Problems of Adjustment: Patrick Anderson (1915-79)
The birth date of
1915 fits right into the middle of the generation who became New
Romantic poets, born generally between 1910 and 1920. As you know,
many of them also vocally ceased to be New Romantic Writers as the
climate changed.
I never wrote about
Anderson, which is now a source of guilt. My work on modern British
poetry starts in 1960, and I don't think he wrote any significant
poems after 1960. I tended to leave Commonwealth poets alone and he
had spent much of his life in Canada (although he lived in England up
to his early twenties, usually taken to be the most influenceable
part of your life). I am looking at successive versions of Jim
Keery’s Apocalypse. An Anthology, not yet
published but sure to be a thing that changes the landscape of
memory, and I have noticed that Anderson was in the earlier, 500-page, version
but not in the clipped, 300-page version. It was this poem:
‘My
Bird-Wrung Youth’
My bird-wrung youth began with
the quick naked
voice in the morning, the
crooked calling,
and closed in the quiet wave
of the falling
wing, dropping down like an
eyelid –
O syringing liquid
song on the bough of flight
and at night, light failing,
the nested
kiss of the breasted
ones floating out to sleep in
a cup of colours:
wren’s flit and dimple, the
shadowy wing of the curlew
spent between stone and fern
in the hollow,
the barn-raftered swallow and
far at sea the rider
gull on the billow
all night, all night kept
sleep till steeply
the pillow
threw morning cockcrow
up in a column of straw and
blood. In childhood
days opened like that,
whistled and winked away,
but now with a harsher cry
birds bury
my stolen heart deep in the
wild orchard,
and whether they prettily
play with the plucked bud here
or marry
a cloud, I
am lost, am emptied
between two sizes of success.
For, clocking
past ceiling and dream
sailing, they drop down
to pick apart in a nimble and
needed rain
my limbs in love with longing,
yet till I long
for my twin in the sun
they rise, they almost form,
to be born
with a song
in a seventh heaven!
And I alone in the ambivalence
of April’s green and evil
see them still
colonizing the intricately
small
or flashing off into a wishing
distance –
their nearer syllables
peck through the webs of
every loosening sense
and
in their tall
flight’s
my betrayal.
This omission is a
moment of alarm and I want to say something about Anderson now. (Surinx is primarily a musical pipe, so syringing means piping.) Surely he was one of the good New Romantics and his evolution in the
early Fifties is significant as a way out of a position which had
become tired and needed to metamorphose. Take this stanza:
I remember the day
when the world rolled over
and the mist of the
blizzard was the outfit of the wave:
the sun was soft as
blubber that day,
through blindman's
buff of fathoms he blew his haze
and rolled his bulk,
and summer was never
stronger than that,
was never in sea or hay
a lovelier weather.
(‘Soft Blizzard’)
The yokings of words
are continually surprising (cf.
past ceiling and
dream sailing), and this is the New Romantic element,
where we can’t really discount either surrealism or metaphysical
poetry as a source. They are surprising rather than paradoxical and
anti-rational.
There is a memoir by
Robert Druce which contains the key information, largely private or
secret during the poet’s lifetime (in The Rhetoric of Canadian
Writing). At Oxford he was president of the Conservative
Association; he went to America in 1938, became a pacifist, married an American
communist, moved to Montreal, where he edited the retrospectively vital magazine Preview. In around 1950, he moved again, to a
job in Singapore (for two years). He then spent twenty years or so in England,
retiring in 1973 to concentrate on writing.
I read a book (can’t
now remember which one, it was probably (can’t now remember which one, it was probably The Montreal Forties: Modernist Poetry in Transition, by Brian Trehearne) ) which
indicated that Anderson had been a significant part of a breakthrough
generation in 1940s Canada, but had been written out of the
historical record because he was gay and the chronicler or
chroniclers felt that a poet had to be macho and dealt with the
rugged adversities of untamed Nature. The report also suggested that
he was torn between gay life and marriage, that he had written
excellent poetry while struggling with marriage, but when he became
consistently gay he became happy and lost the vital chemicals, of
struggle, ambiguity, and so on, and ceased writing interesting
poetry. The problem may also have been
that the history was written by poets from a magazine which was a
bitter rival of Preview and they felt themselves to have been
overshadowed and out-gunned by Anderson and P.K. Page. No-one is
going to record that fairly in their myth-making retrospect. He
impressed me by writing a book which was a history or anthology of
intense male friendship, evidently a gallery of wonderful gay
relationships, and a predecessor of Higgins’ Queer Reader.
