wormwood, earth and honey
by Catherine Edmunds
(85 pages, Paperback, Circaidy Gregory Press, 2008, ISBN: 978-1-906451-04-2)
Reviewed for IS&T by John Irvine
Catherine Edmunds’ new book of verse wormwood, earth and honey recently released by and available directly from Circaidy Gregory Press, could not have got off to a better start for me. The cover art, her own creation, is my kind of art: bold brush strokes, visual texture and rich colours. In fact, the cover art has an almost ethereal marine feel to it.
I am familiar with Catherine’s work, and have been fortunate enough to read it on many occasions. There is, though, a vast difference between reading the odd offering and reviewing an entire volume. Firstly, I chose poems at random from throughout the book, reading to set within my mind a ‘feel’ for the collection. Then I took it quietly and slowly, as the exceptional poetry herein deserves to be taken. What a smorgasbord of sensations I encountered:
• whimsy:
Eric was fashionably dressed
in bumptious cumulo nimbus
• enigma:
a cave beneath a jasmine tree, full of secrets
dying leaves, wormcasts, earth and honey
• deviousness:
whereupon it (the wind)
transmogrified into a golden retriever
• and glorious madness:
Erik laughed with the sound of thistles
waggled antennae and smirked at Mavis
Catherine is no superficial poet awash with jolly statements that cannot possibly be misinterpreted. She is a thinker’s poet, a writer whose words very often conceal and beguile, and whose meanings frequently wear the camouflage of allegory and metaphor. If you want the most from her poetry, you will have to think about it. This is not a book for skimming during a free moment in the lavatory. Even her humour requires careful attention.
She is a compelling storyteller, weaving complex and sometimes lyrical tales with surprisingly few words. There’s no waste with this poet. Every word, every line break, every nuance is calculated for maximum effect. The lady handles drama, sentiment, nonsense and humour with equal aplomb. Catherine is what every seriously talented poet must be: a gimlet-eyed observer.
She is also versatile. Not content with just the contemporary style of free verse, she is equally at home with the sonnet (a particular favourite of mine,) haiku/senryu and a plethora of other styles and fancies. Pernickety paragons of punctuation will be disappointed. There isn’t a lot of it. For me, though, the lack of it gives Catherine’s work a sense of immediacy and sometimes restlessness that I like very much indeed.
So… if stolen hedgehogs, unrequited love, heroic prunes, things called Eric, romantic mittens, unhappy penguins, myth and legend and assorted other unforgettable characters are your meat and spuds, then this book is for you. But make no mistake: this book is not just about fun and games. There is a very serious underbelly throughout this book. Sometimes angry, sometimes hopeless, sometimes just plain glorious. It’s all in there:
• Anger:
his foot’s kicked a twelve inch monkey wrench
he picks it up, nods once to the car
then goes to look for his mother
• Hopelessness:
it’s not a police matter
they’re just bruises
they’ll heal
• Glory:
as clouds gather
walk with me in colour
A favourite piece? Well, I think I’d have to confess and say that ‘grandfather’s beard’ took my fancy. Perhaps not the most deeply meaningful of Catherine’s offerings, but it is dry and wry enough to purse my mouth… with laughter. Or maybe ‘The Ballad of Shane and Mavis.’ Or perhaps even…
To sum up: this delightfully complex volume of poetry will please any reader who likes to take their time, ponder a lot and gaze at the heavens, but someone who also has a sense of the ridiculous. If I had one regret it would be that Catherine didn’t see fit to sprinkle a number of her wonderful drawings throughout the book. I give this book my Supreme Golden Syrup Pudding Award… I read it twice before lunch, and now I’m off back for thirds.
Here is one her poems from the collection
bike
he sat on his motorbike
garish, resplendent,
in periwig, surcoat and pantaloons
he waited
we waited
they waited
all waited
for the fish underneath him to ripen
and when it did
the fumes exuded
took him to Tajikistan
(and back)
and then all the way to France
• Catherine Edmunds