Section 9: Poetry and Reviews

9

Poetry and Reviews

Aularian Poetry

From Landscape and The Accident of Birth by Jim Dening

STAR WITH MINT At the level of the grass you can see the star just as well as you could when standing up though now you are further away by almost all your length this is the risk you take but she is still there and lying on the earth you gain the gravity you need to look squarely at a star. Now it is she who wavers distance makes her shy as if she could but see you crouching down in sleeping flowers cleverly you knew the point of gazing at the star from in the grass especially in this meadow in the summer in Ardèche is that with the inconceivable distance mingles the smell of crushed mint. L’ÉTOILE À LA MENTHE A la hauteur des herbes l’étoile se voit tout aussi bien que si tu restais debout pourtant tu t’es éloigné d’elle de presque toute ta longueur c’est le risque que tu prends mais elle n’a pas disparu et allongé contre la terre tu gagnes la gravité qu’il faut pour regarder carrément une étoile. Maintenant c’est elle qui tremble la distance prête la timidité comme si seulement elle te voyait toi qui te blottis dans les fleurs endormies malin tu savais que l’avantage de contempler l’étoile au ras des herbes surtout dans ce pré en Ardèche en juillet c’est qu’à la distance inconceivable se mêle l’odeur de la menthe brisée.

THE DAY WE WALKED THE KINDER EDGE ...we dressed up warm in extra layers and marched through shallow crunching snow with your old dog trotting and snuffling nearby and the wind keen in our mouths and eyes; in a semblance of shelter behind a rock we sat sipping cognac, nibbling cake through gloves and scarves; across stones and peat towards the clouded edge our crumbs and words were flung away in the whistling air. The day we walked the Kinder Edge trudging and shivering in the wind’s teeth was a way of dancing in suspense before each other; breathing in the mountain’s eager breath, with streaming eyes we blink and smile, knowing beneath our layers of boots and hats and fur and fleece we are naked, and waiting for each other, and later your breath will flutter on my face.

IS THIS A NEW TIME? Slow winter has dawdled into spring, a new sun arouses colour from the soil, and carpets of forget-me-nots are laid; in the woods the bluebells have their day, and dandelions re-state the case for yellow.

They say the birds are singing louder than before, and in the sunlight insects hang in clouds; while that pair of rabbits sit beneath the blossom, two robins perch together, a goldcrest has been seen, and a tiny frog has ventured from his pond.

It is a new season but is it different? Is it possible when we are quiet and the rushing and the rumbling die away, that we hear and see more sharply a new kind of nature?

ANOTHER OYSTER Near a southern coast pyramids of oyster shells stand high as trees old as centuries sucked out by ancient tribes. In imitation or in continuity year after year I chuck my oyster shells on to a pile a few inches high.

She laughed rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie in a little bar she laughed at the young man – je te montrerai she said she being his new friend showed how to squeeze a drop of lemon juice the oyster crinkles at its edge you know it is alive the living flesh the true communion and after swallowing the soft lambent blob you drink from the shell the liquor of our mother the ocean.

Here is another oyster press the knife in and along turn the blade and feel the oyster muscle yield inside there is a kind of pearl small and grey reflecting the merest point of light doubtless formed around a precious memory or a piece of grit and perfectly worthless.

Oh, throw the shell upon the pile and perform the ritual again. Jim Dening (1958, Modern Languages)

SESTINA ‘A small mouse-like child came into my practice today, complaining of heartache.’ That’s what the doctor said, When she examined my hair for grease And told me that I might get hurt But it was going to be okay.

It might have been okay, I felt the strands of my ache pull apart one by one today. The doctor said my insides would turn into a puddle of grease If I kept up my current habits, heartache among the activities I practiced daily— that hurt. Anyway, things will fester if they are un-said.

