CREDIT: ALEXANDER FRANCIS LYDON (1836-1917) / PRIVATE COLLECTION / © LOOK AND LEARN / BRIDGEMAN IMAGES
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Thrush

A new poem by Grey Gowrie.

Giant eye, a livid yellow and black-rimmed eye,

     furious and feral, met my own at eye height

inches away. It happened like this. A male thrush, 

     a big one with obese breast and thick feathering

got caught in the holly hedge which we had planted

    oh thirty years gone. Seventeenth century Welsh

farmhouse plonked down on a hospitable plateau

     that interrupted the steep south-falling hillock,

no doubt through interglacial realignment

     ten or twelve thousand years old but an eyeblink

in the planet story. It welcomed nonetheless

     space for a dwelling, attendant barns and stables,

built on now, gentrified, yeomanified really,

     in the 1830s. The hill fell steep again

where a front lawn should be then swept gently away

     to the river Cain (cf. cattle not fratricide).

So you get to the house by a sunken drover’s

     lane with a stone retaining-wall, a holly hedge

all over it. So – getting on now, lame, grumpy –

     I found myself eyeball to eyeball with a thrush

and man to man, him being formidably male

    and not at all frightened but furious to rage

at me and my holly, poor excuses for life.

     It was hard to get over that reptilian

eye, so livid and yellow, or that bad black look

     and something of the crocodile coiled within it,

the beak spiky like holly, the angry pounding

      of a mottled breast, the eye on a par with mine.

I leaned on the wall, poked with my standard-issue

      NHS lightweight crutch deep into the holly

for a parting of ways, just to liberate him

      from so much anger and hostility, myself

from both of these and let me hobble home for tea.

      It worked. After so long, so entirely songless

a scrabbling, my thrush plummets improbably free

      to lumber into the sky like some miniature

jumbo jet taking off and elegant only

       with height accomplished. And so horrible for him.

He almost didn’t make it, had almost fallen

       out of his painful prison, just in time to step

back into the sky milliseconds from rough ground,

       from earth or all we covet down here of freedom.

After a few clumsy feet his elevation

       pumped all the oxygen out of his mottled chest

and he flew so fast and so in an instant high

       that he looked tiny now and full of the rapture

of a fighter plane or Old Master depiction

       of some soul leaving its body; leaving desire,

anger, frustration, appetite; and leaving me

       to waver and shuffle, try to get back to life,

get on with life or whatever was left of life;

       unable almost to breathe or turn home to slake

the ancient malevolence in that yellow eye.

 

Grey Gowrie’s Third Day: New and Selected Poems and The Italian Visitor are published by Carcanet.

This article first appeared in the 22 March 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Easter special

Matt Cardy/Getty Images
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Why do politicians keep making podcasts?

Nick Clegg is the latest to take to the internet airwaves.

“Rage is the opposite of reason. Discuss!”, Nick Clegg declares jauntily at the start of the first episode of his new podcast, Anger Management. The former Lib Dem leader and deputy prime minister can now be heard on the internet airwaves fortnightly, grilling guests about what he calls “the politics of anger”. Since his show is introduced by a montage of angry politicians shouting, it’s guaranteed to raise the listener’s blood pressure before the host even starts talking.

Clegg is just the latest in a long run of politicians to try their hand at podcasting. Perhaps the most notable example in the UK is the former Labour leader Ed Miliband, whose Reasons to be Cheerful show made in partnership with the former Absolute Radio DJ Geoff Lloyd hit number two in the iTunes podcast chart when it debuted in September 2017 and was recently nominated for a 2018 British Podcast Award. Jacob Rees-Mogg, too, has a fortnightly podcast called the Moggcast, which launched in January 2018 and is hosted by Conservative Home. Where once a politician might do a phone-in show on LBC or guest host The Jeremy Vine Show  on BBC Radio 2 to show how in touch and relatable they are (as in Call Clegg, which aired on LBC from 2013 to 2015, or Ed Milibands lunch time death metal scream), they can now go it alone.

In his column in the i newspaper introducing the podcast, Clegg puts his finger on exactly why it is that politicians find podcasting so attractive: it’s all about control. “I have grown to abhor the tired and tested confrontational interview format,” he writes. On his podcast, “there is no wish to pounce on a slip of the tongue or endure a soundbite being hammered home”. There’s a freedom to this kind of on-demand internet audio, which can be delivered directly to an audience without having to get past the traditional gatekeepers of broadcasting. There’s no need to put up with John Humphrys or work with the BBC’s requirement for political balance. The politician, usually on the receiving end of whatever the interviewer wants to throw at them, is in charge.

Given this, it’s unfortunate that in his first episode Nick Clegg falls foul of his own edicts. His first guest is former Ukip leader Nigel Farage (coincidentally also the host of a podcast called Farage Against the Machine). It’s a slightly odd choice of guest to launch the show — made, no doubt, to generate controversy and a higher iTunes chart position — and it doesn’t exactly show Clegg’s broadcasting skills in a good light.

In a recorded disclaimer that plays before the interview, the former Lib Dem leader and vocal Remainer tries to pre-empt criticism that he’s giving a platform to someone with pretty unpalatable views. He explains that the first half of the 47-minute episode is meant to be about Farage’s “life, not really me cross-questioning him”, and that to hear them “locking horns more on the issues of the day” listeners must wait until the latter part of the show.

This approach results in Clegg letting Farage get away with a number of fact-light statements early on, and then later adopting the Humphrys-style tactic of repeatedly interrupting Farage before he can finish a point. As an interview style, it’s the worst of both worlds — neither spacious enough to allow the guest to explain their thinking fully, nor robust enough to provide an effective rebuttal. Hosting a podcast is a deceptively hard thing to do. It would take someone substantially more skilled behind the microphone than Clegg to completely reinvent the one-on-one discussion format in a single episode.

The lure of podcasting for politicians is in the way listeners react to the medium. The entire burgeoning podcast advert market is founded on research that points to a strong sense of intimacy between podcast host and audience — it’s a level of loyalty and engagement that surpasses many other forms of media. In politics, that can be harnessed for electoral gain: for instance, Hillary Clinton had a podcast called With Her that ran during her 2016 presidential campaign.

The trouble is that politicians aren’t necessarily that good at making podcasts. They’re not journalists, and they don’t often have a good nose for what makes a strong show for the listener, or take the advice of those who do. For those still in office (or, like Clegg, still wanting to participate in politics despite losing his seat), there are other pressures that can prevent them being completely honest on air. As Amanda Hess pointed out in the New York Times in 2017, the best episodes of Clinton’s podcast were made after she lost the election, when she moved out of campaign mode and just tried to process what had happened like everyone else.

The rise of the podcasting politician is the result of a few different factors: an increased dominance of personality in politics; the tendency for us all to gravitate towards our own “filter bubbles” of reassuring content; and an ever-more polarised media climate. For my money, the best show to come out of this trend so far is Ed Miliband’s. He leans in to the “geeky” stereotype that haunted him for his entire career and, guided by veteran broadcaster Geoff Lloyd, is seeking to make something that looks beyond the political bubble.

Podcasts are at their best when they serve a particular niche interest group: there’s clearly a community of people who enjoy listening to Jacob Rees-Mogg intoning bleakly about obscure areas of policy, and best of luck to them. Politicians should realise that it is not a form that works when you try to appeal to everyone. Otherwise, like Nick Clegg, they will end up telling Nigel Farage that he’s “very good at the high horse stuff about how the EU is ghastly” in a strained tone of voice.

Caroline Crampton is head of podcasts at the New Statesman. She writes a newsletter about podcasts.