Poetry review â REDSTREAKS: Neil Fulwood considers Paul Bindingâs chapbook to be deserving as much careful attention as a full collection
Redstreaks
Paul Binding
Shoestring Press
ISBN 9781912524457
ÂŁ6.00.
Redstreaks is a handsomely produced pamphlet from the always-reliable Shoestring Press comprising eight interlinked poems across 21 pages, the main themes of which are apples, familial expectations, romantic rivalry, apples, landscape, history, apples, the passage of time, failed artistic ambitions, and apples.
A Redstreak, just in case the above paragraph didnât give it away, is an apple. And not just any apple, as the eponymous (and penultimate) poem makes clear:
... Itâs an apple to be proud of:
from the 17th century, famous for years as
Englandâs best for cider, then declining
and now reviving â the story all dream of.
Itâs bittersweet â and so are most of us ...
But weâre approaching the end of the pamphlet at this point. Rewind. âDeep in the Heart of Texasâ begins the narrative with the hackneyed old country song (âyes, the band was still / pounding that out, dancers giving their idiot clapsâ) seeing in the New Year at a party that will prove as bittersweet as the apple for at least one attendee. I donât propose to spell out the various characters or the nature of their rivalries â one of the pamphletâs chief pleasures is its steady unravelling of these dynamics â but suffice it to say that Binding handles the material in a quietly ironic fashion that falls somewhere between the cosy banality of The Archers and the sweeping set-pieces of, say, an Iain Banks novel.
Archenfield is the setting for Redstreaks, a place name that could happily exist alongside the fictitious Ambridge of The Archers, as well as recalling Akenfield, Ronald Blytheâs fictionalised piece of social history. Iâll leave the Akenfield connection to anyone who wishes to pursue it: too many years have passed since I read the book for me to feel confident doling out any critical assumptions; and besides, Bindingâs home is in the imprecise geographical Wales/Herefordshire hinterland known as The Marshes. Plus thatâs where the apples that define the collection come from, anyway.
Thereâs something else I probably shouldnât try to do in this review: gut the poems for the sake of pithy three- or four-line extracts. Only two of the eight poems are single pagers. The two longest occupy four pages apiece. These are poems that unfurl â sometimes lyrically, sometimes conversationally, one in the form of an email â at their own pace, to their own rules, and in their own damn time. Thatâs another of Redstreaksâ chief pleasures: Bindingâs confidence that his readers will invest in a 21-page pamphlet the same slow, patient approach and appreciation of accumulated minutiae that a several-hundred-page sweeping novel would require.
So: a pamphlet mainly (and yet somehow only circumstantially) about apples, that exists in an aesthetic twilight zone where the signposts point variously to The Archers, Iain Banks, huge slabs of gothic melodramatic and, possibly, Akenfield. Believe me, I realise how this review sounds. And by this point Iâve either lost you entirely or youâre rushing out to buy a copy. I hope itâs the latter.
London Grip Poetry Review – Paul Binding
February 10, 2021
Poetry review â REDSTREAKS: Neil Fulwood considers Paul Bindingâs chapbook to be deserving as much careful attention as a full collection
Redstreaks is a handsomely produced pamphlet from the always-reliable Shoestring Press comprising eight interlinked poems across 21 pages, the main themes of which are apples, familial expectations, romantic rivalry, apples, landscape, history, apples, the passage of time, failed artistic ambitions, and apples.
A Redstreak, just in case the above paragraph didnât give it away, is an apple. And not just any apple, as the eponymous (and penultimate) poem makes clear:
... Itâs an apple to be proud of: from the 17th century, famous for years as Englandâs best for cider, then declining and now reviving â the story all dream of. Itâs bittersweet â and so are most of us ...But weâre approaching the end of the pamphlet at this point. Rewind. âDeep in the Heart of Texasâ begins the narrative with the hackneyed old country song (âyes, the band was still / pounding that out, dancers giving their idiot clapsâ) seeing in the New Year at a party that will prove as bittersweet as the apple for at least one attendee. I donât propose to spell out the various characters or the nature of their rivalries â one of the pamphletâs chief pleasures is its steady unravelling of these dynamics â but suffice it to say that Binding handles the material in a quietly ironic fashion that falls somewhere between the cosy banality of The Archers and the sweeping set-pieces of, say, an Iain Banks novel.
Archenfield is the setting for Redstreaks, a place name that could happily exist alongside the fictitious Ambridge of The Archers, as well as recalling Akenfield, Ronald Blytheâs fictionalised piece of social history. Iâll leave the Akenfield connection to anyone who wishes to pursue it: too many years have passed since I read the book for me to feel confident doling out any critical assumptions; and besides, Bindingâs home is in the imprecise geographical Wales/Herefordshire hinterland known as The Marshes. Plus thatâs where the apples that define the collection come from, anyway.
Thereâs something else I probably shouldnât try to do in this review: gut the poems for the sake of pithy three- or four-line extracts. Only two of the eight poems are single pagers. The two longest occupy four pages apiece. These are poems that unfurl â sometimes lyrically, sometimes conversationally, one in the form of an email â at their own pace, to their own rules, and in their own damn time. Thatâs another of Redstreaksâ chief pleasures: Bindingâs confidence that his readers will invest in a 21-page pamphlet the same slow, patient approach and appreciation of accumulated minutiae that a several-hundred-page sweeping novel would require.
So: a pamphlet mainly (and yet somehow only circumstantially) about apples, that exists in an aesthetic twilight zone where the signposts point variously to The Archers, Iain Banks, huge slabs of gothic melodramatic and, possibly, Akenfield. Believe me, I realise how this review sounds. And by this point Iâve either lost you entirely or youâre rushing out to buy a copy. I hope itâs the latter.