Aifric Mac Aodha’s poetry in Old Friends (Gallery, 64pp, priced between €11.95 and €18.50) carries an intriguing prickliness, beautifully transposed by David Wheatley, rooted in the authenticity of spoken observations. There’s a tactfulness akin to the female vet one might see on a TV show, whose candid voice takes an interviewer aback. Mac Aodha’s poems possess a pragmatic restraint that doesn’t court needless sentimentality or futile reach for an illuminating revelation. Readers can appreciate her self-awareness and enjoy the wit and honesty without feeling like these verses are intended as soothing salves.
A feeling of effortless inclusivity prevails in her tone, as she accommodates wide-ranging subjects or dissenting opinions, denoting a wide perspective and patient insight. There’s comfort in her straight-forwardness; exhibiting an indifference to pandering for widespread acclaim with lines like: “I’m drawn to you all, from the priest to my enemies’ roster,” while steering clear of any hubristic theatrics. Her humility is palpable: “Questioning my own limited understanding”.
Tackling diverse subjects from brutal murders to mundane or speculative observations of a lizard, her expertise lies mostly in capturing the essence of the subject rather than their evident facts. The prevailing ambiance is characterized by her skilled choice of words, strategic syntax, and command over vernacular dialect; elements that David Wheatley has seamlessly translated into a contemporary, versatile English voice.
In a positively contradictory sense, Mac Aodha embodies the character of the “perfect Irish maiden” and a “model student” yet maintains a distinct individuality that certainly enhances her charm. Though her work is wrapped in brevity, the depth it carries necessitates numerous readings to fully appreciate it, leaving behind lingering echoes of “an old door’s splinters – metaphors you attributed to my themes.”
On the other hand, Sasha Dugdale’s most recent work, The Strongbox (published by Carcanet, 88 pages, priced at £12.99), appears as both 14 mini-series and a single, full-length operetta, unified by themes of recurrence, remembrance, and in a broader perspective, kidnapping or, at a minimum, uprooting.
Dugdale incorporates retellings, glosses, and critiques of classical mythology, featuring characters such as Helen of Troy, Europa, Baucis, and Philemon. While these figures share varying portions of the limelight, the true standout is Dugdale’s own emotive narrative style, and her deftness in generating dialogue that is grand, haunted, and feels intuitively real all at once.
Underneath the elegant wording lies a barely suppressed rage that critiques not only the exploitation and cruelty of the traditional myths but is also significantly relevant to modern tales of abduction, displacement and trafficking that fuel the initial and longest segment, Anatomy of an Abduction where “a woman clothed in fine fabric may be owned or abducted”. The transitions between a profound and poignant perspective of a child, often relayed through memory, “In our childhood, we are so close to the ground, we thread dainty, fresh daisy chains and gather the shattered porcelain of an egg”, “baby’s fists lying on superhero bedding”, and the callous transgressions and denials of the captors, alongside the objectification of “virginity” that accompanies most of the conversation around women is striking.
Dugdale frequently incorporates meta-commentary in her work, notably disrupting the narrative by addressing her initial poem’s analysis in what resembles an actors’ workshop. Dreams frequently serve as an escape within her writing. Her refined, stylish prose serves as an effective contrast to the dark, vivid narratives she crafts, skilfully intertwining various timelines and pointing out modern society faults. An example is her line, “In August, dictators dispatch their henchmen to estates where their rivals sip anis shirtless.”
Ellen Cranitch’s latest publication, Crystal (Bloodaxe, 80pp, £12), offers balance between personal disintegration and disorder through evanescent glimpses of peace, and often via the poetry medium. Her writing deals with an unsettling life event of learning about a partner’s addiction to drugs and promiscuity, unveiling the aftermath through various frameworks, including Bonnard’s artwork references and Eliot, Cavafy and the Iliad’s inspirations.
At its rawest form, her writing explores the prose poetry limits and showcases candid self-purging. Yet, it sometimes substitutes subtlety with a seemingly necessary release. She questions, “Is addiction indicative of a moral shortcoming? Is it an illness or genetically predisposed?”
Aside from her mastery of form, Cranitch’s writing shines with well-formulated, visually appealing details and punchlines, e.g. “Has she now stayed unchanged while his art modifies her, the sapphire figure delineated in luminous lines?” As the book evolves to discuss ambiguities and forgiveness – with a poignant poem about Pontius Pilate included – it also creates space for the idea of recovery, of a barrier establishing a connection between an individual and their encounters and surroundings. She writes,“It has come back again, the isolation that allows a connection between oneself and the universe.”
Cranitch’s recent book has a raw, unprocessed complexion that he undertook mainly as a personal necessity – it’s an exhibition of repair and vulnerability. On the other hand, we have a debut collection from Christine Roseeta Walker called Coco Island, available at £11.99 from Carcanet. The book presents Negril, Jamaica as a microcosm of the world with colourful characters that recur and deepen as the narrative progresses.
Walker’s interpretation of Negril features an array of aspiring mystics that add a certain grit and intensity to her storytelling. The close proximity between reality and the surreal, the living and the departed, is a crucial aspect of her work, though it is the underlying power dynamics that are the heart of her narrative.
Her portrayal of the island suggests an omnipresent listener that scrutinises its inhabitants based on their “alertness”. There is an ongoing tug-of-war between surrender and resistance whether driven by compulsion, hardship, or the quest for freedom, and the failure to balance these elements. The intersecting histories of families and the island itself, featuring characters who depart and those who stay, culminate in a verse revealing a pattern of inevitability and inheritance, illustrating Walker’s multifaceted presentations.
However, the prose can occasionally lose its spark, prioritising narrative progression over succinctness, and resulting in summaries that forgo suspense. Despite this tendency, her work maintains a contemplative, observatory nature, showcasing her talent for capturing character portraits.
The review is by Declan Ryan, a recognised poet and critic. His first collection, titled Crisis Actor, is now available from Faber.