This was Eros. An anthology of male friendship, 1961. This was
about as openly gay as you could get in 1961. There was a copy in the
local second hand bookshop (in Mansfield Road) but I failed to buy
it, the contents looked a bit familiar to me. But, what do I know. I
was impressed that someone in Nottingham at the end of the 1950s had
been well-informed enough to buy such a book – aimed at a fairly
specialised, although large, market. (It is possible that the 1961
edition was just “friendship” and a 1963 edition expanded this to
“male friendship”.) There is a 1991 article (for ECW) by Robert K. Martin,
“Sex and Politics in Wartime Canada: The Attack on Patrick
Anderson”, which describes a 1943 anti-gay attack on Anderson in a
rival magazine. A review comments “Critic and poet John Sutherland initiated the long tradition of attacks on Anderson's poetry as lacking honesty or manliness. Anderson's poetry was critiqued as being (femininely) un-Canadian, which turns the poet into "other" or foreigner.” The review was of Queer is Here, a 1999 book about problems with Canadian tradition by Peter Dickinson.
The book I actually
own is The Colour as Naked, 1953. I would like
to own n The
White Centre (1946) but
it is a rare book and people ask high prices. Naked is really
good. A description could involve saying that the poems are based on
concrete scenes closely observed, but that they also want to vault
over that into pure subjectivity, or freedom, and that the poet
possibly regards that as winning. This double impulse allows him to
renew his energies with each poem. Some asymmetrical couplings of
words link him to the New Romantics, without that becoming his main
thrust. Negatives are easier to define – the communist phase seems
to have evaporated, he is neither using the devices of Left poetry
nor expressing repentance and views on why “history isn’t as
simple as that”. No more is he writing about the end of his first
marriage or the start of his long-term relationship with another man.
The pictures of ordinary people and crowds may be a continuation of
Left themes, asserting the relationship between the poet and
everybody else. There are two sestinas. This form played a symbolic
role, during the 1950s, in asserting a living link between the
academics teaching Eng Lit, and writing poems, and the literature
they taught. It was visibly difficult and showed ease. It was even
meritocratic. These poems show Anderson moving organically into a new
era where political commitment was seen as simplification, and
formalism as a way into the mysteries of language.
(Discussion on this form in Edward Brunner’s Cold War Poetry.) He
was good at everything, and it is almost unbelievable that he stopped
soon after The Colour as Naked. I like this
passage from a poem about the ‘Hand’:
Flag from a cradle,
with a thumb to suck
whose wit transcends
the ape, this pares and feels,
selects and holds
and is the wonder of
habitual trick
to thrust and break
the being out
for act and
handshake, levers of a world.
This is so close to
physical reality and yet so rich in ideas.
Comments have been
made, by Trehearne for one, about the poet’s self dissolving and
losing shape. This is happening in ‘Bird-Wrung Youth’, a poem initially about birds, where the
poet (rather traditionally) becomes a bird and the bird is flying
around, defying gravity. The poems are perhaps trying to reach this
condition. But the poems in Naked are full of concrete details
and mostly start with concrete scenes. The poet is perhaps like a
camera moving across a scene full of people – this is apparently a
Leftist programme although it is like the mobility of the bird. The
poems are at least part-way documentaries. Perhaps the thing
dissolving is the sound of the bird – sound has to dissolve and
never was solid. And poems are made of sounds.
An email has
arrived to clarify that: >>"syrinx" is
also the vocal organ of birds, functionally similar to our vocal
cords but quite different in operation. << So this
word probably also contains "ringing" and "siren"
and is an occluded echo of 'liquid'. If we imagine the present
tense as “syrings” then the past tense is 'sywrung' and
this is possibly audible in the title. So
a syrinx is a thing that squirts twitters? O
syringing liquid
song on the bough of flight and at night. Also, in the book it is immediately followed by a poem called 'The Strange Bird' which is almost certainly part of the same meaning-complex. This second poem is mystifying, full of dream imagery, and the most Barker-like of the poems in the book. It is the closest to utter freedom and also the most laden with fixated images from childhood and the past.In 'Bird-wrung Youth', lying in bed listening to birdsong has something to do with the idea of sexual freedom. The speaker's body image flutters, kicks, takes off into the skies. In the column of straw and blood, the straw is in the pillow and the column is an early morning erection, coinciding with cock-crow.
song on the bough of flight and at night. Also, in the book it is immediately followed by a poem called 'The Strange Bird' which is almost certainly part of the same meaning-complex. This second poem is mystifying, full of dream imagery, and the most Barker-like of the poems in the book. It is the closest to utter freedom and also the most laden with fixated images from childhood and the past.In 'Bird-wrung Youth', lying in bed listening to birdsong has something to do with the idea of sexual freedom. The speaker's body image flutters, kicks, takes off into the skies. In the column of straw and blood, the straw is in the pillow and the column is an early morning erection, coinciding with cock-crow.
I do feel sad about
his leaving Canada, and also that he went for 23 years without
producing a volume of poems. But even poets have the right to a
biography. He seems to have been very happy with his life partner,
Orlando Gearing. There were some more poems in the mid-50s, after
Colour as Naked. Anderson produced two different selections of
his poems in 1976 and 1977 – A Visiting Distance and Return
to Canada. Because of the literary climate, neither is reliable
for his 1940s work, which to be honest is what really interests me.
