Jen Hadfield's Blog, page 3

Bearding the Mussel

Mussel's beard (or byssus) and items made from it, from the Natural History Museum Basel's Project Sea-Silk.

Byssus!

It's not due out until mid-February, but apparently a finished copy of my third poetry collection, Byssus, is sitting on a desk in the Picador offices, about to be posted to me. Way too exciting! 

'Byssus' means the strong fibres of what used to be known as 'sea-silk', that some bivalves, including mussels, use to secure themselves to their rocky homeplace. You can make yourself a tie out of it, apparently. 
Half-knowing what I meant, I heard myself telling a friend this summer that the act of writing this poetry collection had finally become a performance. I remembered then that that's what it felt like before. It took the threat of publication – the real risk of finding a reader – to stand a chance of making real work again.

And what was the work? Camping on the rosy cliffs of the Lang Clodie. A cep-hunt on arctic terrain in the north of Shetland. My recurrent dream, climaxing in the hectic extremes of the Spring tides, about tugs-of-war with brawny spoots (razor clams). And wasn't there something to try to say about puffballs? Hours lying on the banks with the surf thundering under and through me.
The problem of poetry is that while it dangles before us the possibility that we might 'get home' to such moments of animal absorption, our effort rarely – thanks to pernicious habits of intention and self-consciousness – succeeds. This book is trying very hard; in time, I'll see how many of these poems do actually vibrate on the present tense's 'thin line'. (Gaspar Galaz)
Whilst it is fashionable to speak of the liminality of islands, with people titillated by the notion of them as World's End, a brink to teeter on; this world-view denies that for island-dwellers, they can be the centre. I wanted to dig down into this place, prospecting the infinitely-revealed complexities of 'home'.
Byssus is, I hope, an arched book: climbing through spring's maniacal flowering to summer's zenith, declining to exhaustion, and a contemplation of how it batters us just to live, learn, make and love. I have always fetishised the idea of home, and perhaps, Shetland. Byssus is, I hope, as it is for a mussel, my holdfast in such wild water.

There now follows a celebration of the mussel's beard…

Bill Manhire

Looking forward to my poetry exchange with NZ poet Glenn Colquhoun this Spring – with the Scottish Poetry Library – I'm reading Carcanet's  Twenty Contemporary New Zealand Poets . This, from Bill Manhire, made me smile and rang bells all over the place:

'I started writing poems out of a deep shyness and social awkwardness, and because words could sound magical. Probably I hoped to project an image of mystery and sophistication while remaining somehow out of sight, though I don't recall thinking this at the time. But certainly what looked like self-expression was more like palisade and refuge – some sort of secrecy machine – and I think this is still true for plenty of the poems I write. Fortunately, good poems have more presence and capacity than the people who write them. The world of Oz is more interesting than the Wizard.'


 

Poetry Events in Manchester this week

I'll be in Manchester this week for two events with Manchester Literature Festival and Manchester Art Galleries. On Thursday 10th October I'll be performing a new poetry commission inspired by (and in reaction to) paintings in the Manchester Art Galleries exhibition 'A Highland Romance - Victorian Views of Scottishness'. Thanks to Manchester Literature Festival for inviting me to take on this very interesting commission...which threw up the possibility that Victorian Views of Scottishness might not be so very different from contemporary ones (see prevalence of Highland Cows). On Saturday 12th I'll be tutoring a day-long workshop in the gallery exploring ekphrasis – poetry inspired by visual art. We've got a beautiful big studio and lots of materials to play with, so I'll be curious to see if participants are interested in exploring the materiality of language.

'There are tidal zones'

I'm posting this new poem from Bergen writer Kristian S. Haeggernes' forthcoming collection, Urne, because I love it, and because it includes a sidelong reference to limpets. In Norwegian, the word for 'limpet' translates as 'elbow-snail'. Lovely.




There are tidal zones
in me as well. At low tide
the crabs scuttle sideways

over my diaphragm     Waving
overgrown claws that take over
control of my arms

when I dance     I prefer
to dance alone     At high tide
my elbows come loose

wandering off to eat
dreams off of my skin

I prefer to sleep alone
I don't want anyone to see me

where I am most myself
Submerged in my own breath


Written & translated by Kristian S. Haeggernes.

Limpets far and wide

The limpets of The Dominant Species (as photographed by Susan Timmins) are incredibly proud to appear on the cover of Bergen poet Kristian Haeggernes' new collection, Urne .

T S Eliot Prize 20th Anniversary Tour tonight

I'm reading in Oldham tonight as part of the Poetry Book Society's T.S.Eliot Prize 20th Anniversary Tour. Bad things about this: I've got the cold. Good things about this: I get to hear Ian Duhig, Jane Draycott and Shamshad Khan and check out the new tram line to Oldham. I love trams and undergrounds mostly because of the maps with coloured lines, my favourite being the Mexico Metro. Glasgow's Clockwork Orange also has a special place in my heart for its intense olfactory experience.

Eleven minutes, or 'I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons upon any Navy vessel'

Working hard on 'A Highland Romance' this commission for Manchester Art Galleries and the Manchester Literature Festival, due in Monday. The good thing about commissions is they force you out of your comfort zone. This week I've rediscovered William Morris's Icelandic Journals, researched Victorian landscape painter Henry Moore, submarine slang, and worked out how long it takes the RAF GR4 Tornado to travel from Lossiemouth to Burra (178m) at top speed. The latter very unsettling, and I'm kind of looking forward to getting back to carnivorous bog-plants and clams.

Two Cigarettes - after Norman MacCaig

Norman MacCaig used to say – typically dismissively – that it took him one cigarette to write a poem, or two for a long one.

Nestscrapes

Nestscrapes, a set on Flickr.A collection of nest-scrapes from the banks behind my house to tide us over to next spring, when the nesting birds return.