Sea spirit: Hadfield explores Shetland's shores. Photo: Getty Images
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Mother tongue: new poetry by Jen Hadfield and John Burnside

Two new collections by Scottish poets characterised by sharp attention to detail.

Jen Hadfield
Picador, 70pp, £9.99

All One Breath
John Burnside
Jonathan Cape, 82pp, £10

Behavioural scientists are increasingly persuaded that the key to personal happiness lies in how we pay attention. If this is right, part of poetry’s value is how it can teach readers to attend to things that would otherwise escape regard. Two new collections – by John Burnside, the pre-eminent living Scottish poet, and the Shetland-dwelling Jen Hadfield, a more recent emergence in UK poetry – are sustained by acts of close attention.

Both books meet the challenge that the late Hugh MacDiarmid set for the poets who followed him when he wrote, “So I have gathered unto myself/All the loose ends of Scotland,/. . . naming and accepting them,/Loving them and identifying myself with them”. Although they are less explicitly concerned with nationhood than MacDiarmid, between them Burnside and Hadfield name a remarkable range of Scottish spaces, flora and fauna. The poems inhabit moors, cliffs, fields, shores, woods and edgelands, all touched by modernity in the form of quad bikes, turbines and mobile-phone signals.

Hadfield’s opening poem, “Lichen”, brings the focus down to the time-lapse level of an organism that measures its lifespan in centuries. I was reminded of the long shots of lichen on road signs in Patrick Keiller’s 2010 film Robinson in Ruins, where it seems like a sleeper agent in enemy territory. In the poem, lichen is receiving our messages and seems on the verge of speaking back:

Who listens
like lichen listens . . .

The little ears prunk,
scorch and blacken.

The little golden
mouths gape

“Prunk” is lovely: a Shetland dialect dictionary gives the word as an adjective meaning “smart and well-poised”, but Hadfield turns it into the perfect verb for the occasion. She specialises in finding the very word for a thing, the word both surprising and true. The title of the book, Byssus, is a name for “sea silk”, the “beard” of the mussel, which anchors it to the seabed. In recent posts on her blog, Rogue Seeds, Hadfield shared some extraordinary photos of objects woven from byssus and expressed the hope that, in its “contemplation of how it batters us just to live, learn, make and love”, her book is the equivalent of the mussel’s beard: “my holdfast in such wild water”.

Throughout Byssus, her third collection, there is something magical and incantatory in the way she cherishes language at the level of the name, as if utterance itself might be a way of dwelling in the real and making oneself at home there. “Loving language . . .” the poem “In Memoriam” claims, “. . . I can only noun/about its shores/and surfaces”. The verse is constantly breaking out into linguistic delight that exceeds literal meaning (several poems make use of the printed page in the tradition of concrete poetry).

For this reason, the book will not always be easy going for readers who like poems to be tethered to clear sense. But the rewards are more than worth the difficulties, when, in “The Puffballs”, a puffball is transfigured into “blackened blowhole; toxic stoma. A toff/a pocked sphincter”, or when a poem breaks into a burst of vivid Joycean (“longbusy birdbrushed billows of the/equinoctial sea”) or Hopkins-ese (“Spring a hybrid/God, Gosh or Gum: dewlap bulging, bugling with Glory”). Even defrosting a freezer can be made splendid and alien by such gifts of speech: “the last of the piltocks; the mackerel fillets in their oily lamé . . . fluted scales of choux annealed in a frozen slick . . .”

“In Memoriam” asks the question: “are we taking up the first language/or must we coin/a new one?” Hadfield’s poem gives no explicit answer, but when John Burnside considers a similar point in “Nocturne: Christmas, 2012”, an elegy for the poet and critic Dennis O’Driscoll, he comes down on the side of “first language”:

Say what you will, all making is nostalgia,
hurrying back to name the things we missed
the first time, when the world seemed commonplace . . .

In other words, poetry (“making’) seeks to capture what Burnside elsewhere calls “a blear/of Eden”, getting back behind the common to recover and give form to something original and true.

All One Breath, Burnside’s 14th collection, is a sombre book where memory and self-reflection merge into elegy in an air heavy with epigraphs. Burnside has always been a philosophical poet, and his meditations tend to cast their line a long way out and reel in their theme slowly through long sentences that gain momentum with each conjunction and clause, before landing the theme decisively at the end, as in “Hall of Mirrors, 1964”:

                                                     . . . the life
perpetual, that’s never ours alone,
including us, till everything
is choir.

Burnside is a master of the final, clinching line: “to this finale, orphaned, far for home”; “first catch, then canon; fugal; all one breath”. If the philosophising at times risks becoming ponderous at the level of the phrase (“It comes to us, after a time,/that there’s no forever . . .”), nonetheless across the length of whole poems and the whole book there is great wisdom about how people learn to get along with family and with their own past selves, “the backrooms of the heart”; about the limits of self and body; and about how human beings have mistaken and abused the non-human.

For me, the two strongest poems are “Joseph Wright of Derby: an Experiment on a Bird in the Air-Pump, 1768” and “Instruc­tions for a Sky Burial”. In the first, the sickening cruelty of suffocating a cockatoo in
a vacuum bell for demonstration purposes gives way to a vision of the unknowable world beyond the human and “the silence that follows a kill”. In the second, the image of one’s dead body being left out in the air for dogs, rats and crows to consume leads the poem to the edge of its own comprehension, grasping after “something/inexact and perfect”, “something like a song,/but taking shape”.

