A map of the old city: off-white, off-centre, its grey pleats blurred in the upload. At the north-western corner, the road out darkens with the tramway, passing a congregational church, a cricket ground, and a black-edged barracks, before the tram is caught by its own terminus and the road splits at the river. This is Hillsborough, sketched in the 1880s, not yet incorporated within the City of Sheffield. Two decades on from the Great Flood, we see a handful of lanes, a suburb’s bare bones. We don’t see the recovering industry, the vanishing chapels, the new streets in their neat script, pencilled in at the century’s turn: Rudyard Road, Rider Road, Haggard Road, Kipling Road.
‘Kipling Road’ is the first poem in Rob Hindle’s sonnet sequence ‘Hillsborough to Middlewood, February 1931′. Published in 2013, it retraces a journey made by Hindle’s great-grandparents’ son, Harold, eighty years before: a journey of little more than a mile, a journey that will take him out of the city and into the West Riding. We are to infer that this itinerary is his last. The sequence is narrated in the first person, the poet steering himself, and us, through a world that is half-familiar and half-imagined, in the present tense, at street level, at walking pace. The two journeys – the poet’s, and the great-uncle’s – maintain a slight distance from each other, from the territory they move through, and from us. There is much that we do not know. We do not know if Harold’s departure was accomplished on foot, or by other means; whether or not it was made voluntarily. The sequence offers glimpses of thresholds – historical, physical, emotional – that may or may not yield to our touch. Yet it is this quality of indirectness that gives the work its intimacy; we sense more than we see, slowing, pausing, ‘feeling the air for a way in’.
No through road, no exit. Kipling Road is one of several blind alleys built on ground formerly occupied by the old tramway terminus, a corner of which will be reclaimed for the Hillsborough Interchange a century later. Two terraces, each of seven houses, odd numbers lined up against even numbers. At the dead end of the street, where the cars wait and turn, we find a grass slope banked against a stone wall; behind the stone wall, a higher breezeblock wall; behind the breezeblock wall, a tall wooden fence, above which we can make out the pitched roofs of bus shelters. Little else escapes the fence: a faint burr of engine noise, the hum of buses caught between arrival and departure. A single turret, sinking from sight as we near the wall. We can’t see the rest of the barracks, but they’re there, south and west, changed into retail, business, split-level parking, the cavalry gone, the infantry gone. The street, as we find it, is innocent of these comings and goings, it doesn’t know what happened to the parade ground. It won’t tell you what happened here last week. This isn’t public property, the windows and doors silent, shut, slanting the enquiry. It is sound, leaking from one side or another, that sets things moving, that primes this vision of flight:
Now there is the click of a back door,
the chitter of a budgerigar.
Then you are hurrying from one of these houses,
hair brushed, tangled feet booted […]
There is one way out of the terraces, a left turn, Kipling Road to Rudyard Road, a right turn, then the last few yards of Langsett Road, the Loxley beneath it, unscrambling from the weir, dark and diminished. The poems pick up the ‘bright thread’ of the tram lines, silvering the road from Hillsborough to Middlewood, its subtle incline, snagging when we pause to look around us, fading when we stop to look back. Shoppers and passers-by seem to take on the shade of the great-uncle, his ‘fumbling’, his ‘lurching’, closing in, disturbing the air. The direction is certain, the movement hesitant. East of the tram lines, the ‘thin green’ of Hillsborough Park, its dogs and dog walkers, distant and slow. North-west of the park, the tree-lined suburbs of Middlewood and Wadsley, hiding their separateness, their spread, their wealth. The tram lines run out and the city falls behind them. And here is memory, sharpening on these new edges, glancing off familiar details: the post box, the school,
the park where I rushed along one day, my mind,
gleeful and vicious, running after me. Middlewood,
childhood cant, that thing in all our cellars,
I shouldn’t have dared. I pay out my breaths
like twine, each step shortening.
Middlewood Hospital (formerly known as the South Yorkshire Asylum, the West Riding Asylum (Wadsley) and Wadsley Mental Hospital) opened in 1872 to accommodate the overspill from the West Riding County Asylum at Wakefield. Over the decades, it gradually expanded from 750 beds to over 2,000, with many of these requisitioned for emergency use by the War Office during World Wars I and II; this number was sharply reduced during the 1980s, as psychiatric patients began to be released into the care of their local authorities, and the hospital finally closed in 1996. Shortly afterwards, the site was acquired for residential development, the expansive grounds, superb views and good transport links making it the natural setting for an exclusive village, retaining many of the original structures; the old clock tower, restored and converted, now watches over the new apartments to the rear. It was here, a mile or so from Kipling Road, that Harold Hindle was brought in 1931, and it was here that he died in the following year. He was 27 years old.
The final poem in the sequence is an encounter with the redeveloped site, or, rather, those parts of the village accessible or visible to the non-resident: Kingswood Hall and Middlewood Lodge are locked away behind secure, gated entrances. In London Orbital (2002), his psychogeographical survey of the M25, Iain Sinclair addresses the rehabilitation of the former psychiatric hospitals and asylums at the edges of the capital; as the late 1980s property boom began to eat up more space, these dormant, unloved sites were reappraised for their proximity to the new motorway, offering rural character, seclusion and discretion. Buildings that were designed to keep people in – monitored by staff, unseen by the ‘outside’ world – were redesigned to keep people out. Purged of their ghosts, cleansed of their dirt, the estates assume new names, a selective heritage. We are not invited to poke around. Hindle leaves us at the gates of Wadsley Park Village, where
the locked front door gleams and the tiny cameras
look at everything. As I leave something clicks, twice:
tut tut. Through your eyes I see myself out.
‘Hillsborough to Middlewood, February 1931’ is one of five long poems and sequences by Rob Hindle (under the collective title Flights and Traverses) in the walking-themed anthology The Footing (Longbarrow Press, 2013); click here for more information about the book. Hindle reflects on the research and development of the poems and sequences in this essay. Click here to visit his website.
Listen to Rob Hindle reading ‘Kipling Road’:
We are entering the capital of a lesser empire
where the plans of our masters surface betimes —
pins on a map at the Ministry of Natural Calamities,
and the statistics like crisp new folding money.
‘Beyond hope and the Lea River’
East London, a March morning, the low zeros: the first spring of a new millennium, the last winter of the old century. I’m on the southeastern edge of Canning Town, looking at the makings of the new ExCel building, under construction near the site of the former Royal Victoria Dock. Opened in 1855, the Victoria Dock was scaled for a new class of steamships; with the Albert Dock (1880) and the King George V Dock (1921) extending to the east, the Royal Docks formed the largest enclosed docks in the world. By 1980, they were empty of traffic, outscaled by Tilbury’s sea-facing container port, the deep basin at the mouth of the Thames. The docks retain their water, the ownership transferring from the Port of London Authority to the Royal Docks Management Authority Limited in the 1980s. The docks retain their titles, and lease them to the new, unmanned metro, the Docklands Light Railway, rolling into the Enterprise Zone, phase by phase, station by station: Royal Victoria, Royal Albert, two stops, an elevated section, surveying the incoming stacks, the hotels and apartments, their flags of no nation. The private water, the corporate border. Shortly before the year’s end I bought a pocket A-Z. It is now useless, the names on the map have been removed from the ground, the white spaces that I came here to haunt have been coloured in. And this is where the map runs out, cutting the airport and regatta in half, two miles east of the meridian.
The water running to the west of the Royal Docks is the River Lea, formerly the Essex border, before the county boroughs of West Ham and East Ham were assigned to the London Borough of Newham in 1965. The borough’s eastern boundary is the River Roding, close to where the poet Ken Smith settled in the early 1980s; Smith, formerly of Yorkshire, Exeter, Pennsylvania and Kilburn, would remain in East Ham until his death in 2003. Shortly after the move, he began work on The London Poems, a series of twelve-line poems (each composed of three quatrains) that would form the centrepiece of his 1986 collection Terra. Fourteen of these poems were selected for The House of Numbers (1985), a pamphlet from Smith’s own Rolling Moss Press, accompanied by several photographs by Stephen Parr. The poems and the photographs show the docklands in profile, from the Isle of Dogs to Woolwich, its bad dreams of decline and redevelopment: oblique, caustic and dialectical by turns, the pamphlet has the urgency (and something of the appearance) of a samizdat report from an occupied sector. Observations are recast as allegory; sour jokes are embedded in government policy; enciphered conversations leak from the faulty electrics. A zone of transition, in which almost all transit is suspended, threaded and encircled by ‘miles of wire’, distanced and disconnected from the city it once served. A zone of enterprise, patrolled by snatch squads, paramilitaries and private militias, their allegiance shifting from contract to contract, shadowed by workless ex-soldiers, ex-dockers. The poems are sidelong dispatches, filed on the run, a dossier of riddles, rumours and rhetoric:
My friend Napoleon visits Farina’s Café.
