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September poetry round-up

An immortal classic is given new voice, an award-winning poet returns with his new volume of verse, a novel is written from a poet’s perspective and a poet creates a surprising and delightful experimental novel in our occasional round-up of new poetry from the Bookhugger publishers.

Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot, read by Ralph Fiennes

Four QuartetsFour Quartets is the culminating achievement of T.S. Eliot’s career as a poet. While containing some of the most musical and unforgettable passages in twentieth-century poetry, its four parts, ‘Burnt Norton’, ‘East Coker’, ‘The Dry Salvages’ and ‘Little Gidding’, present a rigorous meditation on the spiritual, philosophical and personal themes which preoccupied the author. It was the way in which a private voice was heard to speak for the concerns of an entire generation, in the midst of war and doubt, that confirmed it as an enduring masterpiece. This new audio version, read by Ralph Fiennes, celebrates the 80th birthday of publishers Faber.

Rain, by Don Paterson

RainIn this, his first volume of original verse since the award-winning Landing Light, Don Paterson is found writing at his most memorable and direct. In an assembly of masterful lyrics and monologues, he conjures a series of fables and charms that serve both to expose us to the unsettling forces within the world and simultaneously offer some protection against them. Whether outwardly elemental in their address, or more personal in their direction, these poems – to the rain and the sea, to his young sons or beloved friends – never shy from their inquiry into truth and lie, embracing everything in scope from the rangy narrative to the tiny renku.

Rain, which includes the winner of the 2008 Forward Prize for the Best Individual Poem and an extended elegy for the poet Michael Donaghy, is Don Paterson’s most intimate and manifest collection to date.

The Anthologist, by Nicholson Baker

The AnthologistNicholson Baker’s new novel, The Anthologist, is narrated by Paul Chowder, a poet of some little renown who is sitting in his barn most of the time trying to write the introduction to a new anthology of poetry called Only Rhyme. He’s having a hard time getting started because his career is falling apart, his girlfriend Roz has recently left him, and he is thinking about the poets throughout history who have suffered far worse and actually deserve to feel sorry for themselves. He has also promised his readers that he will reveal many wonderful secrets and tips and tricks about poetry, and it looks like the introduction will be a little longer than he’d thought.

What unfolds is a wholly entertaining and beguiling love story about poetry, among other things; Paul tells us about all of the great poets, from Tennyson, Swinburne, and Yeats to the moderns (Roethke, Bogan, Merwin) to the contemporary scene as well as the editorial staff of The New Yorker’s editorial department. And what he reveals about the rhythm and music of poetry itself is astonishing and makes you realize how incredibly important poetry is to our lives. At the same time, Paul manages just barely to realize all of this himself and what results is a tender, wonderfully romantic, often hilarious, and inspired novel.

The Anthologist bears all the beloved hallmarks of Baker’s novels: it is witty, erudite, breathtakingly articulate and stylish, and full of the whimsical, compulsive elements that have made its author a worldwide success.

Eunoia, by Christian Bök

Eunoia‘Eunoia’, which means ‘beautiful thinking’, is the shortest word in the English language to contain all five vowels. This book also contains them all, but never at the same time. Each of Eunoia’s five chapters is univocalic: that is, each chapter uses only one vowel. A triumphant feat, seven years in the making, this uncanny work of avant-garde literature is one of the most surprising and awe-inspiring books of the year. A challenging feat of composition and technical skill, Bök has worked this into a series of compelling narratives and rhythms. Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks – impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn’t it glib? Isn’t it chic?


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