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Website of poet Elizabeth Rimmer

Poetry

Maquis, Machair, Mearc

You can just see the snowdrops coming out in the garden, and there is a blink of yellow in the witch hazel buds, though I think it will take another week of warm weather for them to develop. And according to the forecast, we’re not getting that any time soon. So I have been thinking a bit about the more theoretical and poetic aspects of the herb project.

The eleventh design principle of permaculture is to ‘use edges and value diversity’ – you can find the rest here if you’d like to follow them up. The reason is that where two sectors overlap, the border region shares characteristics of both, and can support more (species, ideas, artforms, activities) than either sector by itself. Permaculture design in landscape tends to create a lot of margins, most notably in the iconic herb spiral, specifically to maximise the different crops which can be grown in a small space.

Herbs are a great example of being on the edge. Herbs touch borders on a practical level with cooking, fabric crafts, housekeeping, medicine, magic, animal husbandry, but also culturally with values of simplicity, authentic living, connection with nature, feminism, healing, spirituality, value for the senses and the body, recovery of one’s personal identity, resistance, repentance, wildness, renewal. There’s a lot of potential in herbs, for all sorts of reasons. I’m going for a dander along the edges of the garden, the roadside, the riverbank – and the uncanonical margins of the poetry world.

Now here I have to admit that I have been somewhat seduced by language. The headline of this post is a coincidental resemblance I’ve had in my head for some years, and it may be spurious. I was thinking of borderland country, marginal, a bit precarious, but which is charcterised by a wealth of flowering plants, and surprising survivals – black bees on the machair of Coll, or the French resistance, that sort of thing. But the maquis isn’t the fragrant hillside, full of bees and lavender and sage and hyssop. That’s the garrigue. And the mearc is a more political thing – the badlands where law doesn’t run, and monsters may lurk among the outlaws. The British equivalent of the machair is the hedgerow, with its associations with foraged herbs, sloes and blackberries, and also the hedge witch, the hedge school, the tramps and vagabonds. But all of these borderland places have surprising riches and revelations. They are places that should be cherished wisely.

January 25, 2015
The Year of the Soil

The UN has declared 2015 as The Year of the Soil, because of world-wide problems with erosion, degradation and pollution. You can find out more about this here, and follow events during the year on the Soil Association website.

I have actually written a poem about soil – particularly the soil in my own home patch. It appeared last year in Poetry Scotland.

Grounded
The wind swings round to north of west
and cold in it catches like a roughened nail
on the glib satin fabric of this spring afternoon.

I study soil and think of the pale pasty stuff
of the fields with never a weed or a worm in it,
only a few sullen crows lifting their barbed wire feet
between the new wheat stalks. No hares now,
or curlews, and skylarks fewer and arriving late.

On the riverbank soil is an invertebrate fizz
and ferment of squirm and wriggle. Oystercatchers
peep and nose the mud, hold late-night sessions
of whistling and mending imagined fences.
Heron stalks there listening to rumours
of kingfisher’s blue electric flypast.

In the gardens the soil is deep and dark
and full of broken china, rubble of half-bricks,
the bowls of clay pipes. As I dig the onion bed,
seeds from other gardeners, poppy, marigold,
columbine and wild pansy, come to light, and flower
between my untidy aspirations.

Recidivist gardener, neither first here,
nor last, I leave seeds too – borage, nasturtium,
blue-flowered alkanet. I am grounded here,
roots in this earth. They’ll never get rid of me.

January 15, 2015
Christmas Ivy

Here’s a Christmas poem which I sums up where I find the heart of this time of year – a value for the small, ordinary facts of physical life on earth.

Christmas
The alchemy of myth –
the stars and angels, the earth’s
return to light, green ivy,
the quickening sap in the tree’s
deep heart, the cattle
kneeling in frosty fields,
the robin’s song at midnight –
all refined to the bare particular
fact of a birth –
that night, that inn, that boy.

Not everyone is finding the facts of human life particularlt friendly just now. A lot of people are facing serious medical uncertainties, and everyone caught up in the accident in Glasgow yesterday will find it hard to throw themselves into the festivities, but I hope that everyone who reads this will find the holidays a time for peace, rest, and the comfort of family and friends.

December 23, 2014
The Year in Poetry
I’ve had a rich and varied year which has gone from the glorious to the tempestuous and all shades in between, and one of the things that has gone by the board is my intention to write reviews of the many brilliant new books of poetry I’ve been privileged to see launched this year. But at least I can list them – do consider this as a recommendation!
- Double Bill edited by Andy jackson (Red Squirrel Press). Yes, I am in it, writing about Nirvana, but so are a lot of really fabulous poets in the most unlikely and fabulous juxtapositions – Judge Dredd versus Judge Judy, Marvel and DC Comics. Bebop and Rocksteady. Nirvana is opposite Mark Burnhope’s poem about Pearl Jam, and, by a strange coincidence, both poems deal with parent/son dialogue. But look for poems about film, music, television, radio, adverts —
- Fault Line by Gerry Loose (Vagabond Voices). An unlikely choice for one of my top three, because at first Gerry Loose’s poetry seemed too spare and abstract for my liking. In fact, it turns out to be a multi-voiced and highly textured sequence about the natural life of the (human as well as non-human) inhabitants of the area round the Faslane nuclear base. One of the themes emerging out of the Half a Hundred Herbs project is that herbs are often used as tokens of resistance (to pollution, over use of technology, authoritarian thought systems) and Gerry Loose has just about nailed it as far as I can tell.
- Tree Language by Marion Macready (Eyewear Press) A stunningly accomplished first collection – surreal, sometimes slightly disturbing poems.
- Moontide by Niall Campbell (Bloodaxe) Niall Campbell has won the Edwin Morgan Prize and been short-listed (justifiably) for just about everything else since this book came out. Poems not only about the island where he was brought up, but about relationships, about places and about the writing of poetry, strangely embodied physical poetry, with a feeling of weight and movement.
- The Body in Space by Gerrie Fellowes (Shearsman Press). This is one that almost got away Stravaig published a poem sequence from this book early this year, but I got to the launch almost by accident and didn’t get round to reading it until I was preparing this post. It is so much what I think I don’t want from poetry – there’s no lyrical feel, no music, no sensuality, very little emotion, but my goodness, such a lift, such a range, lightness of touch, complexity of thought. I am going to learn so much from this book. I have no hesitation in naming it the book of the year for me.
- Dry Stone Work by Brian Johnstone (Arc Publications). This is a skilled, competent, rather formal, and very manly book – not macho, not in any sexist or limited way, but dealing with the masculine experience of life in the twentieth and twenty-first century – tools, woodwork, masonry, fishing, war, in a way that is not insensitive or anthropocentric.
- Cairn by Richie McCaffery (Nine Arches). A thoughtful view of life reflected in descriptions of objects and small events. I reviewed Richie’s first pamphlet Spinning Plates (Happenstance) here, in which I said there was better to come. Well this is it. This is Richie McCaffery hitting his stride.
- Who Are Your People by Matthew MacDonald (Red Squirrel Press). I can’t resist Island poetry. This is a very promising pamphlet by a young Edinburgh poet – one to watch, I feel.
- The Gypsy and the Poet by David Morley (Carcanet). This is so different from the last David Morley collection I reviewed (here). So much flash and bravura, and not at all geeky, like Enchantment, this is a sequence inspired by the friendship between the poet John Clare and a local gypsy Wisdom Smith.
- The Book of Ways by Colin Will (Red Squirrel Press). A book of haibuns recounting journeys – of many kinds. If you find that every poet in Scotland is writing haibuns now, you will know why. The one which concludes the book, about the death of Colin Will’s mother is particularly moving.
- Marlin and Locust by Jennifer Lynn Williams (Shearsman Press). Another one that took me by surprise and out of my comfort zone, and definitely in my top three. It includes a poem about a heron that I found myself memorising – which I never do! Flawless and gripping.
- Meeting Buddha in Dumbarton by Nikki Magennis (Red Squirrel Press). Nikki’s poems won the James Kirkup Competition in 2013, which I judged with my friend and fellow Red Squirrel poet Anne Connolly. Her warm, thoughful and sensual poems stood out in a year which included several superb entires, and this collection lives up to its promise.
I’ve also read a lot of older poetry by Anna Crowe, Seamus Heaney, Lorca, Neruda, Kerry Hardie, Michael Hartnett (the year’s big find), Sorley MacLean, Rose Flint and Lynnette Roberts. What a year it has been!
November 26, 2014
Remembering

Over the years I’ve blogged a few times about war. I’ve even written a couple of war poems. You can find one here, a true story from my childhood about a neighbour who served in the first world war. Another poem, Hugh’s Farewell to Arms is about a friend who served in the second world war. The poem was published in Southlight 16 and you can find Hugh’s story on this post from 2010.

I said then what I felt about the resurgence of armistice day sentiment, and that repugnance has only grown stronger over the last four years, as we are becomingever more willing to send our young people to die for us, more ready to sign away our personal freedoms, more fearful of strangers and less open to considering other ways of responding to conflict.

My personal hero Chretien de Chergé was able to live in a society mauled by aggression and civil conflict without surrendering his principles or demonising those of his enemies, and to die for his beliefs without asking for anyone else to be punished for it. His death, along with those of his confreres in Algeria was the subject of a film called Of Gods and Men, which I reviewed here when it came out. After I posted this a young Algerian engineer got in touch, keen to continue a peaceful dialogue, and we are in touch to this day. And in his name and in the name of all the brave men who answered their country’s call but who rejected the bragadoccio and the mercilessness of war, I am celebrating today by wearing a white poppy, and joining Pax Christi – an organisation that works to promote peace and reconciliation. I’ve got to the pint where I can’t do anything else.

November 11, 2014
Picking up the Threads

It’s a fortnight since I’ve posted anything on this blog, and even longer since I’ve added any herbs. Blogposts are piling up – southernwood, oregano and marigolds, and reviews of Niall Campbell’s Moontide and Richie McCaffery’s Cairnare all owing, as well as updates on poems from the new collection which will be out in the word before too long. Itb will take a while to catch up with it all, but here’s a start.

The older grand-daughter is back at school, and the younger is at nursery. I hope the world is ready for them! During the holidays we have had a lot of family time, celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, and welcoming family from the south. The big thing that has caused this long hiatus was the saga of the bath.

We have had the previous bath for many years, and, thanks to the hurly urly of family life, it was a bit scratched and rusty. So we thought we’d replace it. Two days, it was going to take, with a bit of fancy footwork to add a fixed shower screen (rather than the insecure and frankly inadequate curtain we had). Well. It turns out that the original bath had not been installed by the best workmen you’ve ever seen, as it wasn’t flush to the wall, or even level, resulting in some very dodgy silicone filling, which had leaked. So we had to replace plaster board, and the tiles stuck to it, and have supporting framework built in to square off and level up the floor and walls. And the electrics for the shower hadn’t been properly isolated—

So it took three weeks, and the house was full of plasterdust and the sound of drilling and hammering, and we were all camping out in places where we could get showers. It’s done now, and it looks really good (barring a bit of painting to touch up some of the alterations) and it works well.

Writing hasn’t quite gone by the wall. The Territory of Rain is coming together, and I’m collecting notes and ideas for the herb (and related) poetry. It may include folk music. And blues. And, possibly, flamenco. It’s going to be an adventure!

August 19, 2014
Anniversary Poem for the Great War

Ok I’ve cracked and it’s only ten o’clock. here is the story of the only guy I ever knew who was in the First World War.

War Hero to Me

He was no child’s idea of a war hero,
quiet and polite, inclined to be grumpy,
stumping along with his stick
and his thick old man’s glasses.

He shared a house with a pal,
in a relationship no-one would mention
until it was legal. They kept themselves
to themselves until he fell ill.

He told visitors then of the Great War
his time in the Royal Flying Corps,
When he’d been magnificent, a young,
flighty experimenter in the new planes.

He’d dodged untried anti-aircraft guns,
flew blind in bad weather, carried
untested weapons, learned to fight
a whole new way of making war.

‘They’d load us up with bombs’, he said
‘and send us over the Channel to bomb
Germans, and strategic targets.
No such thing as non-combatant then.

We’d find a quiet field with no houses.
And leave them, fly home and say
nothing to anyone. You couldn’t go round
dropping things like that on people!’

August 4, 2014
Poem Archaeology

I was digging through a file called poetry dump and I found this. Not my usual sort of thing, and perhaps a bit obscure, but what do you think?