There is no message. He meets no one.
It is mysterious because there is no mystery
but Napoleon is now in the house of numbers.
‘Beyond hope and the Lea River’
The naming of districts in The House of Numbers is metonymic, suggestive, spare; the pamphlet is not a gazetteer or street atlas of East London. No markers, no pins. The poems’ titles (‘In Silvertown, chasing the dragon’, ‘The meridian at Greenwich’) lead us to the edges of the territory. We are left to fill in the blanks. Smith hints at the number and nature of the ‘blanks’ that have been, or will be, created in the residential and industrial sectors; the cleared terraces, the derelict mills, the ‘slow workless docklands going cheap’. Dead and dying space, parts of which will remain dead for a generation, fenced off by prudent developers, before re-emerging as ‘new space’ at the turn of the millennium. The House of Numbers is not so much concerned with the topography of the spaces it reports from as it is with the relationships within and between these spaces, and, in particular, with the people that inhabit them. One consequence of the restructuring of the docklands was that it made the local population less visible; the transfer of some residents from low-rise terraces to tower blocks, the dispersal of others to the ends of the borough, and the gradual disappearance of shops, pubs and amenities left many streets as silent as the docks. As Smith observes in ‘Clipper Service’:
Now the natives are proud and scattered
and lonely in the high rises, living
as they always lived: thieving or work
when there’s work. There’s none now.
The erosion and displacement of these communities was a process, rather than an event. However, two episodes in the last century’s wars made a significant contribution to this process. London was an accidental casualty of the Luftwaffe’s early campaigns; a lone bomber, tasked with a hit on Tilbury, struck the East End instead. The ensuing cycle of retaliation led to the London Blitz, in which the Port of London was a prime target; the raids on the docks also damaged or destroyed neighbouring factories and a substantial amount of housing stock. Some of the most severe losses were sustained in Silvertown, a narrow strip of reclaimed marshland between the Royal Docks and the Thames. Silvertown took its name from the rubber factory established by S.W. Silver & Co in 1852; the company’s decision to open their works in the area may have been influenced by the fact that it was just outside the zone in which ‘toxic industries’ were prohibited (by the recent Metropolitan Building Act). With the development of the docks, other industries followed, including chemical works, flour mills and the rival sugar refineries of Henry Tate and Abram Lyle (merged in 1921). They were joined in 1893 by the Brunner Mond factory, which produced soda crystals and caustic soda. The company ceased production of the latter in 1912; four years later, the production area was still unused, which led the War Office to requisition it for the purification of TNT. On 19 January 1917, a fire ignited 50 tons of explosives, destroying the plant, a fire station, a school and a church, and damaging 70,000 properties. Seventy-three people were killed; more than 400 were injured. Thousands were left homeless. Parliament debated relocating Silvertown’s residents elsewhere, rather than investing in rebuilding; for the 600 houses that fell, 400 new houses were built. Two decades later, the town’s population and infrastructure were further reduced by the Blitz, with hundreds dying over the months of the campaign, and hundreds more dispersed through war service or evacuation, many of whom would never return to the area. Some of the blanks were filled in after the war, with prefabs and new shops, a decline slowed by partial reconstruction. And some of the blanks remained blank: the grounds of the devastated TNT plant still unbuilt and empty at the century’s close, shrinking from each renewal, a white, wrinkled scar.
And no one to remember. No messages
passed late at night across borders, by hand,
by word of mouth, we who are lost together
telling tales the prisoner spins the jailer.
‘The meridian at Greenwich’
The docks divide, west from east, Victoria from Albert, a swing bridge stuck between Canning Town and Silvertown, two lanes southbound, two lanes northbound. It is a fresh spring Saturday, four years and one hundred metres to the side of my first visit to the docklands. The ExCel frame reddens the west, its finish taking the morning light. The two hundred metres between the exhibitions centre and the bridge is a parking grid, white on grey, clean intervals flatten the waterfront, there are grades of supervision, enforcement and protection. All the bays are bare. I follow the guard rail to the swing bridge, passing under the tarmac lanes, to a marina chipped out of the Albert Dock. The east-facing rail has a heritage panel with an industrial plan of the dock area. A bunch of cellophane tied to the mesh, one or two stems sinking in the layers, a bleached card, a message I can’t read. Beyond it, the airport runway, the resurfaced wharf, wet lights of the corporate jets. I step back, to the brick octagon of the old pump house, to the steel ventilation pipes that curve from the deck. Preserved features. The first time I stood here, at the end of a whim, a space that no one belonged to. I didn’t think to ask what had happened and now there is no one I can ask. Out and overhead, the cars, the control cabin, the commercial aircraft.
A mile west of the Lea River, rising from the silt of the Isle of Dogs, stand the towers of Canary Wharf: a gamble on the site of the former West India Docks that, like the Royal Docks, closed for business in 1980. An abstraction that bankrupted its owners within months of completion; a symbol of the district’s rebirth, from the docklands to the Docklands, that cast long shadows over its residential neighbours; a city beyond the City, enabled by tax concessions and reduced regulations, recapitalized by a global consortium. A self-contained business district with its own border controls. The House of Numbers is a report from the interregnum, in shorthand: it shows the ground opening and closing in quick strokes, the gradual rebalancing of power. It anticipates the growth of public-private partnerships in delivering public services and infrastructure, the discreet outsourcing of security, the brash speculations of property developers. It records the weakening of bonds between communities and place, the qualitative and quantitative decline of municipal space and domestic space, slackened and shrunk to ‘cardboard apartments’. It also summons a defiant, inclusive ‘we’, the choral voice in almost every poem, nuanced and modulated by the multiple fractures of identity and territory, anonymous, polyphonic, the exhausted lament of a stateless tribe:
But we are all going away now
into some other dimension, we speak
a mirror speech there and count differently
and no one stands for the Queen any more.
‘In Silvertown, chasing the dragon’
The poems in The House of Numbers also appear in Ken Smith’s collection Terra (Bloodaxe Books, 1986) and in Shed: Poems 1980-2001 (Bloodaxe Books, 2002). A short film of Smith introducing and reading ‘Three docklands fragments’ (from the 1990 collection The heart, the border, also regathered in Shed) appears below:
A reading given by Smith at the University of Warwick in September 1984 also includes several poems from The House of Numbers; click here to listen to the archive recording (also downloadable as an MP3).
Clock-tick, birdsong, cars.
My palate wakes from last night:
whisky, woodsmoke, stars.
This is how I remember it. It was the first autumn of the new millennium. I was poet in residence at The Wordsworth Trust, living yards from Dove Cottage – Wordsworth’s home for nine of his most creative years. My girlfriend, Chloe, was away in Spain: on holiday with two of her friends. I’d received a postcard from her saying they weren’t getting on as well as she hoped. I got it into my head to write her a sequence of wonder poems, detailing the passage of the Lakeland autumn – a record of the season she was missing. It was a period when I was discovering the Japanese haiku masters (Bashō, Buson and Issa), and I was reading about connections between Wordsworth’s thought and Eastern religion. I’d also been collaborating with Angela Hughes – an energetic visual artist from the north-east – and had been influenced by her process of working outside, or in situ. Inspired by this combination, I’d decided to make my poems for Chloe a sequence of linked haiku – or renku. I would wander through the Vale of Grasmere every day she was absent, writing poems on the hoof. I called my sequence ‘Trig Points’. I saw it as an act of creative mapping: a triangle of the inner, domestic and outer worlds. There was one further layer of influence operating on the sequence: the influence of musical forms and process. I was living under the spell of three musical works: Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’, Steve Reich’s ‘Electric Counterpoint’, and Nick Drake’s album, Five Leaves Left. These compositions nourished my creative process, and led me towards a further collaboration with Simon Heywood, in his guise as a composer and folk guitarist.
