Tim Key: he's a poet and he knows it.

Tom Ravenscroft's music blog

This week my mini-rant is even more tenuously linked to music than usual. In fact it's not music at all but poetry, and the work of Tim Key, who I saw doing a warm up gig earlier this week in prep for the Edinburgh festival.

The reason it is acceptable for me to mention him in a music blog is that he did recently release an album called Tim Key. With A String Quartet. On a Boat. The music in the background is actually remarkably good, especially considering the inevitable distraction caused by the other two things that feature in the album title.

Tim and his poems have a very eerie calmness to them, they are even oddly comforting at times, like being told a series of very strange, often unpleasant bedtime stories. His ability to say such dark things in such a pleasant way is extraordinary and quite unsettling. It's like trying not to laugh when you hear a toddler accidently swear. Having spent the last two days laughing to myself every time I think of him and his show, I suggest you make the utmost effort to go and see him.

 

Tom Ravenscroft's radio show is on BBC 6 Music every Friday at 9pm

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On Wheels

A new poem by Patrick Mackie

The hills swarm and soften towards the end of the day just as
flames do in a fireplace as the evening
loosens and breaks open and lets out night.
A nasty, grotesque, impatient year ended,
and the new one will be bitter,
tired, opaque. Words wrangle in every inch of air,
their mouths wide open in stupid shock
at what they have just heard every time they hear anything. Venus,
though, blazes with heavy wobbles of albeit frozen
light. Brecht, who I like to call my
brother just as he called Shelley his,
has a short late poem where he sits by a roadside, waiting
while someone changes the wheel on his car,
watching with impatience, despite not liking
either the place that he is coming from or
the place that he is going to. We call it
connectivity when in truth it is just aggression
and imitation writ ever larger. Poems, though,
are forms of infinite and wry but also briskly
impatient patience. Brecht’s poem seems to end,
for instance, almost before you
can read it. It wheels. The goddess is just a big, bright
wilderness but then soon enough she clothes
herself again in the openness of night and I lose her.

Patrick Mackie’s latest collection, The Further Adventures Of The Lives Of The Saints, is published by CB Editions.

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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