I have been trudging through a fair amount of books lately. Mostly to do with current writing projects and research, but also for pleasure. Simone Weil. Edward Said. Jorge Luis Borges. Louise Erdrich. Milan Kundera. Angus Peter Campbell. All memorable (of course) in their own way, but I have been compelled to write here about Alice Oswald's Memorial because it has stirred up so many things for me.
This post is not a review as such, but rather a way of articulating a few of the various points rising and falling in my mind while I mull over the work.
Oswald's Memorial is a retelling of Homer's Iliad. The book-length poem concentrates on the two hundred plus fallen soldiers of the Trojan War, hence the fitting title of the book. There has been much made of Oswald's sixth collection, not only through the recent controversy over the TS Eliot Prize, but critics have described this work as remarkable and majestic.
One thing that came to mind so fully for me as I read Memorial is the personal reminder of how I have known for some years now that I had misinterpreted Oswald's aesthetics. In her early career I read her work with much interest and translated various nuances as an indication of a fellow traveller. I have known for some time that this is not the case at all and perhaps such a thing is a very good example of what Michael Hofmann, in his introduction to a selection of Robert Lowell poems, defines in Rilkean fashion as the problem faced with reading poetry: 'One reads novels, stories, plays -- but one reads a poet.'
But do we really? Honestly? Because I spent the bulk of my time reading Memorial wishing for the life of me that Oswald would remove herself from the book. I could go on here about ego, of creative ego, of how Oswald is steadfastly becoming a colossal figure in British poetry, and of how there is an increasing inclination by critics to treat her with reverence. But I won't. There is no room for such things. What I will say, however, is that I found Memorial too full of gimmicks. So much so that it left me heartsore.
My biggest concern for the work rests in Oswald and her increasing need to be clever. Many times this cleverness dilutes what could have been a brilliant work. I truly admire how she chose to include all of the fallen men's names at the beginning of the book. I feel this thoughtfulness is needed in the overall poem. Although on the surface a reader could interpret thoughtfulness and heartfelt lament through the work, I grew more and more unconvinced that this was Oswald's primary objective in reworking Homer. What her objective is remains unclear to me.
Oswald's use of repeating stanzas in Greek chorus fashion also dilutes and numbs the work. Such a mechanism begins on the second page and I was initially excited to see this and glad to read a respectful representation of lamentation, but the work falls flat very quickly because of it. This modern interpretation of The Iliad should also have a modern outlook towards keening. I was continually reminded when reading Memorial of Vona Groarke's excellent retelling of Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill's, Lament for Art O'Leary. Groarke's is a wonderful example of how something so iconic and fully laden with literary baggage can be written anew, and shiningly new to boot. The heart and the mind, and the poet's letting go of their own ego, is needed for such things.
Memorial has an array of excellent lines, but they are scattered through the book like the last of autumn leaves in midwinter. I am being harsh, of course. I know that. But I am concerned that you need momentum with a work such as this and there are too many times that this poetic warrior-world gets lost in flab. But we do get the telling Oswald descriptors, such as 'wind-dictionary', 'ungreen ungrowing ground' and 'rain-wind', as well as such wonders as 'death kicked him and he kicked it back'. I do like that line very much.
Perhaps what is clear here is that I read poetry (not poets!) with the heart and the head, and when a lament is more head than heart I get a little twitchy. Scholarly wise, Memorial is a fine work but I needed much more from it. Thankfully I was delving into Jo Shapcott's, Of Mutability alongside Memorial and it provided the relief I needed to attain heart-mind equilibrium. The title poem is so breathtaking that every time I read it I have to put the book down for a while. And yes, most of the poems that make up Of Mutability are highly personal, so of course a reader needs to think about the poet as well as the poems themselves. But the balance will always been on poem, not poet for me.
One of my favourite poems in this collection is, 'I Go Inside the Tree'. It's a magical imagining whereby a reader can work their way through an ash tree until they hit that glorious last line. The following link allows you to hear the poet read it: 'I Go Inside the Tree' (www.guardian.co.uk/books/video/2011/dec/15/jo-shapcott-poem-inside-tree-video). Enjoy!