Stuart Henson commends a pamphlet in which poems by Katharine Towers have the space to breathe and to resonate with one another
The Violin Forest
Katharine Towers
Happenstance, 2019,
ISBN 978-1-910131
24pp ÂŁ5.00
There was a time, a post-Hughesean time, when writing about the natural world was decidedly uncool: your âtweedy nature boysâ were as dead as the Georgians and hawk-eyed anthropomorphism had had its day. In the era of Extinction Rebellion, the pendulum, I think, has begun to swing the other way. When âNature Poetryâ is rebranded as âEcopoeticsâ weâre back on safer ground. The very word has critical authenticityâno vacant or pensive tranquillity here! But all this begs the question: What is such writing for? Action, perhaps? Awareness? Wordsworth might have said Pleasure, but what did he know?
In her two books thus farâand indeed in this new pamphlet collectionâKatharine Towers has never shied away from the celebration, interrogation perhaps, of nature. The Remedies (2015) was very much about flowers, birds and the odd insect, and a quick glance at the titles in The Violin ForestââSparrowsâ, âThe Yewâ, âUntranslatable Owlsâ, âThe Wild Poniesâ, âSnowdropsâ, âRosa Mundiâ, âMr Dead Foxââreveals a continuity of preoccupation. There are other themes that emerge of course, in particular her interest in music and musicians. And itâs not by chance that where the two strands meet Towers is at her most atmospheric. In the title poem an old luthier is tapping trees with a stick:
These spruce bear branches that are high
and sparse, keeping the heartwood dry.
Itâs no trouble if a cuckoo or an owl
makes its home in a topmost nicheâ
thereâs much to be learned from the birds.
The cuckoo and the owl are there, I think, principally for the musical presence of their calls. (The old man would be more than surprised if a cuckooâs nest were to fall on his head.) Their hollow, woody sounds are evocative, expressive of tone and pitch as much as any kind of violin sonority. The owl appears again in âHarmoniumâ where the instrument has been hauled to the âdead centre of this Sussex woodâ. The music of the language here is plangent and beautifully sorrowful:
Itâs true: the chords of a harmonium are autumn
and the blackbirdâs singing is a fado and
the thrushâs joining voice is like a homesick child
and the owl remembers nothing but the lovely one
whoâs gone and used to answer with a sigh.
And autumn is the cling of sadness in the night
and autumn-brown the turnings of the mind.
All kinds of musical effects are woven into this: the narcotic repetition of the âmâs in harmonium, homesick, remembers and autumn; the mystery of the lovely one who âused to answer with a sighâ; the turning over of things in the mind perhaps suggesting the blackbirdâs turning of leaves; the folksong associations of âfadoâ, with its overtones of fading; the harmonic suggestion in âthe thrushâs joining voiceâ⊠So thereâs certainly a melancholy pleasure to be derived here, almost Keatsian in its languor. In the collection as a whole such wistfulness combines with a harder-edged sensibility that can be exemplified by quoting the short poem which follows in full:
FOR EXAMPLE
if you sleep under Schumannâs
oak and walnut four-pedal grand,
youâll dream the pale chords of GesĂ€nge der FrĂŒhe
and youâll hear dawn break
like the bones in a hand.
The piano is solid enoughâoak and walnutâand the description, though brief, is specific: it has, slightly unusually, four pedals. And then comes the crafty synaesthesia of âpale chordsâ which sets us dreaming again until weâre suspended in an un-nerving world where dawn breaks audibly and in unfamiliar ways. Why might one wish to sleep under a piano? What kinds of suffering have led to the tortured breaking of hands? Just what is this an example of? The unanswered questions are resonant and much more contemporary.
To describe Katharine Towers as a miniaturist would be to do her a disservice: there are big ideas knocking around in some of these poems. However, she seldom strays beyond fifteen lines. The aim is gracefulnessâto be pitch-perfect. âChasing after every passing shadow will get you nowhereâ. Her sparrows âbump and chink on the garden path like / small clay pots, busy with their urgent nothingsâ ⊠âThey think themselves little lords and ladies of the dirt / in which they bounce and splash, perky and unbeholden.â And her owls âstand in the black yews like alien saintsâ ⊠âThey think deeply. They are meditating.â They may indeed be âuntranslatableâ, but she has a good go:
O melancholy is the hour when the sun goes down. O dis-
mal the shadows.
The seven âoâs in this complete prose-paragraph I take to be as much owl-speak as human discourse. The yew (âIt is too gothic, or it is too sullen. / It has no heart to speak of or toy with.â) and the owl are emblematic of a voice which claims at one point âI can only extol those things / which are tragic or timeless.â The small tragedy of âMr Dead Foxâ might be the perfect example: âLaid out on the road like a fox diagramâ âŠthe long drawn-out back and the stylish brush / like Isadora Duncanâs upheld scarfâ / something absurd and beautiful to blame.â
Poems like this are well served by pamphlet publication. The pamphletâitself a book in miniatureâgives them space to breathe and lets them resonate one with the other. Readers familiar with Happenstanceâs high production values will understand exactly how well the press has served the author: with quality paper, lithographically printed at the Dolphin Press, and tastefully ornamented pagination. The art that conceals art has to be achieved with precision thrown off with an air of nonchalanceâlike the robin in the opening poem that âtinkers with a few odd notes in the hawthornâ, itself likened to the soldiers in La Chanson de Roland, âwho donât mind about dying.â And the poem also, which ends with a whisper:
A red leaf trickles slowly through the foliage.
