For the Chiding Dove
by Helen Pletts
(YouWriteOn.com, £5.99, ISBN 978-1-84923-485-6)
The title of this collection struck me as a bit tame – and might lead the reader to expect delicate, lavender-scented verse about typical poetic subjects – but I’m delighted to report that what I found was quite the opposite: supple language used to mediate confrontations with challenging experiences and issues, eg. I’m taking the coats tonight and To my girlfriend who has Down’s. The book offers a tantalising metaphysical view of the world, almost an x-ray of people and life situations, which gets under the skin of reality – quite literally in I shall name you to the bone.
Most of the poems have a strong first-person voice, so the collection has a personal feel. A sense of unity between the poems is further enhanced by the recurrence of colours and images symbolising aspects of experience. Poems that suggest the guise of an identifiable character, eg. Lindow man and Ophelia, seem to have a dual purpose and also refer to the tentative narrative thread running through the work. Sometimes the poet employs pre-existing phrases – eg. ‘thick-set-jaw’, ‘doe-eyes’ – aptly, I think, to keep the reader suspended between an impressionistic interior world and the mundane physical/social world of home haircuts and ‘fly-away ends’.
The poems are fascinating, their complexity demanding subsequent readings in order to engage with the nuances of language. Colours are used in a painterly way to communicate mood and some poems feel like ekphrasis, but appear to be self-referenced, or may literally paint a picture of a situation as in The steel that is hers. Despite all the colours, the overall landscape is shadowy with an underlying threat of stasis: people sit in an airport departure lounge or travel underground on the metro; escape is attempted, but may not be successful, eg. She could be like white:
And it will rain down on her head.
Splash from your bow, red, on her heels.
Whilst individual poems stand alone perfectly well, the whole forms a collage of experience in a cityscape, with references to eastern Europe: Prague airport is mentioned and a mobile phone stolen on the metro is a Russian brand. But, then again, the phone isn’t just a phone – it’s also a woman – so, in the end, it may not be possible for the reader to pass entirely beyond the veil of these poems and pin down a definitive reality; but it’s human nature to try and make narrative connections, see if the poems fit together and speak to each other. Rather like a mosaic, the reader must stand back and look at the complete work to get a sense of the bigger picture. Of course, it is no accident that the cover illustration is of fractals and that Mandelbrot is mentioned in The fingerprint of God: the great is written small and vice versa. People, places, situations appear (at first glance) disparate and unrelated – reader: look closer…
The poems I felt most affection for and will remember were those where the subject matter was grounded in a recognisable situation, but the more oblique and metaphorical poems inform and expand the psychological fall-out from ongoing strands in the work. The tension the poet creates – between the inner and outer life, emotions and the physical state – is one of the most striking features: daring and, I think, successful. I could not be certain that I had grasped every nuance in this complex work, but the poems also function on a direct, emotional level. I may have (at best) a tenuous grasp of fractals, but these poems clearly demonstrate the universal law of the broken heart; I relished their quirkiness and will no doubt revisit them, to ponder some more about the references and undertones.
This collection forces the reader to make a perceptual leap and maybe a small act of faith is required: ‘One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore’ (André Gide). But the poet is a fun companion on this rollercoaster ride and maybe what she’s trying to tell us is that life is complex, people are baffling and – no, she doesn’t understand it all either, because no-one has all the answers. It is the work of a poet to keep chipping away at the surface of existence.
* Incidentally, some entries on the internet regarding this book (presumably written by people who have read only the ‘contents’ page) state that the collection is comprised of forty-five poems. However, in reality, most of the even-numbered pages are blank and there are actually twenty-three poems, including the Italian translation of For the chiding dove, so the book is probably best described as a pamphlet. But it covers a huge amount of ground for a pamphlet: well worth the asking price.
…reviewed by Beverly Ellis