patriarchy).' MonochromeThief's response reminds me of some of the comments in our first Poem Club, about the defiant, powerful sexuality depicted in Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi's 'Lys', and I particularly like her interpretation of that arresting image in the penultimate stanza: 'Women are not all passive sexual objects and this poet creates imagery of power & strength: 'I suspect our breasts will become the storytellers' suggests the gaining momentum of the female voice.'

Thank you for both contributors to Poem Club, and thank you to everyone else who read and enjoyed Joy's poem. You can read both comments in full below, and the winner of this week's 'Most Thoughtful Commenter' prize is ... MonochromeThief!

* * *

What do you think of 'Trickster'? Do you find it erotic? What do you think is happening in the poem? What sense do you get of the poet's idea of eroticism? Let me know in the comments section below or by email – poemclub [at] theemmapress.com. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! Just let us know what you like about the poem or what it makes you feel. This week's Poem Club is now closed, but you can still add your comments below.

<-- POEM CLUB #2: 'The Smell of Apples', by Richard O'Brien
--> POEM CLUB #4: '52 Card Pickup', by Abigail Parry

POEM CLUB #2. 'The Smell of Apples', by Richard O'Brien

Welcome to the second instalment of Poem Club! Last week, we looked at 'Lys' by Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi and discussion was focused on people's interpretations of the situation depicted: was it part of a dialogue between lovers, or a refugee and an official, or a universal feminist cry of frustration? This week, we're going to look at a poem which is stylistically very different to Ikhda's, and where the situation is relatively clear: it's a love poem, addressed to a lover and intended to solicit affection.

Richard O'Brien at the BBC Proms Plus Late in 2013 

As I did last week, I'm going to share a few of my thoughts to kick things off and then suggest some ways of approaching the poem. This round of Poem Club is closed, but you can still read my summary of the comments we received and share your thoughts about the poem in the comments section.

And now, on with the poem!

* * *

The Smell of Apples

‘And beyond these isles there is another isle that is clept Pytan. The folk of that country ne till not, ne labour not the earth, for they eat no manner thing. [...] These men live by the smell of wild apples. And when they go any far way, they bear the apples with them; for if they had lost the savour of the apples, they should die anon.’ — The Book of Sir John Mandeville

O give me the thread from the hem of your dress
              that you caught in St James’s Park
and give me the blank in the blink of your eyes
              before they adjust to the dark
and give me the space in the skin of your throat

              that you smooth away with a breath

and the infinitesimal decimal point

              between your tongue and your teeth;

then give me the drip of a droplet of water

              that found its way down through your hair

and give me the light that your body divided

              and spread like a sodium flare.

Now give me the dust that you brushed from your jeans

              on the chairs in the station café

and give me the spark that was spat from the track

              of the train that took you away

and give me the dot on the ‘i’ on the map

              of the village where you live –

the cross of the ‘t’ in a neighbouring town

              if it’s all you’ve got to give.

And then give me a signal, a cipher, a sign,

              a trinket, a token, a ring,

and I’ll follow it blind to the base of your spine

              and I’ll give you everything.

– by Richard O'Brien, from his pamphlet of love poems, The Emmores

* * * 

Emma's thoughts. I usually fail to read or properly process the title when I'm reading a poem for the first time, which means the title is often the last thing I read in my poem-reading experience. Sometimes I think 'Oh of course that's the title – I could have guessed that', but sometimes the title shines a new light on the poem and I have to read the poem again with this in mind. This goes for epigraphs too; if anything I'm even more likely to skim the epigraph without taking it fully in. In 'The Smell of Apples', the title and the epigraph work together like a key to the secret code of the poem, enriching my response to the poem once I'd gone back to the beginning and the penny had dropped.

One of the reasons I think this poem will become a classic is that it wears its epic romance lightly and focuses on the mundane but enduring realities of human attraction. The title and epigraph may indicate large-scale, life-or-death declarations, but the poem itself is concerned with minutiae and ephemera which ring true to me now and (I presume) will continue to ring true with readers who recognise the heady richness of the lover's long-lens gaze.