1. Fugue: Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’
Chloe and I shared a love of Glenn Gould’s performances of Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’. I have a vivid memory of her arriving at my house one afternoon, and dancing as the first variation leaps away from the theme. The story goes that a Russian Ambassador, Count Kaiserling, commissioned Bach to compose them as a balm for insomnia brought on by poor health. Goldberg was the dutiful musician who had to play the variations to the Count, from an antechamber. Both the therapeutic and the formal aspects of the work appealed to me. As in fugue, a theme is introduced, then developed through 30 variations, before it is recapitulated at the end – implying some evolutionary growth. ‘Trig Points’ was the first poetry sequence where I experimented with the form of fugue variation. The sequence opens with the poet waking to a morning in early autumn: the taste of smoke, whisky and starlight still on his palate. It plays out 25 haiku variations before returning to a differently nuanced reference to smoke and light: this time in late autumn. It is implied that the next morning will be the first of winter. The whisky has been drunk. The new season will wake up colder and darker: more smoke, less light. The sequence is precious to me as a record of my last full autumn in Grasmere. The following October I returned to Leeds: in the wake of 9/11, I resumed an urban life of alleyways, terraces and a view of the Crossgates gasometer from my attic window. Chloe had moved to Clapham, to work in reader development. Our idyll in Grasmere was over. My memories would lose definition: chimney smoke blurring into that November dusk.
2. Shimmer and Pulse: Steve Reich’s ‘Electric Counterpoint’
I’d fallen under the spell of Steve Reich’s ‘Electric Counterpoint’. Its feeling of intense trance made it a piece I could close my eyes and listen to with complete absorption. Stripped of all but the clean patterns of plucked strings, it had a cleansing effect on my mind. Then there was the sense of dazzle – of shimmering light reflections bouncing off rippled water. Most appealing of all, perhaps, is the strength and steadiness of rhythm – of pulse. This pulse has such physical presence and purposeful momentum. Although its rhythms change, they never falter. The piece is aerobically robust. I wanted my haiku sequence to possess these qualities of trance, shimmer and pulse. There is no doubt that trance is a quality that links renku and Wordsworthian blank verse. On some days, autumn in the Vale of Grasmere was like being inside a globe of changing light – light off the lakes and rivers, and off the changing colours of the fell-sides. Pulse was the daily health and pleasure I took from it. Shortly after I composed ‘Trig Points’, I developed panic attack syndrome, and my pulse went wayward – often haywire. I would return to the poetic sequence years later – often when struggling to recover a healthy heart rate. My later sequence, ‘Edgelands’, could be seen as ‘Trig Points’ mark two: Eden, post fall from wonder into anxiety.
3. Fuse: Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left
In his ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’ [i], Wallace Stevens says: ‘Music falls upon the silence like a sense, / a passion that we feel, not understand.’ When we hear or feel music, we are the music. We inhabit it, and it inhabits us. We are fused with it. In the late 80s I was living on the ground floor of a dive in Wolverhampton. I had holes in my floorboards. I’d gone to sleep, and was dreaming about a rat crawling up from the cellar. Then my housemates must have disturbed me. They’d come back from a club and put on Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left in the room next door. It was like waking into another, better dream. The track I woke to was ‘Three Hours’. It sounds like a fusion of folk-roots, jazz and Indian raga. ‘Raga’ derives from the Sanskrit, meaning ‘colouring’, or dying, or, more figuratively, ‘something which colours our emotions.’ ‘Three Hours’ is somehow intense, melancholy and full of longing. I was a 20 year old who had grown up in the 70s and 80s, on the urban edge of East Leeds. This music became the music that expressed my own nostalgia for something I’d not properly experienced – an English pastoral inflected with a trance of Eastern mysticism. It was a cobweb, floating from 1969 – the year of its composition, and my birth. Of course, my two years in Grasmere brought me a little closer to that pastoral. I wasn’t looking to fuse with raga, but with haiku. Both share an emphasis on mood, and on seasonal references. I wanted to take some of the domestic qualities of western poetry – aphorism and proverb – and marry them to the Zen epiphanies of Japan. The delicacy I heard in Nick Drake’s guitar playing was something that helped me prime my attention for lyric. Much of the poetry I’d written before then had been more narrative in mode. I wanted to exchange storytelling for something closer to music – to the Japanese koto, or the Anglo-Saxon lyre. I wanted to learn how to pluck mood notes with language, and let those notes resonate and flow. Sometimes, I would go to sleep listening to the ebb and flow of Five Leaves Left. I would get up the next day, and walk out into autumn, where haiku notes would ebb and flow in turn. Only three times in my life have I felt this sense of walking inside a music that I was listening to, and composing, all at the same time. ‘Trig Points’ was the first time, ‘Edgelands’ was the second, and ‘Moving with Thought’, from Chinese Lanterns, was the third.
During my last summer in the Lakes, Simon Heywood and myself walked from Grasmere to Lorton Vale, where his parents have a caravan. The journey was some 30 miles, over the fells. We talked a lot. Simon’s connections with the Lake District run deeper than mine, so it seemed natural, later, that we would collaborate on a piece that fused my haiku and his music. I talked about Basil Bunting’s experiments with the sonata form, when composing poetry. Simon spoke about the challenge of feeding the economy of haiku, and the flow of renku into the composition of music. In the end we adapted something like the four-part structure of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony: calm, thanksgiving, storm, and calm after storm. Drawing from musical sources and collaborating with a musician was a necessary stage in my transformation from a predominantly narrative artist into one who has fallen under the spell of pattern, pulse and coloured emotion. I shouldn’t be so surprised. Long before I wrote a poem, I’d been a drummer in a Crossgates marching band. I couldn’t play or read music, but I could immerse myself in it and keep time. Inhabiting or keeping time to music – heard or implied – has helped me shape my thoughts and feelings, and refresh my writing process. It has even helped me keep writing when my creative pulse has faltered. Music is nothing if not transformation and momentum combined.
Listen to the 2007 arrangement of the haiku sequence ‘Trig Points’ performed by Clegg and guitarist Simon Heywood (thanks to Robin Vaughan-Williams for recording and broadcasting this version on his Spoken Word Antics Radio Show):
‘Trig Points’ appears in Matthew Clegg’s second full-length collection, The Navigators (Longbarrow Press, 2015); click here for more information about the book. ‘Not Daffodils’, an earlier blog post reflecting on the Grasmere residency, appears here.
[i] Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, New York, Knopf, 1954
Photography used to be full of hiatuses, gaps, voids. No matter how much it tried to capture, more remained open. No matter how much it tried to represent, more remained elusive. I don’t mean the gaps in time, the gaps Eadweard Muybridge attempted to fill with his proto time-lapse photography, nor the necessary stasis of the still image. What I mean is that photography used to be seen simply as a representational tool. Photography only ever represented an object; the object remained outside of its presentation. However, the recent collapse of the object into its representational field has considerably breached the etiquette of aesthetic possibilities within the discipline. Whilst these images might carry negative implications, there’s little lost reality between them and the endless preening of the on-demand models and studios themselves; the loss of the real is much further back in the process. Doctored can no longer simply be taken as a pejorative, as it has to be seen within a larger context of a world constantly being re-touched at many levels and not just as an end process. The unobtainable is not even an aspirational mise-en-scene but one of the few realities we still have left. We understand that these views of the world are partial and suited to fit a certain limited framework. Rolling news and a burgeoning virtual cultural economy have seen a further collapse between the subject and its representation. The object has become more like its representation.