Making no fuss, it lieth quietly down.
London Grip Poetry Review – Katharine Towers
October 29, 2019 by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs • books, poetry reviews, year 2019 • Tags: books, poetry, Stuart Henson • 0 Comments
Stuart Henson commends a pamphlet in which poems by Katharine Towers have the space to breathe and to resonate with one another
There was a time, a post-Hughesean time, when writing about the natural world was decidedly uncool: your âtweedy nature boysâ were as dead as the Georgians and hawk-eyed anthropomorphism had had its day. In the era of Extinction Rebellion, the pendulum, I think, has begun to swing the other way. When âNature Poetryâ is rebranded as âEcopoeticsâ weâre back on safer ground. The very word has critical authenticityâno vacant or pensive tranquillity here! But all this begs the question: What is such writing for? Action, perhaps? Awareness? Wordsworth might have said Pleasure, but what did he know?
In her two books thus farâand indeed in this new pamphlet collectionâKatharine Towers has never shied away from the celebration, interrogation perhaps, of nature. The Remedies (2015) was very much about flowers, birds and the odd insect, and a quick glance at the titles in The Violin ForestââSparrowsâ, âThe Yewâ, âUntranslatable Owlsâ, âThe Wild Poniesâ, âSnowdropsâ, âRosa Mundiâ, âMr Dead Foxââreveals a continuity of preoccupation. There are other themes that emerge of course, in particular her interest in music and musicians. And itâs not by chance that where the two strands meet Towers is at her most atmospheric. In the title poem an old luthier is tapping trees with a stick:
The cuckoo and the owl are there, I think, principally for the musical presence of their calls. (The old man would be more than surprised if a cuckooâs nest were to fall on his head.) Their hollow, woody sounds are evocative, expressive of tone and pitch as much as any kind of violin sonority. The owl appears again in âHarmoniumâ where the instrument has been hauled to the âdead centre of this Sussex woodâ. The music of the language here is plangent and beautifully sorrowful:
All kinds of musical effects are woven into this: the narcotic repetition of the âmâs in harmonium, homesick, remembers and autumn; the mystery of the lovely one who âused to answer with a sighâ; the turning over of things in the mind perhaps suggesting the blackbirdâs turning of leaves; the folksong associations of âfadoâ, with its overtones of fading; the harmonic suggestion in âthe thrushâs joining voiceâ⊠So thereâs certainly a melancholy pleasure to be derived here, almost Keatsian in its languor. In the collection as a whole such wistfulness combines with a harder-edged sensibility that can be exemplified by quoting the short poem which follows in full:
The piano is solid enoughâoak and walnutâand the description, though brief, is specific: it has, slightly unusually, four pedals. And then comes the crafty synaesthesia of âpale chordsâ which sets us dreaming again until weâre suspended in an un-nerving world where dawn breaks audibly and in unfamiliar ways. Why might one wish to sleep under a piano? What kinds of suffering have led to the tortured breaking of hands? Just what is this an example of? The unanswered questions are resonant and much more contemporary.
To describe Katharine Towers as a miniaturist would be to do her a disservice: there are big ideas knocking around in some of these poems. However, she seldom strays beyond fifteen lines. The aim is gracefulnessâto be pitch-perfect. âChasing after every passing shadow will get you nowhereâ. Her sparrows âbump and chink on the garden path like / small clay pots, busy with their urgent nothingsâ ⊠âThey think themselves little lords and ladies of the dirt / in which they bounce and splash, perky and unbeholden.â And her owls âstand in the black yews like alien saintsâ ⊠âThey think deeply. They are meditating.â They may indeed be âuntranslatableâ, but she has a good go:
The seven âoâs in this complete prose-paragraph I take to be as much owl-speak as human discourse. The yew (âIt is too gothic, or it is too sullen. / It has no heart to speak of or toy with.â) and the owl are emblematic of a voice which claims at one point âI can only extol those things / which are tragic or timeless.â The small tragedy of âMr Dead Foxâ might be the perfect example: âLaid out on the road like a fox diagramâ âŠthe long drawn-out back and the stylish brush / like Isadora Duncanâs upheld scarfâ / something absurd and beautiful to blame.â
Poems like this are well served by pamphlet publication. The pamphletâitself a book in miniatureâgives them space to breathe and lets them resonate one with the other. Readers familiar with Happenstanceâs high production values will understand exactly how well the press has served the author: with quality paper, lithographically printed at the Dolphin Press, and tastefully ornamented pagination. The art that conceals art has to be achieved with precision thrown off with an air of nonchalanceâlike the robin in the opening poem that âtinkers with a few odd notes in the hawthornâ, itself likened to the soldiers in La Chanson de Roland, âwho donât mind about dying.â And the poem also, which ends with a whisper: