Tag Archives: Poetry

Review: Contrapasso by Alexandra Foessinger

Credit: Kev via Pixabay


Contrapasso is the title of the debut collection of Alexandra Fössinger. She is of Italian origin and currently lives in Northern Germany. She writes mostly in English. Many of the poems included have been previously published in the UK and elsewhere, in magazines such as Tears in the Fence, The High Window, The Journal. The cover design – a black bird against a stark white background – is by Daniel Lambert, Art Director of Cephalopress, established in 2018, providing ‘a voice for the marginalised and the voiceless’.


I do not know the author, though I attended her online reading with Q&A. There she explained the background to the poems: her attempt at survival ‘after the imprisonment in the UK of someone dear to me’. This sudden loss may, in part, have coincided with the pandemic and its lockdowns: creating an incarceration for the poet too.


In Dante’s Divine Comedy, contrapasso is the punishment of souls by a process either resembling or contrasting with the sin itself. The collection is in two parts, both preceded by a quotation from Dante’s Inferno. Part 1 covers the period of imprisonment, while poems in Part 2 were written after the person’s release.


Birds for someone who cannot hear is the title of the opening poem and birds appear throughout the collection, as messengers, omens, and symbols: the blackbird frozen in shock, the thrushes in hiding, along with magpies, sparrows, sky larks, great tit, kingfishers, herons, seabirds. The second poem is titled Cell, giving us just the bare numbers:
1,
5,
3,
4,
7,
1,
and ending:
bad luck has brought
and kept you here,
and whether
you’ll walk out

or
be carried in a coffin

is also entirely
a matter of chance
.

The poems are the author’s response to the sudden loss, despair, darkness, pain. We have no life apart from life apart (Sentence); How can I find dreams of oarweed and eelgrass, / bring currents to glide on, as I must, when half / of my body is entangled / on the wrong side of the sea, / how will I know when time says to dive? (Velut luna).

Fössinger has said that she ‘is mostly interested in the spaces between things, the tiny shifts in time, the overlooked, the unsaid.’ Throughout the collection, we find astute observations and statements: la vita assurda: the middle-aged couple / pushing their dog in a pram. (July); that emptiness is best hidden / by a display of tame beauty. (Ambulant).

The strongest poems are those which describe a specific situation, or which have objects as ‘animate scaffold’. The poem Ambulant is in two parts:
I
The house with the Christmas decoration,
and the magnolia tree in bloom,
and the blackbird frozen in shock,
and an ambulance parked in the front garden,

all stand completely still.
People walk by, averting their gaze,
a stoop hammered into their skin –
How many lives will they have lost before,
without ever noticing.

The orange light is beating on the windows
like rain.

Here is Fössinger’s close attention to the overlooked, effective personification, interesting use of language. Not all the poems are so securely grounded, sometimes abstraction obscures their meaning. Other poems would have benefited from being tighter, shorter. The book is a short collection of 31 poems with quite a few blank pages. Some readers might want ‘more poems’ for their ‘pounds’.

While the poems reflect the poet’s emotional and psychological response to loss and separation, she manages to maintain a careful balance: hope is not abandoned. The recurrent bird theme also provides a framework, an underlying structure. This theme returns in the short closing poem, The robin redbreast. The loved one appears in a dream, as tiny as a bird, and:

Then you grew a beak
with which to pick and sing
and transport worms and roses.

Contrapasso is a confident and authentic debut by a perceptive, astute poet. Her personal tale finds echoes in the reader’s universal story. However long and painful the journey, there can be closure and transformation.

Easter Monday

I’ve been sorting and clearing old photos and old poems. It reminded me of trips out into Derbyshire with friends: taking the cable car up to the Heights of Abraham, walking through the historic centre of Buxton. The Buxton Baths date back to Roman times. In the Georgian and Victorian period these were developed. Buxton is the highest market town in England. Easter can be early or late – walking through snow or sitting out in sunshine. Enjoy your Easter, wherever you are.

Buxton Centre

Buxton, 2pm

Here is Buxton Spa, Easter, green hills.
Not a credit card between us.

Good intentions: it’s the year of the Pig.

We’ve been to China, lugged back
soldiers from Xian, wrapped in towels.

Now they’re resting under the Red Cross.