Burnside’s poems are exceptionally alert to these somethings, these known unknowns. It is “the surest mistake”, he suggests, “to think we already know/what matters when we see it”. All One Breath, in common with Byssus, provides a strong example of how to do the opposite, to discover what matters by paying faithful attention.

Matthew Sperling is a poet and academic

This article first appeared in the 26 February 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Scotland: a special issue

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My quest for an elusive can of juicy Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie ends with a Dolmio pasta sauce

In Tesco, I was struck by the presence of a paella ready-meal in the chiller cabinet.

The last time I addressed you from my bully-beef pulpit I was going to write about my all-consuming yen for a Fray Bentos individual steak and kidney pie, but as there wasn’t one to hand to mouth, I related the electronic cigarette incident at Pizza Express instead. This week, I can report that I have attempted to secure one of the meatylicious treats – and once again failed.

Mr Vairavar, who keeps the convenience store immediately beneath my flat, did have a Fray Bentos minced beef and onion pie on his shelves (and very attractively priced it was, too, at £1.99) but I knew that it wouldn’t hit the suety spot. I had already undertaken a smallish tour of supermarkets in the environs, and although I hadn’t secured the elusive pudding I still found plenty of food for thought.

In Tesco, I was struck by the presence of a paella ready-meal in the chiller cabinet. All convenience foods rely not on a specific ingredient, but rather on its absence: time has been left out, usually in favour of some artificial flavouring. I think of paella as a dish to be
prepared over hours, possibly an entire day. Cooked in the warm south, beneath the canopy of a leafy bower and before an azure sea – coaxed into full and piquant fruition by some adipose and moustachioed duenna, while almond-eyed kiddies dangle from her skirts and the menfolk sit around drinking harsh Rioja, smoking black tobacco and spitting.

Mind you, human ingenuity has been diminishing the temporal component of our cuisine for a long time now: in the Middle Ages salt was the preferred preservative, but by the 1900s tinned meat was being despatched from Fray Bentos in Uruguay and making the long voyage to dock in the British duodenum.

Also on Tesco’s shelves was an extensive selection of pasta sauces. All the usual suspects were there, including Loyd Grossman’s and several variations on the Dolmio theme. It had been a bad week for the Dolmio brand, what with Mars Food, which owns it, feeling it was incumbent on it to place a label on these sauces (and its other products) warning punters that they aren’t “everyday” foods but should be eaten only “occasionally” – say, once a week.

I stood in the aisle, my dreams macerated at my feet. Not eat a Dolmio pasta sauce every day of the week (and even twice daily)? What kind of freshly preserved, heavily sugared and salted hell was this? I have clung on for years to a vision of the good life, summed up for me by Dolmio pasta sauce adverts of the early 1990s, in which a tumultuously happy extended Neapolitan family chows down at a long table laid out under the spreading boughs of an olive tree: old crones and rosy-cheeked bambini, voluptuous girls and their blushing beaus, the entire assembly benignly surveyed by a greying paterfamilias, a role I reserved (don’t laugh) for myself.

True, I can actually count the number of times that I have eaten Dolmio pasta sauces on the fingers of one leprous hand, but as with most commodity fetishism – contra Marx – it’s the thought that counts. So, I bought a jar of Dolmio sauce and bore it home as a sort of edible time capsule; if it isn’t an “everyday” food, I reasoned, I could wait for the Apocalypse to crack off the lid.

I considered buying a jar of Loyd Grossman sauce as well. I’ve no idea if it’s any good but I met Grossman once, in his capacity as chairman of English Heritage’s blue plaque committee. He’d invited me to unveil the plaque for the short story writer H H Munro (whose nom de plume was Saki), which was to be sited on a property on Mortimer Street, London, now tenanted by a firm of accountants.

A scaffold had been put up outside so that the plaque could be mounted, but Loyd and I still had to crawl over one of the partners’ desks in order to reach it. I found him to be a warm and genuine man with no side at all – only a bottom, with which I was nose-to-tail during the desk-clambering. So, that’s the problem I have with his pasta sauces: instead of associating them with joyful consanguinity, I think of systematic pederasty. (Not, I hasten to add, because of Loyd Grossman’s bottom but because Saki had these proclivities and, according to his biographer, whom I met the same day, the writer kept a scrupulous menu of his conquests, including details of their, um, portion size.)

The next stop was Lidl – always a bizarre experience. The last branch of Lidl I’d visited was situated exactly on the death strip of the old Berlin Wall and surrounded by silver birches that looked to be precisely 25 years old. It was sheer foolishness to expect this outlet to have one of the elusive Fray Bentos individual steak and kidney puddings – its stock is discounted stuff that it has picked up cheap.

Fun fact: founded in 1930, Lidl was originally called Schwarz Foods but being referred to as “Schwarzmarkt” would have been a bit of a liability, especially once war was declared, and so the name was changed. There were no black-market puddings here but almost an entire aisle stacked with serrano hams! I would have bought one of these time-infused meats . . . but I had my Dolmio end-of-the-world to look forward to.

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism