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Friday, 14 February 2020 at 17:48

Cover of In Folly's Shade HIKES AND STROLLS

John Welch: In Folly’s Shade, Shearsman Books, ₤9:95

In this third collection following his Collected Poems and six years after “Its Halting Measure”, a marvellous book, John Welch moves beyond his previous work.I was tempted to employ the hand-me-down phrase ‘renewed power’, but that connotes too much. ‘Vigour’ sounds far too like advertising copy for a tonic beverage for elderly people, so perhaps ‘strength’ is the most suitable, yet hardly adequate, descriptive quality of his work.

In Folly’s Shade there are a number of poems written after extended walks of which two hark back to Out Walking, a selected poems published by Anvil in 1984, ‘Out Walking: Wanstead Flats’ and ‘Out Walking: Walthamstow Marsh.’ He even echoes the imagery and rhythms of the earlier poems and even administers the same sort of shock of juxtaposition:

Preparing this meat

To music of Bach, I trim off the gristle.

The liver falls raggedly apart.

(from ‘Poem’ in ‘Out Walking’)

Went out later to market.

Cowheel, innards in a tub

Were such soft plethora

Near the bookshop named Arcady.

(from the title poem ‘In Folly’s Shade’)

Early on in his writing life Welch established a set of rhythms and a range of imagery which continues provide him a focused characteristic line and material behind which is a landscape often in a setting at the edge of where urban lies alongside the remains of a rural world, for example, from the eastern end of London which leads into Essex, a region diverse in both culture and topography.

The present book is organised into four sections, At Ranters Lodge, In Folly’s Shade, Inside the Panopticon and An Interzone. Two of the poems in the first section, ‘Out Walking: Wanstead Flats’ and ‘Out Walking: Walthamstow Marsh’, return to this East London locale. Here Welch’s poetry inhabits boundaries of image and language where the process of making sense of objects and thoughts is questioned:

It’s the sum of its parts.

But pulling in different directions

It came to pieces in my hands!

(from Out Walking: Walthamstow Marsh)

There is a tentativeness with regard to asserting a meaning. We walk with Welch and his perceptions watching a process of deciding if meaning can be given to them:

Meanwhile the convenience of this breeze

In the way it turns those rows of leaves

Upward to an attractive paleness

Like watching the underside of a language.


The title poem, In Folly’s Shade, takes this stately dance round signification further. A number of familiar motifs surface with the notion of eating and a devouring presence behind consciousness:

Palaeolithic? To use

Being to eat in that language

As it moved through the world

Ingested the sky

The poem builds up suggestive fragments and images from childhood and personal love all the time with understanding of being part of the earth. At times there is great subtlety in Welch’s language with a great intensity surfacing in places:

No tenderness without anger

Yes partner me in this

As if you pricked me out

And drew me in.

Quick is our hurt

And words to cover the place.

In Folly’s Shade is an extensive collection and repays repeated reading. It would be remiss not to mention the section Inside the Panopticon. Jeremy Bentham’s design for a prison where total observation of prisoners might be possible informs with the title poem of the section has provided an overarching image playing on notions of continuous surveillance created by CCTV cameras. The humorous poem, ‘Centre and Retreat’, set in a dilapidated country house turned into a holiday retreat for could be a satire on contemporary England:

The kitchen is filled with puzzling equipment and high up on a shelf there’s a notice that reads Nothing On This Shelf Works.

Read as a comment on contemporary England, as opposed to the rest of the United Kingdom, the prognosis is not good.

John Welch’s poetry continues to address the dilemma of language and how far language can express meaning adequately. To return to the central motif of walking and observing it contains both hikes and strolls well worth taking.

Mike McNamara A Hard Act to Follow

Wednesday, 22 January 2020 at 11:51


Mike McNamara -This Transmission. Free download. Argotist on-line

Mike McNamara –Dialling a Starless Past. ₤5.99 Arenig Books

Mike McNamara, poet and lead singer in Big Mac’s Wholly Soul Band, published two slim volumes in 2019, This Transmission, (Argotist Books), and Dialling a Starless Past (Arenig Books). They are different in content, but not in style, packed with and sometimes bursting at the seams with energy, images, references and feeling. McNamara was born in 1955 of Welsh and Irish parentage. His early childhood was spent in Larne in the north of Ireland, but then his family moved to South Wales. He joined the army at the age of seventeen, but was uncomfortable with military life ending up in military gaol. He earned a living as a lorry driver, but it’s clear that he is an avid reader and has a life-long love affair with music.

His poetry harks back to neo-romanticism of the 1940s a style and way of looking at the world which was almost killed off by the rational neat compositions of the Movement, but re-emerged in the popular music of the 1960s and regional poetries of Liverpool, the North-East and Northern Ireland. The shorter poems have more than a tang of early Barry MacSweeney; McNamara and MacSweeney seem to have had similar demons, but McNamara seems to have put his aside without much visible effect if the clips on You Tube are anything to go by. “This Transmission” displays a word-spinning gift that begs to be heard live. In the cutthroat world of professional poetry in Britain, purists might cavil at the use of words such as “shard” and “darkling.” The longish poem Crab Apple Jack is perhaps too much of a good thing, but is still a compelling read if only for the great waves of language, personal memory and reference that wash over the reader. Elsewhere he has greater discipline. In The Hotel of Thoughts there is this magical passage:

“A thin woman with cracked cigarette lips

And tattoos is singing.

And I hear a wonderful endlessness in your breathing.

Who are you in your black diesel proof shoes

Smelling of pipe tobacco?

The only movement is the curtains.”

There are other I-wish-I’d-written-that passages in this collection. McNamara ranges from the Druids to Paul Celan, but also demonstrates a control of form using rhyme to enhance an emotional effect as in ‘The Windows Are Such’

Ongoing loss without words. No regret.

Let us be done now with the tears that two must cry,

remembering that those who have never truly met –

should never have to say goodbye.

Probably the best poem in the collection is ‘Hinterland’ where a short line and seemingly disconnected images are put together to create an atmosphere of enormous tension.

Dialling a Starless Past draws directly on autobiographical material often using a characteristic crafted long line. One of the pleasures of reading his poetry isthat he doesn’t chop his lines up to fit some nervous obeisance to the standard poetrybiz line with all its enjambments and absence of memorable strong lines.There are a number of memorable portraits as in ‘Skinhead Girls’

Skinhead girls, their fleeting moment of pride played out

in loafered feet and Pretty Polly tights,

short skirted mohair suits,

hitching rides to romance from scooter knights.

and The Hard Man’s Grave Revisited with its deadly ironies

They liked those lines about you; sharp

tutors talked of sympathy, underdogs, destiny.

They’d have felt the same, of course,

if they’d crossed you, drunk and bloodied

on some misspent giro night.

There is a concentration on a misspent youth and early manhood. Why not? Unlike Larkin McNamara has truly said “Stuff your pension,” gone ahead and lived to tell the tale. There are some shorter vignettes. ‘I Lean on the Door Jamb’ could have been written by the late Ken Smith and the sparseness of ‘On the Brow of the George Street Bridge’ is heartbreaking.

She always had that little princess smile

but no king to cherish her.

Heroin was the only thing

to love her.

On the brow of The George Street Bridge.


Mike McNamara is poet whose poems should be read as possessing wit, passion and immense skill with language reminding us that poetry does start and remains to its advantage in the rag and bone shop of the heart.



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