For our next birthdays, we say,
we just want Prosecco, book tokens, no bric-a-brac,

but our hands are restless,
our fingers flick through a tray of rings.

Irish men

As I have an Irish surname and it’ll be St. Patrick’s Day this coming week, I am sharing this short poem. Many thanks to the editors of The Madrigal for accepting it for an Áitiúil: an anthology, jointly with the Martello Journal. It was published in September 2022.

Books, books, books…

World Book Day is on the 23rd of April. In the UK it takes place on the 2nd of March to avoid clashes with spring school holidays and St. Georges’ Day.


A fellow poet introduced me to the American poet Ted Kooser, now in his early 80s. His style is accomplished, yet extremely simple. My current bedtime reading is his poetry collection Winter Morning Walks: one hundred postcards to Jim Harrison (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2001).


In the late 90s Kooser developed cancer. He gave up his insurance job and writing. When he began to write again, it was to paste daily poems on postcards he sent to his friend and fellow writer Jim Harrison. In the preface, Kooser tells us ‘I began to take a two-mile walk each morning. I’d been told by my radiation oncologist to stay out of the sun for a year because of skin sensitivity, so I exercised before dawn, hiking the isolated country roads near where I live.’ These country roads are in Nebraska.


The poems cover a period from 9 November until 20 March. In the poems Kooser doesn’t directly talk about the illness. He does so through metaphor. All the poems include a brief description of the weather. The clear and precise observation gives them a haiku quality.


Here is his postcard for march 5:

Very windy and cold.


A flock of robins bobs in the top
of a wind-tossed tree,
with every robin facing north
and the sky flying into their faces.
But this is not straightforwardness,
nor is it courage, nor an example
of purpose and direction
against insurmountable odds.
They perch like this
to keep their feathers smooth.

The price of cauliflowers

Credit: Pixaline via Pixabay

I’m not keen on them, so I’m not buying now they’re 4 Euro each. Dutch growers have kept their glasshouses empty because of the cost of gas and electricity. I was lucky, though, to be accepted as a patient by a GP practice in the town I moved to. Lucky also that my journey to the implantologist involves two trams: there were strikes again on regional buses last week.


This poem, from a recent workshop, is a snapshot of life in The Netherlands.

Word jij onze nieuwe collega?

Outside every restaurant and café two blackboards:
one with a menu, the other asking for a sous-chef,
a washer-upper, or bar staff.
Freek van Os, the expensive plumbing business
is even renting lit-up space by the side
of a bus shelter. They need a planner,
and also have two technical vacancies.
Manda, my hairdresser, had found
a 42-year-old Afghan woman, single parent,
career-changer. When I came in a month later,
she’d changed her mind. Legal cases are abandoned,
judges are dead or retiring. As are many GP’s.
They’re not signing the new contracts, anyway.
Not much the government or the insurers can do.
People want to work fewer hours, it’s said, not more.

February – guest poet

A seasonal poem and sampler by Rebecca Cullen who is our March guest poet. It’s from her collection A Reader’s Guide To Time. I very much enjoyed Rebecca’s take on February and hope you do too.

Valentine’s Day

Credit: Megan_Barling via Pixabay

This coming Tuesday it’s Valentine’s Day. Here is an early poem that hasn’t featured on the blog before. It was published in the Tees Valley Writer, Autumn 1995, and Highly Commended in their annual competition.

On the beach

Against the sinking sun gulls ride the waves.
Our dogs bark and chase their tails.
Try to run with a lone jogger who braves

the east wind whistling. Your son trails
in your wake, attempts big steps. Laughter peals:
a scene lifted straight from some fairy tale.

Heaped grey boulders mimic a colony of seals.
Not long before love winters in my heart.
I need to tell you how it feels

to be together, yet growing apart.
Your craggy face seems so much older
clouded in a bluish hue. I brace myself to start

as you place a hand on my shoulder
but all I can say is It’s getting colder.

Speak Easy (2) – guest poet


Speak Easy was formed at Stretford’s Sip Club by Dave Hartley in August 2015 as a spoken word open mic before the team of Andy N, Amanda Nicholson and Steve Smythe joined forces to take it over at the end of 2017. The night moved to Chorlton Cum Hardy’s Dulcimer Bar in August 2020 and has carried on being a welcoming, supportive, friendly and encouraging night since welcome to both experienced and newcomers with all acts given equal opportunity to perform with everybody who reads being headliners.

