Poetry review â The Air Year: Pat Edwards admires the vivid individuality of Caroline Birdâs poetry
The Air Year
Caroline Bird
Carcanet
ISBN 9781784109028
64 pp ÂŁ9.99
Air: weâre surrounded by it; sometimes crave it, saying weâre just going out for some fresh air, or that we need to clear the air. It isnât until the sixth poem in, that we find out that The Air Year of the title refers to the time before a marriage; the time before anniversaries are marked as paper, cotton, leather and so on. The Air Year is nebulous, undefined, free, without bounds and structure. Or is it a time of huge confusion and emotions out of control to the point of jeopardy?
Bird counts in the reader with her first poem âMid-airâ, taking the conductorâs baton, pronouncing the ââAndâ/ before the âone, two, threeââ so that we are all held in the suspense of that opening moment. Then we are suddenly plunged into a piano bar in a cellar where an innocent girl encounters âa host of swaying womenâ and the prospect of âA Private Kissâ. The poem morphs repeated words, phrases and ideas as if the ingĂŠnue in the bar is slowly getting drunk or high. The reader is drawn into âall these/ dark dissolving spacesâ and the fear is tangible. We might be reminded of âWarning to Childrenâ by Robert Graves, where the poet plays with a set of images, one within another, in a riddle of impossibilities. Birdâs reference to stairs, mouths, doors, walls and secrets is reminiscent of the same strangeness.
The absurdity prevails in the deeply sexual âNancy and the Torpedoâ. We donât know whether to laugh or cry and probably do both as the character screams âIâM SORRY IâM NOT A FUCKING TORPEDO!â at a lover who claims to be âexploding for the both of usâ. No wonder the next poem, âSincerelyâ, strikes a note of caution, âIâm done with healing /over like water heals above a sinking bodyâ.
There are plenty of references to death, sexual or otherwise, in what follows. The poet embarks on a mesmerising exploration of dark thoughts and perversions, leaving a crime scene âchalk outline of a woman / who did not jump.â In âThe Red Telephoneâ we encounter the lover who constantly cries wolf, with her pathetic list of dramatic, desperate scenarios, none of which elicit the desired response.
The reader can sense all the worst human conditions: loneliness; madness; âthe taste of nothingâ. We know things are bad when we can no longer recognise solid ground, think âyouâve survived, falling, landing, falling out /âŚThudâ, and supposed love keeps coming at us âa patch-up job cobbled in mid airâ.
âThe Girl Who Cried Loveâ is a long prose poem, riddled with dialogue, like a modern-day fairytale or a Disney film on Ketamine. Where else could we trip over a stone doormat âwith âwelcomeâ scratched into it with a penknifeâ, and the declaration âI felt my clitoris stabilise for a momentâ? As readers we could just be wondering whether this has all gone a bit Game of Thrones, when Bird plays with being a falconer â oh, the irony â but she recognises âmy glove is wrong /and you are not a falconâ.
There are many filmic episodes and references, scenes played out like nasty but compulsive American box-sets. âWho wears her new husbandâs dead ex-wifeâs earrings /to the christeningâ is at once a delicious trailer and a horrific glimpse at someoneâs reality. âNapthalene Heightsâ is the poetâs genius name for a âa completely normal hotelâ(yeah right!) in a poem about meetings and partings. The sense of loss is compelling, expected and heartbreaking.
As well as prose poems, Bird gives us sonnets and couplets, and there are poems where we are thankful for some respite from the chaos. In âCirclesâ we feel the writer gaining an understanding that some loves require time, lots of it: âwhen weâre old and beautyâs embedded in / your face, you wonât say âsorry it took agesââ.
At last we move towards âRope Bridgesâ and âSanityâ; there is âa real love plus / two real catsâ, could this be normality? Well, it could, but not before weâve been reminded how conservative âLittle Childrenâ are and that âparents arenât permitted even the smallest perversion yet a child / can secretly urinate in a drawer for three weeks / until the smell warrants investigationâ.
Oh God, and then âEmotional Reasoningâ â what is this? Itâs like an excerpt from a suburban horror novella, mixed with American gothic. We want to like it but itâs just too weird and we feel a bit scared if weâre honest. Weâve probably just been lulled into a false sense of all being well when, in reality, itâs all starting again, the lust for love.
I mistook my heart
for a helicopter, every morning the smell of your perfume gets
a little bit less, Iâm standing on your front lawn yelling
please love me.
In âMorality Playâ we sense a turning point, but have we been here before? Once again, the poet is trying to work it out. âAre we in a game or a dream?â Her conclusion â âsome fucker/ was recycling me!â Yes, thatâs it, the cyclical falling in and out of love, even more important than the perils of âusing plastic bags /or burning dieselâ. The recycling continues in âFancy Dressâ where the device of morphing words and ideas is perfected in an ever-evolving fashion show of costumes to suit every eventuality: âa nightmare in a reality costumeâ; âTime dressed as a decent amount of itselfâ; âAir in a tension costume, /Distance in a space between us costume.â
And so to therapy in âThe Tree Roomâ and to kidding ourselves things are improving when itâs probably a âmanic lying spreeâ, because in âLoveboroughâ âwe donât end romances we let them overlap indefinitely until we forget their namesâ. So, is the final love in the book ânot like the othersâ, and can âtwo heart strings / fumbling to combineâ bring peace and resolution? We hope so.
Caroline Bird is a poet like no other, always prepared to shower us in meteors of linguistic playfulness, in a frightening game of hide and seek. We donât always need to understand every explosion of emotion to feel the power and passion. These poems are screenshots, epic movies, ground-breaking nuggets of prose, and something else we canât even find words for. The Air Year is a fantastic, intimate, disturbing and beautiful tour de force.