Runes for a New Millennium

after Havamal, from the Poetic Edda

I pulled all-nighters
to get the job done.
Between the Java and the Red Bull
I learned fail-safe runes

Know how to google them,
know how to download them,
know how to code them,
know how to encrypt them.

The first rune I know
is unknown to agony aunts,
therapists, life-coaches, counsellors.
Quick-fix it is called.

I know a second, that street-wise dudes
must learn if they want to be cool.

I know a third; when the going gets tough,
this will give me the edge.
This will see off the competition.

I know a fourth: when the shit hits the fan,
this rune will make sure
that nothing sticks to me.

I know a fifth; when I go into the meeting
No matter who is on the board,
I always close the deal.

I know a sixth; if I choose to use it,
when the merger happens, I will keep my job;
My rivals will all lose theirs.

I know a seventh, more powerful than any.
With this I will keep my figure
as strong and slim at sixty
as I was at sixteen.

I know an eighth, a gift for drivers.
With this I can always find parking space.
I have no fear of tickets.

I know a ninth; I can charm
the young and talented and beautiful
to find me irresistible.
My lovers will never leave me.

I know a tenth; when conscience racks me,
I can send guilt and remorse packing.
There are no skeletons in my cupboards.

I know an eleventh; the paparazzi
Can get nothing on me.
No-one knows where my bodies are buried.

I know a twelfth, which I tell to no-one.
Age will make me good-looking.
Illness will be afraid to mess with me.
And death – what’s that all about?

July 31, 2014
Two Books of Herb Poems

Pharmapoetica

I got this through the post on Tuesday, a most beautiful book – Pharmapoetica by Chris McCabe and Maria Vlotides. It unfolds to show two conjoined booklets, one of Chris’ poems and the other of Maria’s herbal notes – very knowledgeable and witty – both illustrated by Maria’s beautiful photographs. It is published by Pedestrian Publishing. It’s not cheap as it is a limited edition but it is gorgeous. The poetry extends the range of what I thought was possible with herb poems – Chris McCabe doesn’t always write directly about the herb in question, but uses it as a way of describing his relationship with his young son. Great stuff.

And while I was reading his comments about the book and the process of writing it, which you can find on his blog here, I came across a reference to a project I’d heard about when it was in development – the Herbarium, run by the Urban Physic garden in Southwark. This project also resulted in a booklet – long since out of print, but you can still read the poems on their web-page.

May 22, 2014
StAnza 2014

Wasn’t that a time!

This year’s StAnza was one to remember. It is my opinion that this Festival always scores very highly on many fronts – the range and variety of events and poets attending, the reasonable ticket prices, the backup in terms of local accommodation and places to eat. It makes it a great place to meet people you only ever see on line, to catch up with friends, or to buy poetry from a proper shop instead of resorting to Amazon.

This year it was better than ever. Last year the Byre Theatre closed at short notice a few weeks before StAnza was due to start, and the organisers had to find alternative venues, not only for events but for the festival hub. To their everlasting credit, they succeeded brilliantly, but this year the Byre has reopened, and so many people commented on how nice it was to be home. The Byre is a lovely welcoming building with display spaces and meeting spaces as well as performance areas, so it made all the difference to the atmosphere and to the stress levels of the staff to have it operational again. I was disconcerted to find that the general population of St Andrews didn’t seem to know it had happened, so somebody was missing a trick! But please, good people of Fife, support it generously, or it will just go again —

I wasn’t there long (it was a serious mistake to miss the poets’ market on Saturday- that will never happen again!) but I did go to see the John Burnside reading. Impressive as ever, it was outclassed by the reading of Tishani Doshi, a poet from India whose powerful poems on love, heritage, identity, and philosophy will stay with me for a long time. I visited Angela Topping’s Lightfoot Letters exhibition in the Heritage Museum – a delightful building with a lovely small herb garden – scoured the bookshops, took part in the open mic, got the first copy of Nikki Magennis’ new pamphlet from Red Squirrel, meeting buddha in dumbarton, and caught up with several friends.

Enormous thanks should go to the many staff and volunteers who make StAnza the well-organised hassle-free stimulating experience it is, but I should make a special mention of Festival Director Eleanor Livingstone. She makes it look so easy, but the amount of planning, communicating and preparation which goes into that effect must be phenomenal. Thank you so much, Eleanor!

March 10, 2014

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