In recent years, perhaps credit must go to the #MeToo movement, women’s voices are much more prevalent than they may have been in the past. So it’s no surprise that poetry, too, celebrates and documents the lives of women. Which brings us to this collection of poems by Moran Anderson.
From the very first poem in the collection 'A Woman Stops Writing a Poem' (very relatable for an errant scribbler such as myself) the moods and theme of the collection is cemented. Celebrating, perhaps, chronicling, maybe, but offering voice certainly to the disempowered females from now and then. A paradox of gracefulness and fierce anger Anderson looks at all the stages of womanhood.
Acknowledging the influence of several different poets Anderson observes females from childhood through the stages of life and differing social standings and situations. From neglected children Mandy at Number 9 - 'Dry-mouthed from want of milk she learns to fear her mother’s breast,' - to the loss of a child from the sibling perspective, Portrait of my Father with a Saw - 'Loss—a thorn that cannot be drawn by clenched teeth or the heat of a daughter’s need.' - Anderson delves deep into that intuitive place that allows the poet to give voice to a plethora of emotions and perceptions that might otherwise go unnoticed. The Scottish heritage is never far from the surface of the poems, historically and culturally, 'Bleak Greenock morning skulks the empty dock, herringbone sky billows like the Nancy’s sails.' and 'You walk worn muscles to the corrugated camp, pray for sleep’s deep trench, stroll with me on Donegal’s bladderwrack shores.'
I found The Shoplifter very powerful. Succinctly the writer has expressed the paradox of being a woman and being a mother, where the two states might converge or diverge. But I think one of my favourite poems in the collection is No Ordinary Tuesday 2001. That Tuesday was September 11th and I think it resonated with me so acutely because I was in Canada at the time and watched events unfold in real time on the TV in utter disbelief. The poignancy of the protagonist acknowledging her unborn child against the death leap of a woman from one of the towers is so pertinent, so subtle.
But perhaps it is the concluding poem that really does it for me! Prefaced by a quotation from the Scottish Dylan Thomas, W.S. Graham Last Boat Home it also gives us the title of the entire collection and, if I may, I'd like to quote in full.
'LAST BOAT HOME
for Katherine
‘Bear these words in mind
as they bear me soundly
beyond my reach’
- W.S. Graham
Though I fade like sailors’ footprints,
do not moulder
under grief’s woollen blanket.
under grief’s woollen blanket.
When the ocean knocks at your wind-scraped door
rise to greet me,
the first Atlantic bite.
When simmer dim’s lamp is trimmed bright and clear,
find me trailing west—
the last knuckle of light.
the last knuckle of light.
When words freight your untilled tongue,
sit by a rogue of stones at Scurrival
and sing.
and sing.
In the bittersweet lull between two days,
open your mouth
to salted air—
to salted air—
and I will make of you a vowel sound.'
My thanks to Isabelle Kenyon at Fly on the Wall Press for a pdf of this collection to be published on May 24th 2024 available from
No comments:
Post a Comment