3D and 2D rendering of spatial realities are no longer separate ends of a visual logic but are closing in on each other with an increasing force, with QR codes for example. A quantitatively 2D experience of a still image folds out (or in) through the swipe of an app to reveal an inner, richer experience, like peering inside a 2D box, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe read as 1984, Winston standing in as a metaphor for the narcissism of any remaining separation. Somewhere between descriptive rendering and conjunctive object, QR (or Quick Response) codes no longer rely on solid Euclidean geometry but on a visual hiatus of solidity, mass and volume. The use of technology is already beyond its nominal application. 4G or 5G are here because they can render our last movement as both relative and predictive. In this climate the academic categorisations for the disciplines in the plastic arts have lost their broader purpose as a descriptive framework. The separation of sculpture, painting or photography have collapsed into a generalised plethora of ad hoc and temporary practices, often moving towards a re-imagining of the categories themselves. Art no longer represents, mirrors nor disparages mercantile and technological practices but is indistinguishable from them, because it can only ever attempt to catch them up. I want to discuss in further detail these shifts in the dimensional and materialistic properties of contemporary culture. In order to show this, I will discuss the changes in my own practices as a photographer in recent years alongside the broader practices of the arts in general.
In 2013 I began photographing a series of objects on a black background. My initial intention for the series was to ironize pop sensibility in general and that of Warhol and Koons in particular. I thought it might highlight the failure of the consumerist / aesthetic utopia through its own mechanisms. My working title for the series at the time was End User. I intended the series to show the failure of objects to satisfy their function, to defamiliarize the everyday pop aesthetic, to escape the banal by reconfiguring its use. The objects, I thought, might serve as totems not of desire or longing but of warning and disgust. I finished the series sometime late in 2013 & thought little more of it but as a reliquary languishing somewhere among all the other online space junk. I will return to my re-engagement with the series later. But now I want to discuss the shift in spatial rendering in greater detail.
The QR code integrates itself into the modern condition with ease. It gives us the illusion of a bespoke experience whilst delivering a flattened-out product. The hustle and bustle of the market is only experiential through personal time. Willow Farm and Oakland Grange aren’t real places, yet capital allows us to imagine them as a comfort, as a familiarity. Time and money, the old adage, exist at the expense of space, concomitant with the ‘real’. The way we choose has become as important as what we choose. We might consider this faddish form of cultural hegemony to have also affected our relationship to the arts, or vice-versa. Compare, for example, Koons’ Three Ball Total Equilibrium Tank with Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie-Woogie. Mondrian’s piece exists in a strictly linear fashion. Albeit in an abstracted way, Boogie-Woogie represents the movement of mass through time and space. The blocks of colour are like crosstown traffic seen from above. It’s easy to imagine the car horns and bustle of New York as a kind of jazz rendered by Mondrian as an interlocking series of shapes and colours and sounds.
Koons, however, negates mass, volume and time in favour of a vacuum. The balls are neither rising nor descending, but untouchable and therefore desirous, idealized. Koons ironises the fetishistic quality of consumer goods by highlighting the void of displayed products. Capital, of course, hates a vacuum, cannot exist on stasis, needs trends and fluctuations to survive, needs equilibrium and so we buy into Koons’ version of the ’emperor’s new clothes’ as a critique of culture capital. Space has become distance; the distance between the wholesale consumption of culture and the loss of a sensual or textual experience through its treatment. The gallery experience further separates us from the object rather than bringing us closer to it. But we’ve nowhere left to go but the gallery to try to authenticate the loss. Willow Farm or Oakland Grange become the only real we have.
With Warhol, capital and art become synonymous, unashamedly so. To sell the dollar back to itself at a hyper-inflated rate says as much about the need for art as a product as it does about the desire for the product as art. Like an ultimate act of depreciation capital has to eat with wolves, has to exist in the void. Nothing but itself to desire, the narcissistic conditional flow is ever empty. You could get away with that stuff in the 60s. Even up to the 90s the petulance of appropriating the everyday world seemed a bit like an act of defiance and nobody seemed to draw a line in the sand between art and consumption. Warhol or Lichtenstein’s pop aesthetic are an ad-man’s dream, and so the endless re-appropriation between commerce and art is perpetuated. It’s a quick leap from dada to pop and easier still to relieve either of any radicalism. As for today, we’re either left staring back at the void of cultural capital or fizzing with the mock desire of the quick response of a personalized alternative. Culture is now a player of hyper-credit, rather than subsisting at the counter-cultural level of the semblance of an alternative. With Warhol each print has a further degradation of surface, the non-mechanical process of screen-printing renders the dollar bill increasingly useless except as an artifact (or artifice) of corruption and consumption: process as purpose. The reproduction of One Hundred Dollar Bills belies its status as an original and expensive screen print. Only a truly mechanized process might correct these flaws. Counter to this would be a rejection of the objectification of art practices. If we skip forward a couple of decades, terms like ‘handmade’, ‘craft’, ‘bespoke’ or ‘regional’ begin to gain currency again (within a framework of fear and boredom with a perceived mechanization of culture). Of course the relationship between the arts and a burgeoning mercantile class isn’t a new one, and small cottage industries whilst laudable in themselves become problematic at the distributive or critical level.
Photography today can potentially be endlessly reproduced without a loss of image quality. The impersonal resides in its end use, in the co-opting of the impersonal as folksy, retro or iconic. For me, there’s a status crisis when I look at an image by Richard Prince; each time I consider its worth the counter clicks and a dollar passes between its value and its meaning. A dollar between someone managing my click and the guy utilizing it. A dollar between the guy making an appropriation and the guy making an approximation. It’s no wonder that we feel so hemmed in. If I were to ‘follow’ a Richard Prince image on a social media feed, it might endlessly tell me what its status is, in real time, like a Tamagotchi version of cultural engagement, art as productive artifice. In today’s oversaturated climate, unfamiliarity is a luxury. Just as we can’t decommission our curiosity around consumption, artists also become caught up in the habit of supplying and refining these demands. Those unwilling or unable to do so are culturally ostracised as old-fashioned, or awkward, or, worst of all, are ignored. Those who are predisposed to engage are caught in a tidal wave of back-slapping, as in the re-affirmation of place as product.
With this background in mind, I began to re-engage with Modern Icons. I thought of the objects in the original series as finished or disposed of. That the photographs were catching their passing, that these images and our consumption of them had an end user status and that the objects would disappear from use without trace. Now, I realise that I misunderstood the nature of what recycling (or upcycling) is. Objects don’t just disappear and in fact often can’t be wholly dismantled or destroyed. This fragmentation and unresolved materiality began to bother me. Beginning the series again I saw these strange remnants and discarded objects as somehow exotic and rare. I didn’t know what the objects were any longer, or what use, if any, they ever had. They seemed to carry their strangeness with them as if they were archaeological finds. The elusive quality of not knowing a use for a thing gave them a status as beautiful like icons from an age where consumption and production raged unchecked. Not a world we are absent from, but one we have forgotten we are of and responsible for. Objects are here to stay; we cannot avoid them, though I’ve still not found a use for them. Perhaps I’ll keep the objects as grave goods, amulets to ward away evil, or perhaps we should send them into space as satellites of human desire and its implications. The series of photographs will eventually fade to pale outlines and go with their objects into the ever-increasing swell of the void.
New photography by Karl Hurst will feature as part of the forthcoming ‘Ruskin Re-Viewed’ exhibition at Millennium Gallery, Sheffield (31 October – 8 November 2015). Three recent essays on photography (under the series title ‘On Liminal Spaces’) appeared on the Longbarrow Blog earlier this year; the first essay (‘Reflections on Impracticality’) appears here, the second essay (‘Meditation on Carl Wark’) appears here, and the third essay (‘Winter Hare at Alport: A Theory of Disappearance’) appears here. Karl Hurst’s Flickr photosets can be viewed here, including the series Modern Icons discussed in this piece. Boxed editions of prints are available from his Etsy site. Details of his publications with Longbarrow Press (writing as Andrew Hirst) are available here. His sequence ‘Three Night Walks’ appears in the walking-themed poetry anthology The Footing (Longbarrow Press).
A bird I can’t name
trills like a rag on soapy glass –
a squeak with a chime in it.
Thin paths. Flat fields. No buildings, no machinery, no cover. The line of the river, yarning between thick green hems, two bridges, two crossings, the rain clipping our ears. We fix on the next step, and the next, puddles, ditches, stiles, lifting to a wooded embankment, a damp, porous corridor, the surface noise building up, cutting out, scratches and rips in the sound, minor roads to the north, a stepped slope ahead, the track recedes without us, falling out of the corridor, to a threshold, a shelter, an open-sided box on water.
We’ve come to this wetland, two miles east of Mexborough, to record poems from The Navigators, Matthew Clegg’s new collection. The poems that Matt has chosen for this expedition are drawn from the ‘contemporary’ movement of the book’s title sequence, which traces the recovery of the South Yorkshire waterways after decades of post-industrial decline, and their rehabilitation as places of leisure. It’s interesting, then, to discover that the shallow lakes of Denaby Ings nature reserve were formed as a result of mining subsidence, and that the wooded embankment that gives access and protection to the reserve is the line of the former Dearne Valley Railway, which used to bear coal from the local mines. Denaby Halt was the first stop on the Edlington-Wakefield passenger service, until the station closed in 1949; the site of the halt is only a few metres from our shelter, a simple, three-sided viewing hide, the eyeline drawing level with open water. Uncoupled from networks and schedules, this is still a place of waiting, of watching, of transport.
It’s also a place of listening. I’d anticipated a sound-bed of coots and terns, a lake-wide span on which Matt’s poems and commentaries might rest; perhaps some of the ‘honks’ and ‘trills’ caught by the narrator of ‘Brigand’, which takes this den as its setting, might also find their way into our recording. Today, however, the most prominent feature in the mix is rain, steadily building for the last hour or so, tracking our journey from house to hide, striking the roof above us. With no sign of it easing off, it’s clear that we’ll have to work with its rhythms, and maybe this is as it should be. Water is the element that moves through The Navigators, in all its fall and flow, linking the Cumbrian lakes to the rivers and canals of Yorkshire, sweeping on to the tide-pools and cave mouths of Flamborough and the open sea beyond. As we sit and listen to it beating on the metal frame of the hide, it takes on an industrial echo, a ghost of work. We’re only picking up a few discrete sounds from the environment that surrounds the shelter, which has the effect of making the space more intimate; oppressive, even. Without realising it, we’ve raised our voices, the downpour closing in; I reset the recording levels, taking them down, and down again, still peaking here and there. The rain has formed a second skin around the hide, audibly and visibly thick, a temporary curtain for the unwalled side of the structure, a blind at our backs.
Most of the podcasts that I’ve produced with Matt have been recorded on the move. The three audio works that we developed in response to his first collection, West North East, were structured and focused by the act of moving from place to place, ranging from a short, intensive walk through North Sheffield to episodic and exploratory forays in East Leeds and Flamborough. As well as enacting a sense of journey, the process and the recordings (under the collective title ‘Fugue’) invited interruption and juxtaposition, a miscellany of unplanned, unexpected episodes that either tested the recording (heavy traffic, heavy weather) or helped to shape it (the crunch of snow under boots in late spring). Making a recording in an ostensibly static environment, as we are doing today, presents different challenges. Dynamism and movement can only be captured in a ‘fixed frame’; we can’t stray from this place, can’t move towards the source of any sounds that might tempt us out of our makeshift studio. Given the prevailing conditions, of course, we’re unlikely to be tempted. We try to recall if we’ve attempted anything along similar lines to this; we draw a blank, then remember a morning spent in a sea cave at Flamborough Head, some three years ago, recording the twelve-poem sequence ‘Cave Time and Sea Changes’ which closes The Navigators. We reflect on the contrasts and parallels between the cave and the hide. In one, a vertical rift in the rock, revealing sea and sky, is also the means by which the tide creeps in, breaching one threshold after another, raising the horizon and limiting our access. In the other, a view of calm, inland water is framed by four regular, rectangular gaps in metal, arranged horizontally; the water that moves is vertical, and holds us in the enclosure, rather than driving us out of it. Each space has its own distinct acoustic, too, the natural echo of the cave seemingly a world apart from the artificial compression of the hide. As Matt observes, however, the hide has conductivity; the rain’s rhythms are transmitted from without to within, the metal roof sharpening the pitch. We lean into the swell.
The four poems Matt has chosen to read this afternoon are ‘Brigand’, ‘Mexborough, Water-Fronted Properties Released’, ‘ANGLERS REQUIRE PERMITS’ and ‘When They Next Make You Redundant’. We haven’t discussed the selection – the rationale, the relationship between poems and setting – which opens up a space for me to pursue threads and correspondences. In the glassy suspension of the hide, it seems that each poem enacts, or addresses, a surrender to drift. The narrator of ‘Brigand’, a member of the eponymous South Yorkshire motorcycle gang, seeks the trance-like detachment offered by the Denaby shelter, perhaps as a counterpoint to the noise and speed of the road. This is established in an act of attention – to the chafings and chants that rise from the Ings – sustained until the lake’s ‘lush trawl of sound’ subsides, and a bubble of quiet floats into the hut. The ‘drift’ in ‘Mexborough, Water-Fronted Properties Released’ spreads through sound, sense and form, as the marketed ‘properties’ of the poem’s found title (taken from a developer’s canalside hoarding, advertising new houses and apartments on the town’s eastern edge) are exchanged for the abstract properties of light, solidity and weight. The poem idles on the threshold of the concrete and the permeable, from which the rippled reflections of scaffolding are no more or less substantial than the ‘anchored / new-builds’. Organic and inorganic matter collects on the surface of the water; twigs and polystyrene converge, clot and scatter, the transitions preserved only by the passing eye. The spirit of haiku hovers over these lines, in their juxtaposition of images and contemplation of impermanence; Clegg takes this a step further, fragmenting the form, unmooring the words from orthodox lineation, setting them adrift in open space. We see the froth, the rippling wake, and it slows the pace of the poem. ‘ANGLERS REQUIRE PERMITS’ shifts the focus from water to land, and considers the unauthorised uses to which the land is put. It is unclear whether the ‘dumpsite’ of the poem occupies private or public space: the status of the site, the permissions that govern its use, and the materials accumulating there are in flux. We leave sofas and fridges ‘shedding form / and function’, becoming ash, becoming light. The fourth poem, ‘When They Next Make You Redundant’, hinges on the moment when the canal enters the river, drift yielding to current, gripping and directing ‘the steer of [the] barge’ as it moves through and beyond the last lock. The poem is a double sonnet, literally hinged, the first line of the second sonnet mirroring the last line of the first, the remaining thirteen lines wrinkling and refracting their counterparts (‘where canal steps down to the Don’ / ‘and the Don sweeps on from canal‘). The ‘current’ gives the poem its flow, and its charge; the river’s circuit is the ‘mains’ into which the barge is ‘plugged’, and the source of ‘the trip in [the] blood’. This is one of the central themes of The Navigators, modulated and developed throughout the book: water as a conductor of energy, energy as a conductor of change.
The rain fastens on the hide. As Matt brings each poem to its close, we pause in the gap that it leaves. The weather is nudging us inward; our exchanges are hesitant, brief and brittle, the downpour pushes us back. It doesn’t feel right to be talking in here. It’s hard to think. The trance folds around us. In some respects, the metal shelter feels more remote than the Flamborough sea cave. The cave was a contingent space, a brief portal in which it wasn’t possible to settle; the knowledge that it would be breached by other visitors to the coast, and the returning tide, demanded that we work quickly. Since settling into the hide, we haven’t seen another soul, or felt the ‘outside’ world’s pressure, clamour or pull. Matt reaches for his copy of The Navigators, thumb skimming past the book’s central section, from which today’s selection has been made, coming to rest on a page in the first section. The poem he’s picked out is ‘The Tang’, a short, single-sentence lyric, written for another time, another place. In its summoning of ‘electrons / ferried / by rain’, however, it speaks to this time, this place. As Matt reminds himself in an extemporised introduction to the recording that we make a few minutes later, it also speaks of the desire to lose one’s cover, one’s protection; to step out of the frame and into the storm, to be charged by its current. This exposed, unscripted moment finds a place in the resulting podcast, sparking with urgency. It’s echoed in Matt’s closing remarks, in which he expresses a hope ‘that the language [of poetry] might be able to conduct an energy from the world’. We gather up our papers and equipment and step over the threshold, out of the frame, losing the hide’s rhythm, other sounds edging into earshot, the leaves, the track, the nick and tear of distant traffic.