Your thoughts. We had two fascinating responses this week, both focusing on the depiction of romantic love in the poem. Hin-Tai Ting drew out the implied link between the people of Pytan in the epigraph, who need the smell of apples to survive away from their home, and the poem's speaker whose equivalent of apples is his sweetheart. He wondered: 'To what extent should we understand the speaker as abnormal, as a different and strange type of human being?' It hadn't occurred to me before to see the epigraph as a commentary on the speaker of the poem, as well as the key to understanding it, but I really like this idea of lovers being ludicrous creatures, capable of greatness but also immense folly. This reminds me of Elegies II.27 by the Roman poet Propertius, where the poet claims that a lover can shake off the final stages of death if called back by his mistress. I feel torn between my conviction that love is a strange and powerful force and my impatience with the tolerance which lovers-as-madmen demand, so I like the edge of bafflement in Hin-Tai's verdict on lovers: 'there is something really quite bizarre and wonderful about their life-and-death strength'.

Tom saw something else in the epigraph which had never occurred to me before: the lifestyle of the people of Pytan may offer a neat equivalent to the speaker's valiant attempts to sustain his romance, but they are also very definitely fictional. The poem is a collection of insubstantial trivia assembled with such urgency that it verges on creating something solid and living, though it's really 'a nothingness, or an almost-nothingness.' I like Tom's recognition that love is something more than the shadowplay of romance and love poetry, and I love the point he makes about the intent focus of the poem and how the list format could tip over into a parody of its own genre, so 'somewhere deep in the background there might also be a hint that a "real relationship" is more than all this stuff: it actually does involve tilling and labouring.' Hear hear!

You can read both of the comments in full below, in the comments section.

This week, I'm awarding the book to... Hin Tai Ting!

* * *

The Emmores

This episode of Poem Club is over, but you can still add your thoughts below. What do you think of 'The Smell of Apples'? Do you find it romantic? Does it work as a piece of persuasion? Would it persuade you? Is it erotic, and, if so, why? Is it really a poem about love? What's your favourite detail? What do you think we learn about the speaker and the subject of the poem? Do you like the epigraph from Sir John Mandeville, and do you think the poem would work without it? Just say what you think and what the poem makes you feel – don't be afraid of sounding stupid!

<-- POEM CLUB #1: 'Lys', by Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi
--> POEM CLUB #3: 'Trickster', by Joy Donnell

POEM CLUB #1. 'Lys', by Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi

When I first started reading poetry for pleasure a couple of years ago, I found I really missed my English teachers holding my hand (figuratively) all the way, pulling out potential meanings and pointing out linguistic tricks and flair. Reading poetry is a bit difficult and can feel intimidating, especially if you're not familiar with poetic techniques. 

An understanding of poetic techniques and traditions helps the reader to discover poems' meanings, but I would also say that you don't need to know all about poetic techniques to enjoy poetry. I think the most important thing to know is that your personal response to words and arrangements of words is valid and good, and while you might be interested in what the poet intended you to feel, it's equally fine to feel and think whatever you do about the poem. It's not an exam and there is no right answer, and it's also alright not to know what you think but to have a vague hunch you do/don't like it.

Ikhda reading at the Albion Beatnik Bookstore

I'm starting 'Poem Club' because I want to celebrate the experience of reading poetry, and to
encourage more people to read poetry. So, every Tuesday I will post up a poem from an Emma Press book and begin the discussion with a few thoughts of my own. You are all welcome to add your thoughts in the comments, on Facebook, on Twitter and via email: poemclub [at] theemmapress.com 

The following Monday, I'll collate all the comments on this same page, so everyone can share each other's experiences of the poems, and the most thoughtful commenter will win a copy of the book. To kick things off, let me introduce you to the unique worldview of Ms. Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi...