(See the end of the post for details and links to social media for Speak Easy, Andy N, Amanda Nicholson.)

Andy N

Andy N is the author of 8 full length poetry collections including ‘Return to Kemptown’ and ‘The End of Summer’ and co-runs Chorlton Cum Hardy’s always welcoming Spoken Word Open mic night ‘Speak Easy’. He runs / co-runs Podcasts such as Spoken Label, Cloaked in the Shadows and Storytime with Andy & Amanda and does ambient music under the name of Ocean in a Bottle.

Three x Winter Haiku

Walking in darkness
your front door briefly lights up
in the heavy rain. 
*
Ripping out the trees
lighting hit the forest hard
flooding the river
*
Sleeping in winter
the trees hibernate alone
awaiting for Spring. 

*

Amanda Nicholson


Amanda Nicholson is an author, poet, podcast co-host and copywriter. She has written several books as Amanda Steel, including Ghost of Me. Amanda’s poetry has been broadcast on BBC Radio Manchester. She Has a Creative Writing MA, and has had articles published by Jericho Writers, Reader’s Digest UK, Ask.com, and Authors Publish.

Do All These Labels Make Me Look Fat?
 
Like blank sticky labels pressed to my skin
I write on some myself
While people scribble their own words
Over time, the ink fades on some
and others fall off
The one labelled daughter is half peeled off now
Older labels remain stuck fast
But buried by new labels
So people rarely see
Unless they get close enough
And there is always room for more
Some are like tattoos
Only more painful
And others wash away easily

Links
Speak Easy:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/speakeasymanchester
Twitter: https://twitter.com/speakspokenword
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/speakeasypoetryspokenword/
Recordings of Night: https://andyn.bandcamp.com/

Andy N Poet:
His blog: http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.com/
His books can be found on Amazon etc.
Ocean in a Bottle is at: oceaninabottle.bandcamp.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andynstorytellerpoet
Twitter: https://twitter.com/aen1mpo
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/andynpoet/
Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@andynwriter

Amanda Nicholson

Her blog is: https://amandasteelwriter.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AmandaSteelWriter
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Amanda_S_Writer
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/amandasteel37/

Ode of sorts…

Last Saturday I had to go to the pharmacy in Playa Blanca, Lanzarote to get some over-the-counter medication. It’s an ode of sorts alright…

Normal service will be resumed…

To ‘my’ condition

I salute you: you have staying power.
You arrived out of nowhere 28 years ago.
How odd you only woke up in Manchester,
while you slept through London.

I refuse to call you mine, the two ‘ ’
symbolise handcuffs, shackles.
On long journeys (flights, trains)
I wear dark trousers, a dark dress.

You have grounded me many times,
I’ve been bent over, clutching my bike,
scared to go to the shops in case I
don’t make it to a loo.

An acronym close to that computer firm.
There are dress codes at IBM, I have you know.
Irritable? Yes, often. I’ve been pissed off,
imagine bowels as a curled-up, snarling cobra.

Syndrome is, I believe, where spectators
gather to see retired pilots take off
in noisy small planes. Banking
is a dangerous manoeuvre.

Friendship

Friendship is the theme of this year’s Poetry Week, celebrated in The Netherlands and the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium through 400+ events. It starts on Thursday 26 January. Miriam Van Hee (B) and Hester Knibbe (NL), two poets who have been friends for almost 40 years were commissioned to write five poems each for a book. In a recent interview they said that trust and curiosity are key elements for a friendship to endure and last.

Anyone who spends over 12,50 Euro on poetry books during Poetry Week will be given a copy. It’s not hard to spend that sort of money, as poetry books are expensive in The Netherlands!

Here is my poem on the theme of friendship: memories of a long weekend in Vienna in 1994.

Vienna

I would gladly return,
walk with Wendy through
the rain to the museum,
see the Hunters on the Hill –
tired, wet dogs, in the Little Ice Age
when frozen birds fell from the sky.

I would gladly go back there,
view grey buildings slide past,
hear the clanging bell.
Schwedenplatz, umsteigen.
A trolley bus securely attached
to the two lines above.