John F Deane’s contribution to contemporary poetry is distinctively captivating, as aptly illustrated in this compilation of his diverse works. Reading them reveals strands of frequent preoccupations, symbols, and pet motifs that resonate throughout his numerous books, underscoring an impressive unity in his literary approach.
Deane’s endeavour to explore the spirituality of poetry as a counteraction to the brashness of current time expresses a yearning to convey through verse the inexpressible. His dearly departed are frequently invoked, alluding to a continuous lyrical symbolism where foxes are symbolic representations of the Christ figure, who is often the recipient of Deane’s prayers.
His writing is in line with, and shares a spiritual kinship with notable figures like Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose influence is manifest through explicit references and subtle allusions in Deane’s work. Everyday objects and animals are laden with significant implications; whether it’s a red gate from his memories, or the diverse avian fauna of his native parish. His more contemporary poems echo the later musings of Eliot, with their introspective thoughts vocalised aloud, and their rhythms leaning more towards prose than poetry – continuity, rather than variation, is the overarching theme here.
At times, this inviting homogeneity might verge towards “a dry stillness”; reminding one of Allen Tate’s critique of Robert Lowell’s initial religious poetry. This critique highlighted its perceived lack of “grounded experience” which sometimes gave it an “angelic” feel. The power of Deane’s devotion is most palpable in the concrete moments – be it a vivid image of a “carelessly hanging bobby pin” on his mother or his grandmother’s memory: “She delicately wrapped green Bramley apples for winter in pages taken from the Irish Press”. One remarkable feature is, the harsh elements of violence and even brutality that was notably present in his earliest works, are all but eliminated over his literary career. In contrast to those raucous cymbals, much of his selected work speaks more in the sonorous tones of “the entropy bird’s whistle-song”.
According to Louise Nealon, the significant majority of avid readers are women because their survival is predicated on the art of storytelling to themselves.
Victoria Kennefick’s sophomore compilation, egg/shell, is effortlessly divided into two segments. It boasts a broad spectrum of formats, aesthetics, and different ways of engagement, all while circling around two fundamental traumas. Including a series of miscarriages and her beau’s metamorphosis, these dual traumas are profound, destabilising, and complex to comprehend. This engenders the voice of the author to echo a combined shock and intense sorrow.
An inquiry posed in the introductory verse, Ram, resonates throughout the anthology – “Who am I expected to represent in this scenario?”. Kennefick often replies with an overwhelming sense of practicality, a struggle to treat adversity with lightness, endurance, and empathy. However, the widely appreciated pieces are born during the sessions she momentarily lets her guard down.
Kennefick utilises a couple of key imageries throughout. Swans metamorphose into a type of spiritual mentor or an alter ego for the narrator. Meanwhile, the eggs as mentioned in the title, symbolise a somewhat blatancy of fragility, or the genesis of life. At times, she indulges in wordplay which acts as a stress relief but can also come across as frivolous: “Can’t you observe that I’m precariously treading on eggshells?”.
At times, it’s inevitable to notice that the book serves as a grieving pictorial display. It acts as a method for the poet to reconcile with reality as it unfolds. This produces a sense of participatory intimacy for the reader, though occasionally it tends to spill over into somewhat discomforting zones, particularly during instances of apparent self-disgust, or absolute embarrassment: “I’ll be creeping on those silky, inlaid floors, akin to a beast on all fours, a weakling thing, skimming, beneath the artistic pieces I am unworthy to gaze upon”.
On the contrary, an instance of Child of Lir throws light on Kennefick’s ability to traverse the almost unthinkable, all while keeping her literary composure, which enables the poem’s structure to reposition her in this updated reality.
Mícheál McCann’s first collection, Devotion, is a dignified piece of work – almost decorous. At its core is the series, Keen for A – , its foundation being the 18th-century verse, Lament for Art O’Leary, that creates an elegy for a perished lover which is concurrently reserved yet deeply emotional.
McCann’s approach to language demonstrates a disciplined authority, offering a timeless prose that heightens the poignant lament of the grieving: “I became aware of my objective, and would pursue you there / via dampened lanes and verdant trails / towards the open land south of the city”. An impressive negotiation of acceptance and sorrow takes place whilst tapping into the poetic aptitude for temporal exploration, and revival. The potentiality of mingling tenses and invoking the departed creates emotional upheaval and a deceptive expectation of resurrection: “you will preempt my return,/ seated relaxed, the sun illuminating your eyes”.
Evident throughout, too, are fragments of excellence – a nod to Bishop, with a focus on romantic preening – not washing, but trimming of hair. A reference directly made to Bishop through another display of historical mimicry, a version of a poem from the ninth-century, Líadan Attests Her Love, wherein the heart-wrenching command from One Art is re-purposed: “Pen it down! – He was my heart, a gentle breeze/beyond the garden’s bounds”. McCann’s attempt to pardon informs his writing, as highlighted in Adoration (Rhesus Disease), and the collection overall possesses the solid presence of sorrow, to quote Larkin, though is gratefully balanced with dogged determination and a somewhat aggressive humour.
The collection also carries a disappointed faith in words themselves, inadequate yet compelling instruments: “If only they /could be our salvation, providing more than just a fleeting safe passage”.
In contrast, Gub, the first book by Scott McKendry, is a refreshingly different creature, packed full of ‘Eejit’ colloquialism, profanities, lexicographical ostentation and a collection of eccentric characters. A line from Five Little Terrorist Boys perhaps encapsulates McKendry’s principal approach: “a catchphrase (something cryptically dynamic) and a snappy three or four-letter abbreviation”.
“Gub” is a book rich in humour, diverse knowledge, and a seemingly improbable blend, characterised primarily by its linguistic flair and lively spirit. Comparisons with Paul Muldoon or Ciaran Carson could be easily drawn – Carson, in fact, is the subject of the tribute piece, Gubble. Gubble embodies his distinct appreciation for the melody and zest of vowels and plosives. Consider the lines: “At the kerbside, ogle/the grey smithereens and gore, gobshite, not the lore of yore./Do an Ulster virgo version of a bomb scar. Call it Gubernica.”
McKendry revels in storytelling with a mischievous streak, and his poems often find themselves “on the Paradise side of Commonplace” – his interpretation of reality is as flexible as his use of language and vocabulary. Some of his work exudes the intense compression of short stories, most notably the distressingly confined, yet sharp, Snap. In Keepers of the Pedigree he penned “Friday nights/is raptor stew”, creating an engaging world that identifies more by its principle of enjoyment, rather than recognisable landscapes or characters. This world, showcased in his poetry, moves rapidly and possesses an almost encyclopaedic ambition to include as many life aspects as possible, from the mundane breakfast table, to the briefly perceived surreal.
In A Song for Gaud, McKendry asserts “life’s not synonymous with pain”, manifesting his characteristic gusto for life that labels him as an enjoyable company, and a refreshingly irreverent counter to some of contemporary poetry’s more conventional attitudes.
The author, Declan Ryan, is both a poet and a critic, known for Crisis Actor [Faber, 2023].