The Navigators is out now from Longbarrow Press; click here for more information. Listen to the Denaby Ings podcast below (poems in order of appearance: ‘Brigand’, ‘Mexborough, Water-Fronted Properties Released’, ‘ANGLERS REQUIRE PERMITS’, ‘The Tang’, ‘When They Next Make You Redundant’)
Matthew Clegg discusses the development of ‘Cave Time and Sea Changes’ in this 2012 blog post. Listen to the ‘Cave Time and Sea Changes’ podcast below (recorded in a sea cave at Flamborough Head in September 2012)
One of the poems featured in the podcast, ‘Mexborough, Water-Fronted Properties Released’, is also the subject of a new short film (based on footage of Pastures Road Bridge, Mexborough). Watch the film below:
I’m watching The Goldbergs, a sort of Wonder Years for the eighties, and who doesn’t yearn for leg warmers, cassette tapes and Cyndi Lauper? Girls do just want to have fun. But if you never stood as a family watching your new microwave and/or soda stream, as though it were a TV, you won’t like it. If you’re too young or too old, you’ll turn over … put Hollyoaks or Take the High Road on … I will forever associate watching eggs inflate inside a magic/radioactive box with Billy Joel, though neither I nor Billy could’ve seen that coming; the memories and connections we carry with us are unforeseen. I saw a friend last week. We were student nurses together, and we spent most of that time listening to music (and studying). But when we spoke recently, he said he always thinks of me when he listens to Space … Except that we watched Shooting Fish together (which uses “Me and You Versus The World” on its soundtrack), I can’t imagine why. But I probably have associations about you that you won’t recognize yourself in. The marks we leave on people are always only versions of ourselves.
“A mark that remains after that which made it has passed by – a footprint for example.” Rebecca Solnit quotes this explanation of the Tibetan word shul in A Field Guide To Getting Lost. “In other contexts, shul is used to describe the scarred hollow in the ground where a house stood, the channel worn through rock where a river runs in flood, the indentation in the grass where an animal slept last night.” That last description connected. Ages ago, someone lent me a book of Jane Kenyon’s. I held onto it for years, and this is one of the images that has stayed with me: “Heavy Summer Rain”:
The grasses in the field have toppled,
and in places it seems that a large, now
absent, animal must have passed the night.
The hay will right itself if the day
turns dry. I miss you steadily, painfully.
I wonder why the impression of an absent animal should move me, so that I’ve been carrying the look of it, more than the words, with me the last few years – but that absence made present through the toppled grass, the shul, makes the other absence tangible. I feel the I missing you. I feel the weight of it in my chest. That it is painful.
There are poems you wish you’d written. I wished to write this poem, but it would be like covering “Town Called Malice” (there are a couple of covers that start like they might be interesting … but then, they’re not). You cannot improve this song. Put the microphone down and step away from the record button. But the poem left its impression, so that however long after returning the Kenyon, when I read Solnit, a couple of months ago, shul sounded more loudly, and I did write a poem – “Marginalia”. It’s in seven parts. This is the first:
It’s a litany of shul. From the stretchmarks, cologne and etymology to the lack of fruit. I carry that MacNeice poem with me, so when the bay window entered the poem, so did the line about snow and tangerines. I guess most people carry “Snow” around, but what about Catholicism? That too? Ok, Prokofiev? Lose Hill? Some impressions are deeper than others. We accumulate them from the people, places, books, etc we encounter, and it’s these marks that influence how we read the world. Viktor Shklovsky said of influence: ”Is it like filling an empty vessel, or is it the rotation of a dynamo rotor in an electric field that, as a result, creates a new kind of electricity?” I’m a one off not because I’m brand spanking new, but because I am the only person with my exact combination of experiences, perceptions, and so what filters through me is made new as a consequence. I am The Avalanches sampling Madonna’s bass line. I’m Dean Stockwell lip-syncing Roy Orbison in Blue Velvet – “In Dreams”, a lovely, melancholic, innocuous song made creepy as hell by a film I definitely didn’t see in the eighties because I was 13 and it’s way too scary.
Shul translates to “track”: “A path is a shul because it is an impression in the ground left by the regular tread of feet”. In Wanderlust, Solnit says “to write is to carve a new path through the terrain of the imagination, or to point out new features on a familiar route”. Perhaps sampling and found poetry are like walking an existing path to identify new features or establish new significance. I noticed that “Holiday” bass line because it’s a familiar feature in my head (I also danced to “Vogue” on the City Hall stage, though maybe that’s less relevant …). But The Avalanches do make something new of it. They sample from The Main Attraction to Rose Royce, yet the overall sound is distinctly their own.
Parts III and VII of “Marginalia” use excerpts from Zelda Sayre’s letters to F. Scott Fitzgerald. These letters are brilliant and bright and insistent. They’re looking towards the promise of something that’s still there, if at a distance. “Marginalia” is all about what’s gone and the impression it made, and I wanted to use the energy she gets onto the page for this purpose, to ramp it up until meaning begins to break down, to be so urgent the words burn up with it.
The impression left after whatever made it has passed by – a bit like that Barthes thing of using a text as a container or reflection to make sense of your own experience, I read this at the right time. So much depends. If I’d read the Solnit earlier or later, if whoever hadn’t lent me the Kenyon, I don’t remember how I came by Zelda Sayre’s letters, but if I hadn’t. The rag and bone of the imagination, the shul, connects in unforeseen ways. Is a poem really a path? That suggests you could trace my steps. I might leave an impression on you, but I can’t be sure what that impression will be. You have your own damage to bring on the journey.
Listen to Angelina D’Roza reading ‘Marginalia’:
Several poems by Angelina D’Roza appear in the Longbarrow Press anthology The Footing; her debut collection will appear from Longbarrow Press in 2016. She is among the poets taking part in the Longbarrow Press residency at the Pop-Up Ruskin Museum at 381 South Road, Walkley, Sheffield, S6 3TD, from 2 – 30 September 2015, culminating in a collective reading at the Museum at 7pm on Wednesday 30 September, featuring D’Roza and poets Matthew Clegg, Pete Green, Chris Jones and Fay Musselwhite. See the Longbarrow Press Events page for more information.
‘Heavy Summer Rain’ by Jane Kenyon appears in Otherwise: New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press 1997). You can read the poem here.
The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way… To see clearly is poetry, prophesy and religion, all in one.
John Ruskin, Modern Painters III
Nature, art and work define the prism through which John Ruskin examined man’s place in the world, and he combined them with mathematical elegance. Art and work require nature as raw material, and through study and further engagement, art and nature will ask of the mind what work takes from the body, while nature and work, for Ruskin, provide the perfect subjects for art.
The last of these equations is demonstrated by the critical interest Ruskin took in the Pre-Raphaelites, and in J M W Turner. Born and raised at the poor end of the Thames fishing trade, Turner’s close observations of ‘black barges, patched sails’ and ‘weedy roadside vegetation’ were highly praised by Ruskin, who saw no other painter able to depict ‘the natural way things have of lying about.’  This sensitivity, and the rallying cry of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, to paint from nature and to reject classical and artificial notions of composition and beauty, chime with Ruskin’s revelation, aged twenty one, which overturned much of the nine years’ schooling he’d had in ‘the mannerisms and tricks’ of making a painting. One afternoon, ‘with no prospect whatever but a small aspen tree against the blue sky’, he saw the charm of ‘composition’ in the existing world, and the holistic learning journey of capturing it. ‘At last the tree was there, and everything that I had thought before about trees, nowhere.’ 
The poets and visual artists featured and discussed in this essay embrace this clarity of sight in their spark and rigour. Seamus Heaney’s sonnet “The Forge”  begins: ‘All I know is a door into the dark.’ Through the doorway, all we see and hear, such as ‘The unpredictable fantail of sparks / Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water’, make the nearby ‘traffic flashing in rows’ sound tinny and ineffectual; while the juxtaposition of the modern road, where the blacksmith ‘recalls a clatter / Of hoofs’, provides a surface under which we seem to peer, as if through time, or perhaps not through time at all, but through our own surface layers, into what we are still made of.