It was once said, That Lancelot would’ve been okay If he hadn’t betrayed Arthur, caused the King to hurt. ‘I slept with the queen, your wife, today’. He might’ve fessed up; too great was the potential heartache. That shameful slick, a yard of grease

seeping out over the flagstones. But the grease ate them all up before Lancelot could slip. You said You didn’t want to watch yourself cause me heartache Well look at me now, I want to say, do I seem okay? I went for a walk today, Like a dog taken by a sudden illness dashing from room to room, trying to escape the hurt.

I chased every step with the resolve to do better, hurt Less, smile more. I almost slipped in a monstrous puddle of grease, nondescript city liquid. Today, as I walked, I said, to myself aloud, in an incantation: it would be okay. In the future, it might terminate, this heartache.

I want to drench that heartache with a pint of grease, suffocate the hurt part. I said: ‘Today is a new day’. I’m going to stop loving you now, okay? Scarlet Katz Roberts (2018, English)

POUR FEUILLAGE, L’AVENIR We went for a walk in the underground forest where branches of the past spread and snake, reaching deep, deep, so far down and so far back. But our fingers will not get inked purple with blackberries, down here, nor will we gather apples from the wayside, for memories don’t bud and leaf, nor bees buzz, when up above the cracked earth is treeless, and only stumps remain. Never forget what we buried undead, deep underground

Aili Channer (2020, English)

To the Blackbird

To trill the nocturne, here again he plays— Thou, bird of infinite variety, Perched ’top our tree, Parnassus-high, to praise Apollo in thy tuneful piety. The laurel crown, once Philomela’s pride, By reverend bards giv’n her to glorify, But by dull deafened centuries dashed aside, Now rests a golden halo round thine eye, And sweets thy music like the shepherd’s reeds. Domestic minstrel, make of unfixed phrase, My stale and stagnant soul thy quick’ning needs— Loosen it voiceful with thy liquid lays; Let thine exquisite deluge flood the town And cankered hearts and concrete spirits drown. Alexandra Gunn (2018, English)

when the world ended we thought oh good, finally we can be together.

they evacuated the buildings, and the sound of footsteps brought us back to

school assemblies, black patent leather on lino floors.

we stood still as they read out registers, and revelled in the sound of other people:

the o in joseph like a gasp of surprise.

we let the human body fascinate us with how its softness still remained:

cheeks like parentheses, the face as an afterthought.

when the world ended we didn’t look at old photos. enough was about to become past.

instead we took new ones, saw our real faces staring back at us:

doom hiding in the gaps of my toothy smile, oblivion tucked away like hair behind your ear.

Katherine Kirkpatrick (2020, Modern Languages)

AQUARIUM SESTINA Quiet in the hall. Through the wall, a phone rings nicely. The word and the phone make me think of a woman, And then a shark. The hall is dark. Except for the thought of shark teeth gleaming. A particular gleaming Covers the hall Where I stand with the ringing in the dark. I feel the shark teeth nicely. I am in the centre of the thought of the shark, Says the gleaming woman. To a child and not a woman, The sound recalls a gleaming. An aquarium ridden with the memory of the shark, And I, in the hall, Am nicely Going back into the dark. Even in this white light the aquarium is dark. I am beckoned forward by a woman Who speaks nicely. And there above the yellow stones, a yellow shark is gleaming. A phone rings through the hall. What is moving down there, in the shadow of the shark? The head of the shark Moves gently. It kneads its shapes into the dark. The woman in the hall And that shark woman Pause to watch its gleaming. And then she’s saying nicely, Watch how nicely That small shark Undertakes it’s gleaming! How clever! How well it turns its head into the dark. She is an energetic woman. Needless to say how the other in the hall

Whose gleaming teeth shone nicely Stood with the ringing in the darkness with the shark For a while then the woman in the dark Lucie Richter-Mahr (2018, English)

Book Reviews

Linda Davies: 10 Things Everyone Needs to Know About Money (Atebol Cyfyngedig, 2021)