* * *

Lys

Don’t tell me about my roots

or my life before this

Don’t tell me about my unopened buds

I was born before you

so much older than you

but still I keep my colour

that you called pain eraser

that I called monument of the ripped

Something that you named maidenhead

for me it is virginity

for me it is the boring lacuna –

what on Earth happens without friction?

I have had intercourse so many times with my past

I remember on Sunday morning

big snails and slugs were vined on my buds

satisfying themselves 

with pleasure that resonated

They ate my corps

one by one 

slowly

ended

Mmh

Mmh

Mmh

I end

but my roots, not. 

— by Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi, from her debut pamphlet Ikhda, by Ikhda.

* * *
Emma's thoughts. I love the aggression of this poem. It begins with a barrage of snippy commands, then becomes devastatingly caustic, and ends hilariously ('Mmh/ Mmh / Mmh') but also powerfully. My personal response to this poem is that the speaker is a woman, addressing her patronising older lover or even parent. For me, it's a defiant, furious retort to assumptions about female frailty, and I love it.

I find some of the images and phrases in the poem a little baffling, but the emotion is so urgent that some meaning emerges anyway. Is 'my colour' a youthful blush which the addressee finds soothing ('pain eraser'), much to the annoyance of the speaker? What does 'what on Earth happens without friction' mean?

Your thoughts. Thank you to everyone who participated this week! I'm glad you all enjoyed reading the poem and I was really pleased with the responses we received, ranging from the literal (J Humble offered: 'To me, this is the age old question [...] of how to solve the problems of mollusc infestation in the garden.') to some wider speculation on the meaning and power of the poem.

Charles Bane Jr. found a spiritual dimension in the poem's forceful energy, seeing it as a kind of feminist gospel and picking up on the semantics in the third stanza. He emailed: 'Feminist poetry has no support from institutionalised faith, so its new spirit is found in intimacy, and a faith that will be kept with other women, whose bodies have been devoured by misogyny, but not their will. This is an important poem. Shakespeare used the word 'maidenhead', always in bombast. He couldn't recognise the brutal experience behind the word. 'Lys' is not merry; it's brutal. But it's true. And if men would only read more like it , they themselves would find the way to escape their own bonds.'

Charles's reading of the poem chimes quite a lot with my own, while Laura in the comments below and Sarah Parkinson via email read the poem in a more political way, focusing especially on the word 'roots'. Laura said: 'I think the difference between the speaker and the addressee is more of a cultural or ethnic than age/gender nature. She (I assume it's a she) doesn't want to be told about her roots, thoughts, or sexual life by someone who presumably doesn't know much about her. The speaker's defiant: stop saying you know anything about me – it's all based on nothing but assumptions – my life and experiences are so much richer than you think.'

Sarah Parkinson said: 'It took me two readings to realise that I read it as a refugee speaking to a government official, perhaps fleeing from violence/sexual aggression. The raw anger woven through the sexual imagery seems to issue from both her previous experiences and the inability/arrogance of the listener to understand them. I wonder if the 'buds', as well as having sexual overtones, relate to her inability to achieve personhood because of the constant tension of conflict – that is, who she is has been unable to develop and flourish because of her immediate needs of safety and security. At the end it's almost as though she is allowing herself to be subsumed under her previous experiences, but the last line speaks of tenacity, leaves me with a sense that all might not quite be over. It's full of very powerful imagery – I can't believe how much I read into it!'

This week, I hereby decree Sarah Parkinson wins a copy of Ikhda, by Ikhda!

* * *

Ikhda, by Ikhda

This episode of Poem Club is over now, but you can still share your thoughts below. Which bits do you especially like? What do you think it means, or, what does it mean to you? Who you do imagine the speaker is, and the addressee? Do you think it's a funny poem, or upsetting, or powerful? Does it remind you of any other poems? Just say what you think (though be nice) – don't be afraid of sounding stupid!

--> POEM CLUB #2: 'The Smell of Apples', by Richard O'Brien