Poetry review – FIRST, I TURN OFF THE LIGHT: James Roderick Burns ventures into the haunting and disturbing world conjured by Katy Mack’s poetry
First, I Turn Off the Light
Katy Mack
Broken Sleep Books
ISBN 978-1-916938-21-2
£8.99
First, I Turn Off the Light is an extremely strange, compelling pamphlet studded with gems. Multiple subjects run through it – clowns, sharks, floods, houses – and all work to unsettle the reader in the manner of an excellent ghost story: subtle notes of unease slip into an ordinary, often domestic scene; odd things tumble in on the back of the unease; then, snowballing, we are catapulted through the mirror and stranded on the far side, looking back on a normality subtly reshaped by the experience.
While it is too easy to categorise every disturbing poem as an exploration of mental health, anxiety and ‘doubling’ (in the manner of Robert Louis Stevenson) haunt almost every poem like “a heartbeat, faint but persistent … somewhere buried inside the pillow” (‘Bed’) or “the sound of tiny accordions ringing in my ears” (‘The Clown Upstairs’). There are poems of overt delusion, if not psychosis, such as ‘A Day in the Club of Perpetual Happiness’:
When the
revelries are completed, the staff throw away the fallen soufflé and
greyhounds gnaw at the carcasses, prizing off the precious meat
And there are ominous poems of suspicion and paranoia:
I hardly even noticed
the sun’s pulse had quickened
against the kitchen floorboards,
a taste of rain clinging
to the backs of our throats,
lodged like a wishbone
(‘When It Came’)
And there are straight out masterpieces, such as ‘Where the Thoughts Go’, an extended single-sentence conceit of mind/body as the differing levels of an old house, both surrounded and permeated by the wildness of nature, the constant small adjustments of (attempted) mental health:
I have come to regard
the difficult thoughts
as outsiders, fox-like, they hiss
and rustle about the woodshed,
I ignore their crunching
up and down the gravel path
or the noise
from the front door
as it pounds
and it pounds
and it pounds.
Taken as a whole, the first (and more substantial) section of the book serves to illuminate and disturb in equal measure. By its close, we are unsure of the poet’s own stance, or condition, so effective is the exploration of altered, unbalanced, even transformed states of mind. The second section, shorter but concentrated, attempts an investigation of Emily Brontë’s interior world through the objects she left behind and the poems she wrote but which were reshaped and overwritten by her sister. This half of the pamphlet is different, yet equally compelling. We are invited to inhabit her soul, item by item, to witness the effects of others on its malleable state:
He bids us unburden our souls on the bedroom floor,
our inky hearts peeled till there’s nothing left.
Sister, oh dear sister, whatever would I do without you?
Still she lies there, quiet as a bone-handled knife.
Yet the reader cannot come away with the impression, in either half, that the poet is simply obsessed with haunting themes, for each poem – as in the above bone-handled knife – has its own bold, sure word hoard and imagery, both lyrical and cutting at the same time:
Staring into the eyes of a scarecrow
is like peering down the shafts of great wells
(‘When the Scarecrows Come, You Must Not Question Why’)
She didn’t need to plump up her life like an over-stuffed cushion
(‘The Woman in the Mirror’)
She’s in the resistance/of the iron-forged bolt,/and the click/of the door’s latch
(‘Emily, in Many Things’)
Overall, First, I Turn Off the Light is an extraordinary little book. A little steep, perhaps, at the same price as a full collection (though nicely produced), it is an essential addition to any library of the modern soul, and a fine guide to its branching stacks and corridors.
Nov 6 2024
London Grip Poetry Review – Katy Mack
Poetry review – FIRST, I TURN OFF THE LIGHT: James Roderick Burns ventures into the haunting and disturbing world conjured by Katy Mack’s poetry
First, I Turn Off the Light is an extremely strange, compelling pamphlet studded with gems. Multiple subjects run through it – clowns, sharks, floods, houses – and all work to unsettle the reader in the manner of an excellent ghost story: subtle notes of unease slip into an ordinary, often domestic scene; odd things tumble in on the back of the unease; then, snowballing, we are catapulted through the mirror and stranded on the far side, looking back on a normality subtly reshaped by the experience.
While it is too easy to categorise every disturbing poem as an exploration of mental health, anxiety and ‘doubling’ (in the manner of Robert Louis Stevenson) haunt almost every poem like “a heartbeat, faint but persistent … somewhere buried inside the pillow” (‘Bed’) or “the sound of tiny accordions ringing in my ears” (‘The Clown Upstairs’). There are poems of overt delusion, if not psychosis, such as ‘A Day in the Club of Perpetual Happiness’:
And there are ominous poems of suspicion and paranoia:
I hardly even noticed the sun’s pulse had quickened against the kitchen floorboards, a taste of rain clinging to the backs of our throats, lodged like a wishbone (‘When It Came’)And there are straight out masterpieces, such as ‘Where the Thoughts Go’, an extended single-sentence conceit of mind/body as the differing levels of an old house, both surrounded and permeated by the wildness of nature, the constant small adjustments of (attempted) mental health:
Taken as a whole, the first (and more substantial) section of the book serves to illuminate and disturb in equal measure. By its close, we are unsure of the poet’s own stance, or condition, so effective is the exploration of altered, unbalanced, even transformed states of mind. The second section, shorter but concentrated, attempts an investigation of Emily Brontë’s interior world through the objects she left behind and the poems she wrote but which were reshaped and overwritten by her sister. This half of the pamphlet is different, yet equally compelling. We are invited to inhabit her soul, item by item, to witness the effects of others on its malleable state:
Yet the reader cannot come away with the impression, in either half, that the poet is simply obsessed with haunting themes, for each poem – as in the above bone-handled knife – has its own bold, sure word hoard and imagery, both lyrical and cutting at the same time:
Staring into the eyes of a scarecrow is like peering down the shafts of great wells (‘When the Scarecrows Come, You Must Not Question Why’) She didn’t need to plump up her life like an over-stuffed cushion (‘The Woman in the Mirror’) She’s in the resistance/of the iron-forged bolt,/and the click/of the door’s latch (‘Emily, in Many Things’)Overall, First, I Turn Off the Light is an extraordinary little book. A little steep, perhaps, at the same price as a full collection (though nicely produced), it is an essential addition to any library of the modern soul, and a fine guide to its branching stacks and corridors.