“Coming Close”  by Philip Levine invites more direct contact, with a woman working the night shift at a buffer wheel. The work is dirty, hard and heavy, and has taken its toll on her body. She’s three hours, and many years in, her work is steady and conscientious, yet she’d resist it in a moment, should the chance come. Just before the end of the poem, we’re asked to imagine this:
… if by some luck the power were cut,
the wheel slowed to a stop so that you
suddenly saw it was not a solid object
but so many separate bristles forming
in motion a perfect circle …
Then she laughs and touches ‘the arm of your white shirt to mark / you for your own, now and forever.’
Philip Levine was born to a middle class family in Detroit in 1928.  When his father died, twelve years later, the insurance company found an excuse to deny the major part of the claim, and Levine saw his mother worn out by the effort of keeping the family fed, clothed and sheltered. When they were fourteen, he and his twin brother vowed never to ‘participate in the corporate business of this country, a business that appalled us by the brutality of its exploitation of the people we most loved.’  Poetry had taken hold of Levine a year or so earlier, when his burgeoning lust for words fused with feelings of deep resonance that arose from delving into backyard soil to make things grow, and nights spent in woodland. So nature and work were implicated from the start, and “Innocence”, a poem from his 1991 collection What Work Is, sets them in bitter opposition to each other. A team of workers have prepared an oak wood for a road to come through it, foliage and branches have been removed, then:
earthmovers gripped the chained and stripped trunks,
hunched down and roared their engines, the earth
held and trembled before it gave, and the stumps
howled as they turned their black, prized groins
skyward for the first times in their lives
Soon after the vow with his twin, Levine began working part-time in a soap factory, and for many years supported his higher education by road building, factory and delivery work, until writing and teaching at last provided a living. His poetry remains fascinated by the streets and people of Detroit. In What Work Is, we journey with ‘the faces on the bus … each sealed in its hunger / for … a lost life’ , to places where someone must put on ‘wide rubber hip boots, / gauntlets to the elbow, a plastic helmet / like a knight’s but with a little glass window’ , or yearn to ‘climb the shaking ladder to the roof / of the Nitro plant and tear off / my respirator and breathe the yellow air’ , then to school, where the monoculture sets in:
These are the children of Flint, their fathers
work at the spark plug factory or truck
bottled water in 5 gallon sea-blue jugs
to the widows of the suburbs. You can see
already how their backs have thickened 
In his youth, Levine believed that manual labour would leave his ‘mind and imagination free for writing’.  This mirrors Ruskin’s desire for St George’s Museum in Sheffield to inspire tired workers with ‘what is lovely in the life of Nature, and heroic in the life of Men.’ Situated on Walkley’s north facing hillside, where the furthest view looks northwest over the Peak District, ‘the mountain home of the museum’, as Ruskin described it, was chosen to draw local grinders up from the toxic air of Rivelin, Loxley and Neepsend valleys.  However, some knew a more sustained escape was needed.
By his mid-twenties, Levine had his share of residual minor injury, was disgusted by the divisive practises that drove industry, and the prospect of a life there, unassuaged by his dream to make poetry pay, would have been intolerable. Instead, for many decades until he died in February this year, writing and teaching gave him:
… some work
to do, something useful
and hard, and that they might please
their own need to be doing. 
A hundred years before Levine worked in factories, Sheffield grinders suffered severe damage to their respiration, digestion and posture; many were physical wrecks with terminal illnesses by the age of nineteen.  Rivelin knife grinder Benjamin Creswick was impeded by the symptoms of his trade while his family grew.  When St George’s Museum opened, in 1875, he was twenty-two, and its exhibits spurred him to try his hand; he discovered a talent for sculpture and invested in lessons. Before long he drew the attention of John Ruskin, who tutored him, helped find commissions, and paid him, weekly, for as long as necessary. Creswick became a sculptor of great national renown. He played a leading role in the Arts and Crafts movement, and held a senior position in Birmingham Art School for decades. Completing many public and private commissions, he made art from terracotta, marble and bronze, often portraying characters at tasks he’d performed and observed during his early working life.
It’s a credit to the zeal for authenticity Ruskin passed on in his training, that, with at least six children to support, Creswick initially turned down a major commission to illustrate the manufacture of hats, saying he knew nothing of the process. He was persuaded, after being allowed several weeks of study in the hat factory; and the friezes he made for the high street shop front, and factory entrance behind, have been called ‘a magnificent piece of Socialist realism, modelled without sentimentality but with great dignity.’  The hatters’ building no longer exists, but the scenes depicted on the Cutler’s Hall Frieze in London show the same strength and dignity. Creswick’s great granddaughter, visual artist Annie Creswick-Dawson, has said that the visual impact of the men’s stances, within sections and from one frame to another, remind her of the flow of the Rivelin.
I find this comparison thrilling for the way it taps into the parallels between man and nature that I strive to illuminate in poetry. From the realisations voiced by the teenage couple in “Star”, to the potency of how Sheffield’s fast rivers brought its famous industry to town, the connections flow. Poems of mine such as “Here I spill” and “River Memoir” imagine a river’s life in terms of a person’s, tracking attitudes and behaviour as they mature, suggesting also the harnessed power of a workforce. In poems like “Impasse” and “Contra Flow” the river stands in for the mind’s ability to break through and move on. “Flood Triptych: The Loxley” brings these notions together: as the harness breaks, human ingenuity turns against human, and devastation wrought by the river echoes a body’s internal struggle.
John Clare’s poetry pulls you into the midst of nature, where the work of flora, fauna and river seems never to be done. People are often peripheral: a cowboy on a gate, a distant seed-man sowing grain, or where ‘the cottage roof’s-thatch brown / Did add its beauty to the budding green’.  Clare observes from pathless land, inside a thicket, or by ‘little brooks that hum a simple lay / In green unnoticed spots’.  Removed from human lore, his poetry reveals the long rhythms of nature, while melding the immediacy of life, for its creatures and vegetation, with the breathless joy of the recorder. In “Sudden Shower”, a bee is one of the ‘little things around, like you and I’, who hurry for shelter, and his allegiance is palpable in this stanza from “Autumn”.
While from the rustling scythe the haunted hare
Scampers circuitous with startled ears
Pricked up, then squat, as by
She brushes to the woods
Where seeded grass breast-high and undisturbed
Form pleasant clumps through which the suthering winds
Softens her rigid fears
And lulls to calm repose.
Born in 1793, to a peasant family in the Northamptonshire village of Helpston, Clare grew up in similar poverty to Turner, with the same kind of exposure to his future material.  He went to school until he was eleven or twelve, after which money and location left no possibility for further education; yet Clare was a voracious scholar. He borrowed, or saved to buy, books on history, music, botany, maths; everything, that is, except Latin and grammar which he disdained. Already in the thrall of reading, writing and story, when he read The Seasons by James Thompson in his early teens, he was seized by the urgent desire to record his world as poetry, and did so obsessively from then on. His early inner life also has parallels with Levine’s, and the poetry of both are underpinned by deep-rooted threads of human equality and nature’s supremacy. They also share the endearing strategy of telling you their tale as though you were stood beside them. Here are some lines from Clare’s “The Nightingale’s Nest” :
Hark! there she is as usual – let’s be hush –
For in this blackthorn-clump, if rightly guessed,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
These hazel branches in a gentle way
And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs
The fields and gardens where Clare worked weren’t the factories of Creswick or Levine, yet in “The Lament of Swordy Well” he bears witness to the appetites of the revolution already underway in cities:
And me, they turned me inside out
For sand and grit and stones
And turned my old green hills about
And picked my very bones.
In poems like this, dedicated to the horror of land ownership which Enclosure ushered in, Clare rails at length against its fences, stop signs, ‘Grubbed up trees, banks and bushes’.  The packaging of land came to Helpston in 1806, Clare’s thirteenth year, and in “The Moors” there’s the sense of him having caught the last moments of ‘one eternal green / That never felt the rage of blundering plough’, whose ‘only bondage was the circling sky’, where boys picked mulberries, and shepherds found lost sheep. Intact forever, until ‘Enclosure came and trampled on the grave / Of labour’s rights and left the poor a slave’. This and a similar line in “The Village Minstrel”, where he ‘Marks the stopped brook and mourns oppression’s power’ – a line that could have been written somewhere in the world any year since – typifies his fluidity between a lost detail and the irrevocable hijacking of resources. His way of speaking for and as the landscape and its creatures makes his politics always personal, yet he is usually shedding light on an ugly facet of his nemesis. When “The Fallen Elm”, which always grew comfortingly close to his home, and ‘murmured in our chimney top / The sweetest anthem autumn ever made’, was felled without any warning, he notes the dangerous rhetoric of those who ‘Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free’. He goes on:
And labour’s only cow was drove away.