Linda Davies has yet again produced a thought-provoking personal tour de force for us - inspired by her late father, the economist Glynn Davies - of what money is and what money does. As she states, “if money is power, so too is knowledge.” She provides an eloquent, comprehensive, yet heterodox and unconventional view of monetary theory that is accessible by the layman. This well written, analytical book is substantially enriched by the excellent and properly positioned cartoons in the text by Nick Bashal, adding a layer of humour, that frequently summarize the author’s arguments in an entertaining manner that is not usually encountered in mainstream monetary economics writings. The book describes the origin of money and its evolution from commodity to fiat money, which is an institutionalised symbol of trust, and it also touches upon the latest developments of cryptocurrencies. The author notes the potential dangers of financial technology that has diminished the use of cash in favour of electronic money and other electronic means of payments. She then proceeds masterfully to unlock the mystical world of finance and investments. Concepts such as interest rate compounding, mortgages, leverage, and the significance of liquid assets are made readily accessible to non-experts. The subsequent chapters that introduce risk management concepts and offer financial advice on how to protect oneself from financial fraud are most useful to those less financially literate and the importance of developing the financial literacy of children. Linda Davies, as a devout student of Keynes, concludes her personal journey in the realm of money and finance by assessing the perils of market psychology and behavioural finance. She underscores the importance of diversification and the traps hidden in herd behaviour, the risks of moral hazard and of the evolution of financial cycles from boom to bust. In sum, Linda Davies has produced a thoughtful and often provocative introduction to the mysteries of finance and monetary economics that Professor Glynn Davies would be proud of! Dimitrios Tsomocos, Professor of Financial Economics and Fellow in Management

Readers have been introduced to the ludicrous but also tragic figure of John Bickerton earlier in this issue. Bickerton was an Aularian who matriculated in 1793 and who seems to have suffered from recurrent bouts of mental illness and paranoia. He became well known in Oxford in the 1800s as ‘Counsellor Bickerton,’ a shambolic figure who, wandering the streets in academic dress, was alternately fondly satirised and cruelly mocked by students. He eventually died of starvation in London in 1833. In this book-length study, Stephen Haddelsey gives us a fuller portrait of Bickerton, his own relative – many times removed. At its heart the book is a kind of mystery story. Who was Bickerton? Was there any truth to the stories he advanced of ill-treatment and persecution on the one hand, or of the patronage of the Duke of Portland, Chancellor of the University and twice Prime Minister, on the other? How did Bickerton come to die in such appalling circumstances? Haddelsey investigates and teases out the story, finding traces in contemporary newspaper reports, pamphlets ascribed (perhaps mockingly) to Bickerton and the sole-surviving letter in his own hand – an inexplicable claim for aid and redress sent to the Court of Claims, a body whose only constitutional role was to adjudicate on matters relating to the coronation of monarchs. Along the way he throws up fascinating sidelights on many subjects such as the punishment of necromancy in medieval London and the workings of the notorious Coldbath Fields Prison, also known as ‘the Bastille.’ Of particular interest to Aularian readers will be the vignettes of late 18th- and early 19th-century Oxford. Haddelsey deftly evokes the Hall in Bickerton’s time when it was under the firm hand of Vice Principal Isaac Crouch. We are also introduced to the strange of cast of characters, alongside Bickerton, squatted in the ruins of the first incarnation of Hertford College. They included a renegade Greek Orthodox priest called Demetriades and Richard Hewitt, the last surviving Fellow of Hertford College who remained long after the last student had departed and who contested the meaningless title of Principal with Bickerton. There is much that is inescapably comic in Bickerton’s life. We find him attempting to gain access to the court levée at St James’s Palace bearing an enormous rusty sword, buying a ‘chariot’ which he equipped with a portable stove and used to follow a district judge around Oxfordshire, and bursting into a printer’s in Oxford demanding a share in the profits of a satirical pamphlet in which he featured. However, we are never allowed to lose sight of the fundamental sadness of this story either: the cruelty of the mockery Bickerton endured from privileged students in Oxford, the frustration of his hopes for a career in the University or at the bar and the truly shocking nature of his demise. The book restores to Bickerton a dignity he was sadly denied in his life. James Howarth, Librarian