Kate Noakes considers a well- balanced chapbook from Rebecca Cullen
Majid Sits in a Tree and Sings
Rebecca Cullen
Poetry Business, 2018
ISBN 978-1912196111
ÂŁ5
An intriguing title and a writer I donât know, Rebecca Cullen won the Poetry Business pamphlet competition with this one. The opening and title poem deals subtly with the visceral realities of living in a terrorist state (âthe meat hanging on the goal postsâ). Any poem that has me googling the meaning and significance of a name has my attention. It is at once mysterious and terrible, and promises much for the rest of the nineteen poems.
The subject matter quickly turns to the domestic and ordinary in the next few poems, however. That is a pity as I was expecting more toughness and more on this topic after such an opening, not that these subjects are without their interest, and in poems like âMotherâ interestingly handled in long lines, statements of fact and careful repetition.
Cullen does write the bitter truth rather well in poems like âPillar Box Dressâ, where after a relationship break up the poem says:
Youâre with the girl whose pout reminds you of Lolita.
In the morning, I fold the red dress and post it to her.
âWhen I found my father in my thirtiesâ is an uncompromising poem of measured defiance; the better one of two dealing with her father:
âŠYou canât just skip
a generation. You canât give up your daughter, then collect her children.
Inevitably in the space allowed in a pamphlet one only has a snapshot; an impression of a poetâs range. Here there are several real/unreal/surreal poems that I especially enjoyed. âThe Gradual Loosening of Decorumâ, for example, narrates the tale of a clock hand crashing through a bank managerâs window:
The council came to shift it
and the arrow made him think of being a boy,
of cowboy films and riding yonder, yonder â
âSunday call from Africaâ is a charming long distance affair:
If you get through
Iâm hot
like Iâve been dragged on stage
and lost
because you laugh my name
but I canât see you.
I liked poems in which Cullen takes on a persona: âSouthbankâ is one such prose poem, and the fate of the giant in âCrossing from Marazionâ is a fascinating tale, that sounds as if it might be true, but matters not either way. The same can be said for âWalking with Richard in Nottinghamâwith its knotty simile: âyour punctuality as artful as your cable knitâ.
Less exciting to me, though, are poems about Hughes and Plath, and writing retreats; most of all the poem that contains all of the above. I would have excised it. And I would watch out for poems (there are two) where the last line begins âIn the morningâ. It looks like a tick to be avoided. But these are minor nits in an otherwise entertaining read that balances the serious with the amusing, and contemporary concerns with the historic rather deftly. Well worth five of your British pounds.
London Grip Poetry Review – Rebecca Cullen
February 12, 2019 by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs • books, poetry reviews, year 2019 • Tags: books, Kate Noakes, poetry • 0 Comments
Kate Noakes considers a well- balanced chapbook from Rebecca Cullen
An intriguing title and a writer I donât know, Rebecca Cullen won the Poetry Business pamphlet competition with this one. The opening and title poem deals subtly with the visceral realities of living in a terrorist state (âthe meat hanging on the goal postsâ). Any poem that has me googling the meaning and significance of a name has my attention. It is at once mysterious and terrible, and promises much for the rest of the nineteen poems.
The subject matter quickly turns to the domestic and ordinary in the next few poems, however. That is a pity as I was expecting more toughness and more on this topic after such an opening, not that these subjects are without their interest, and in poems like âMotherâ interestingly handled in long lines, statements of fact and careful repetition.
Cullen does write the bitter truth rather well in poems like âPillar Box Dressâ, where after a relationship break up the poem says:
âWhen I found my father in my thirtiesâ is an uncompromising poem of measured defiance; the better one of two dealing with her father:
âŠYou canât just skip a generation. You canât give up your daughter, then collect her children.Inevitably in the space allowed in a pamphlet one only has a snapshot; an impression of a poetâs range. Here there are several real/unreal/surreal poems that I especially enjoyed. âThe Gradual Loosening of Decorumâ, for example, narrates the tale of a clock hand crashing through a bank managerâs window:
The council came to shift it and the arrow made him think of being a boy, of cowboy films and riding yonder, yonder ââSunday call from Africaâ is a charming long distance affair:
If you get through Iâm hot like Iâve been dragged on stage and lost because you laugh my name but I canât see you.I liked poems in which Cullen takes on a persona: âSouthbankâ is one such prose poem, and the fate of the giant in âCrossing from Marazionâ is a fascinating tale, that sounds as if it might be true, but matters not either way. The same can be said for âWalking with Richard in Nottinghamâwith its knotty simile: âyour punctuality as artful as your cable knitâ.
Less exciting to me, though, are poems about Hughes and Plath, and writing retreats; most of all the poem that contains all of the above. I would have excised it. And I would watch out for poems (there are two) where the last line begins âIn the morningâ. It looks like a tick to be avoided. But these are minor nits in an otherwise entertaining read that balances the serious with the amusing, and contemporary concerns with the historic rather deftly. Well worth five of your British pounds.