London Grip Poetry Review – Caroline Bird
January 29, 2020
Poetry review â The Air Year: Pat Edwards admires the vivid individuality of Caroline Birdâs poetry
Air: weâre surrounded by it; sometimes crave it, saying weâre just going out for some fresh air, or that we need to clear the air. It isnât until the sixth poem in, that we find out that The Air Year of the title refers to the time before a marriage; the time before anniversaries are marked as paper, cotton, leather and so on. The Air Year is nebulous, undefined, free, without bounds and structure. Or is it a time of huge confusion and emotions out of control to the point of jeopardy?
Bird counts in the reader with her first poem âMid-airâ, taking the conductorâs baton, pronouncing the ââAndâ/ before the âone, two, threeââ so that we are all held in the suspense of that opening moment. Then we are suddenly plunged into a piano bar in a cellar where an innocent girl encounters âa host of swaying womenâ and the prospect of âA Private Kissâ. The poem morphs repeated words, phrases and ideas as if the ingĂŠnue in the bar is slowly getting drunk or high. The reader is drawn into âall these/ dark dissolving spacesâ and the fear is tangible. We might be reminded of âWarning to Childrenâ by Robert Graves, where the poet plays with a set of images, one within another, in a riddle of impossibilities. Birdâs reference to stairs, mouths, doors, walls and secrets is reminiscent of the same strangeness.
The absurdity prevails in the deeply sexual âNancy and the Torpedoâ. We donât know whether to laugh or cry and probably do both as the character screams âIâM SORRY IâM NOT A FUCKING TORPEDO!â at a lover who claims to be âexploding for the both of usâ. No wonder the next poem, âSincerelyâ, strikes a note of caution, âIâm done with healing /over like water heals above a sinking bodyâ.
There are plenty of references to death, sexual or otherwise, in what follows. The poet embarks on a mesmerising exploration of dark thoughts and perversions, leaving a crime scene âchalk outline of a woman / who did not jump.â In âThe Red Telephoneâ we encounter the lover who constantly cries wolf, with her pathetic list of dramatic, desperate scenarios, none of which elicit the desired response.
The reader can sense all the worst human conditions: loneliness; madness; âthe taste of nothingâ. We know things are bad when we can no longer recognise solid ground, think âyouâve survived, falling, landing, falling out /âŚThudâ, and supposed love keeps coming at us âa patch-up job cobbled in mid airâ.
âThe Girl Who Cried Loveâ is a long prose poem, riddled with dialogue, like a modern-day fairytale or a Disney film on Ketamine. Where else could we trip over a stone doormat âwith âwelcomeâ scratched into it with a penknifeâ, and the declaration âI felt my clitoris stabilise for a momentâ? As readers we could just be wondering whether this has all gone a bit Game of Thrones, when Bird plays with being a falconer â oh, the irony â but she recognises âmy glove is wrong /and you are not a falconâ.
There are many filmic episodes and references, scenes played out like nasty but compulsive American box-sets. âWho wears her new husbandâs dead ex-wifeâs earrings /to the christeningâ is at once a delicious trailer and a horrific glimpse at someoneâs reality. âNapthalene Heightsâ is the poetâs genius name for a âa completely normal hotelâ(yeah right!) in a poem about meetings and partings. The sense of loss is compelling, expected and heartbreaking.
As well as prose poems, Bird gives us sonnets and couplets, and there are poems where we are thankful for some respite from the chaos. In âCirclesâ we feel the writer gaining an understanding that some loves require time, lots of it: âwhen weâre old and beautyâs embedded in / your face, you wonât say âsorry it took agesââ.
At last we move towards âRope Bridgesâ and âSanityâ; there is âa real love plus / two real catsâ, could this be normality? Well, it could, but not before weâve been reminded how conservative âLittle Childrenâ are and that âparents arenât permitted even the smallest perversion yet a child / can secretly urinate in a drawer for three weeks / until the smell warrants investigationâ.
Oh God, and then âEmotional Reasoningâ â what is this? Itâs like an excerpt from a suburban horror novella, mixed with American gothic. We want to like it but itâs just too weird and we feel a bit scared if weâre honest. Weâve probably just been lulled into a false sense of all being well when, in reality, itâs all starting again, the lust for love.
In âMorality Playâ we sense a turning point, but have we been here before? Once again, the poet is trying to work it out. âAre we in a game or a dream?â Her conclusion â âsome fucker/ was recycling me!â Yes, thatâs it, the cyclical falling in and out of love, even more important than the perils of âusing plastic bags /or burning dieselâ. The recycling continues in âFancy Dressâ where the device of morphing words and ideas is perfected in an ever-evolving fashion show of costumes to suit every eventuality: âa nightmare in a reality costumeâ; âTime dressed as a decent amount of itselfâ; âAir in a tension costume, /Distance in a space between us costume.â
And so to therapy in âThe Tree Roomâ and to kidding ourselves things are improving when itâs probably a âmanic lying spreeâ, because in âLoveboroughâ âwe donât end romances we let them overlap indefinitely until we forget their namesâ. So, is the final love in the book ânot like the othersâ, and can âtwo heart strings / fumbling to combineâ bring peace and resolution? We hope so.
Caroline Bird is a poet like no other, always prepared to shower us in meteors of linguistic playfulness, in a frightening game of hide and seek. We donât always need to understand every explosion of emotion to feel the power and passion. These poems are screenshots, epic movies, ground-breaking nuggets of prose, and something else we canât even find words for. The Air Year is a fantastic, intimate, disturbing and beautiful tour de force.