No matter – wrong was right and right was wrong
And freedom’s bawl was sanction to the song.
– Such was thy ruin, music-making elm
Like Levine, Clare grew up at the brunt of great national hardship and severe class division. In Helpston, he struggled to make a living, nearly enlisted, even put up fences for the local squire – which always made him drink more and hardly write at all; then at twenty four, his family almost destitute, he travelled a few miles for work burning lime, which went to make mortar and fertiliser. It was during this employment that he resolved to change course: he approached a local bookseller and his twelve year journey to publication began.
This is no rags-to-riches tale. Clare held out for the best deal, and after his first collection was published in 1820, he enjoyed several years of acclaim as the Peasant Poet. During visits to London, though noticeably gauche, he made friends, some generous and loyal, of writers, artists, etc. There were more collections of his work, but inexperience and bad advice lost him money, and it’s likely that his wit and politics eluded much of his contemporary readership. When delays and charlatans had squandered his most accessible assets, his popularity waned. Meanwhile, the severity of his mental frailty, and homesickness when away, went unrecognised or misunderstood for too long. Conversely, he missed London friends and city life when he only connected with them by letter.
Three years after the publication of his first collection, Clare suffered his first bout of depression. This coincided with the death of a rural labouring class poet from Suffolk, a few decades his senior. Robert Bloomfield’s work had been immensely popular for a while, but the man had died penniless and losing his sanity. Fourteen years later, aged forty-four, John Clare was first certified insane. Failing mental health, manifesting in depression and erratic behaviour, had for a long time prevented him from making the best of his earnings, and made home life difficult. Now, it seems, his wife was concerned he would become violent. In his last few years at home, he could often only be calmed by one of his children talking gently with him about the countryside. He remained in mental health care and continued to write until his death in 1864. Here’s his sonnet, published in 1835, “To the Memory of Bloomfield”:
Sweet unassuming minstrel, not to thee
The dazzling fashions of the day belong:
Nature’s wild pictures, field and cloud and tree
And quiet brooks far distant from the throng
In murmurs tender as the toiling bee
Make the sweet music of thy gentle song.
Well, nature owns thee: let the crowd pass by,
The tide of fashion is a stream too strong
For pastoral brooks that gently flow and sing,
But nature is their source, and earth and sky
Their annual offering to her current bring.
Thy gentle muse and memory need no sigh,
For thine shall murmur on to many a spring
When their proud streams are summer-burnt and dry.
As is so often the case, in the 1870s much concern was expressed in Britain about the national debt. This didn’t, however, refer to the debt owed to the working urban and rural poor by the individuals making a fortune from the sweat on their thickening backs. Ruskin’s response was to call for a National Store, and St George’s Museum in Walkley was conceived to exhibit this collection of artefacts.  He deplored mass production and its attendant poverty of the human mind and body, and founded the Guild of St George to explore alternatives to industrial capitalism, encourage art and craft, and work toward greater class equality throughout the country. The museum in Walkley was one of its earliest projects. Unfortunately, several episodes of serious mental illness left John Ruskin unable to fully realise his hopes.
Currently, the Guild is funding a nine year programme at Sheffield’s Millennium Gallery, due to culminate later this year. Ceramicist Emilie Taylor was commissioned to produce work for Force of Nature; Picturing Ruskin’s Landscape, its 2012 exhibition.
Taylor has led a number of projects that encourage members of a community to make art from what binds them.  Several years ago, for instance, in Brown & White, recovering heroin and cocaine users employed a nostalgic framing to juxtapose their own images of addiction and safety. For Force of Nature, she drew on childhood memories of her father’s involvement in pigeon racing around their Rivelin Valley home, and the piece she made, “So High I Almost Touched the Sky”, is a pair of metre tall vases decorated with tender images of Skye Edge pigeon fanciers, their birds and surroundings. She fired them in an outdoor smokeless wood-fuelled kiln, built by the artists’ community at Manor Top, while pigeons flew high above. The impressive stature of these items, along with their capacity and fragility, are perfect for the men they depict. Indeed, for the whole workforce who keep everyone fed and sheltered without anyone’s name being known – because none of them are called Tesco or Adidas – and for the poets and artists spoken of here, who have seen something and wished to tell it.
A few years ago, Taylor was guest visual artist on a poetry walk led by Mark Doyle, and I was lucky enough to be on it. We left Upperthorpe Library to stand where Kelvin flats had been, and look out over Pitsmoor and Parkwood Springs. She gave out materials, talked to us about looking, not looking, and negative space, showed us methods to capture our version of the view. Then I was amazed to be led along Neepsend Valley to where derelict pigeon lofts are barely hidden by a thin stand of trees beside Penistone Road. “Flight from Cuthbert Bank” is the poem I wrote about the walk; here are its last two stanzas:
Ten years since the last
kept pigeon homed to here. Back five more decades
to before they razed Parkwood Spring and sucked
Neepsend dry: the valley not this fleck of factory,
a filament between car galleries
and abandoned hillside,
but like a Lowry vision: a flock
of men released by work clocks, to rise above
day’s end, the valley’s din, legacies of grind,
to hold the small bulk, feel its heat
pulse through feathers in cupped hands,
and send those tiny hearts and lungs
to claim their reach of sky.
Several poems by Fay Musselwhite appear in the Longbarrow Press anthology The Footing; her debut collection will appear from Longbarrow Press in 2016. She is among the poets taking part in the Longbarrow Press residency at the Pop-Up Ruskin Museum at 381 South Road, Walkley, Sheffield, S6 3TD, from 2 – 30 September 2015. Join us for the salons (every Wednesday and Thursday between 1pm – 3pm in the Museum), in which the poets will lead discussion of several Ruskin-themed topics with reference to their own and others’ poetry; these are free to attend, and no booking is required. The residency will culminate in a collective reading at the Museum at 7pm on Wednesday 30 September, featuring Musselwhite and poets Matthew Clegg, Angelina D’Roza and Pete Green. See the Longbarrow Press Events page for more information.
 Ruskin, The Two Boyhoods, in Wilmer p146
 Ruskin quoted in Dearden, pp17-8
 from Door into the Dark, 1969
 Levine, What Work Is
 details of Philip Levine’s life are from Levine, The Bread of Time
 Levine, Bread, p113
 “Every Blessed Day”, Work
 “Fear and Fame”, Work
 “Burned”, Work
 “Among Children”, Work
 Levine, Bread, p114
 Price, p71
 “Possession”, Not This Pig
 details of Benjamin Creswick’s life are from Creswick-Dawson
 Creswick and Ruskin scholar Simon Ogden, quoted by Creswick-Dawson
 “The Village Minstrel”
 “The Eternity of Nature”
 details of John Clare’s life are from Bate, Biography
 “The Lament of Swordy Well”
 Notes about the Guild and the Museum are from the Guild’s website
 details of Emilie Taylor’s work are from her website
Sources and further reading (click on bold text for website links)
Bate, Jonathan, John Clare: A Biography. London: Picador 2003
Bate, Jonathan (ed.), John Clare: Selected Poems. London: Faber & Faber 2004
Dearden, James, An Illustrated Life of John Ruskin. Princes Risborough: Shire 2004
Engels, Friedrich, The Condition of the Working Class 1844
Guild of St George
Heaney, Seamus, Opened Ground: Poems 1966-96. London: Faber & Faber 1998
Levine, Philip, Not This Pig. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press 1963
Levine, Philip, The Bread of Time: Towards an Autobiography. New York: Alfred A Knopf 1993
Levine, Philip, What Work Is. New York: Alfred A Knopf 2012
Price, David, Sheffield Troublemakers. Stroud: Phillimore & Co 2008
Wilmer, Clive (ed). Unto This Last (collection of Ruskin’s essays). London: Penguin 1997