There does not seem to be a Collected. He never published a volume of
poetry in Britain – most of his books seem to have come out from
McClelland and Stewart, in Toronto.
There is a very good
essay on Anderson by Patricia Whitney, available on the Internet.
Whitney has drawn on Anderson’s Journal and on some letters from
him and his wife to Pat Page (P.K. Page, as a poet), in a Canadian archive. The record shows
that Anderson spent much of his time in Canada hanging out with the
Labour Progressive Party, who were Moscow-line communists. The
Canadian Communist Party were banned in
1940 under
the War Measures Act,
hence the new party. His so-called autobiography does refer to
this but does not describe political enthusiasm, only the
eccentricities of his fellow comrades. (One of his close friends is
arrested in the flap after the defection of Igor Gouzenko, an event
exploited to close down communist activities far beyond any espionage
involvement.) A certain amount of subterfuge was involved
in several
aspects of Anderson’s position.
A seller’s blurb
for First Steps in Greece reads
“An
endearing travelogue of Greece and it's islands in the late 1950's
before the advent of mass tourism. Made colourful by the characters
he met and his wonderful style of writing, a wonderful read.”
So
you think it was all more ‘colourful’ before the advent of mass
tourism, but you are reading thr working-class people to have holidays in the
Mediterranean area. What had been a luxury for a luxury-living class
became much more normal. During the rise of the package holiday,
Anderson published three travel books. He abandoned literary poetry
for rather informal and entertaining prose. This was part of class
differences eroding. The wave of popularisation may actually connect
to cultural Communism and to the simplicity demanded from communist
writers. The travel genre is quite important for the cultural
evolution of the 1950s; at one level it is made up of guide-books and
deals with high culture, such as painting, architecture, the lives of
great writers; at another level it connects to holidays and is
consciously serene and cheerful.
I acquired his 1957 autobiography, Search Me. I wasn’t expecting much, but on examination this is a major work and a significant moment in the thin history of Fifties writing in Britain. The jacket describes also a radio play, A Case of Identity; it was broadcast on the Third Programme, which was only listened to by a few thousand intellectuals. Outside that enclave, the 1950s were not a good time for serious writing, while broadcasting and prose resembling broadcasting chatter were making all the running. Let us remember the films of the Rank Organisation, something which Younger Readers may not have heard of. They typified a certain phase of cheerful, unpretentious, anti-intellectual, ordinary but middle class, humour in the face of pretty ordinary adversity, which reliably satisfied a recurring wish for undemanding entertainment. Anderson published nine prose books in fifteen years. They must have done pretty well for the publishers to keep coming back. Certainly, they fit in at the higher end of the holiday reading market. Search Me could be a film with Donald Sinden as the hero. It makes me think of An Alligator Named Daisy or No Kidding (1960). I am musing on the Great Rampage section of Search Me as a light-hearted comedy starring Leslie Phillips and Geraldine McEwan. Britain became a different place when Rank stopped producing films. Search Me does tend to feature comic mishaps and larger than life eccentrics. It is genuinely unpredictable; thus, when you are thinking that he is having an easy ride on anecdotes, he says “But anecdotes have their suspect side; you framed and laughed at what you really wanted to be compelled by and enjoy.” The section on a ‘model village’ with provision for Maladjusted Children and a new hope for England, at Great Rampage, is comic but is also a forerunner of what ten years later would be called the counter-culture.
“You’ll only get
an occasional whiff of the moral atmosphere...
“Which is?” I
probed at once.
‘Oh well, love, or
fraternity, the lost revolutionary virtue. And Merrie England. And
bits of Martin Buber. And the wise darkness of the world,
which I suppose would be close to Jung.’
On the strength of
this I bought him another tomato juice. ‘With lemon’, he
cautioned me. ‘Of course everyone has his own philosophy’ he went
on. ‘It’s Schweitzer and Kathleen Ferrier when the teachers come,
and FS Smythe and Sir John Hunt for the Scouts, and the weavers and
potters are all for functionalism and the nature of the material, and
the dancers relate themselves spontaneously to space. They did an Age
of Anxiety ballet recently. Hefty village girls, carrying on a
muscular flirtation with the Atom Bomb… Much criticised afterwards
as insufficiently positive – it lacked organic context.’
(Smythe was a
mountaineer and author of The Kangchenjunga Adventure, and
Hunt was the leader of the successful Everest expedition of 1953.) The
last third of the book is completely different, dealing with
bisexuality in the shape of a Canadian painter who comes to live in
Spain with his wife. It reads like a novel. One has to guess that the
painter is really an avatar of Anderson (but maybe there were two people in Montreal whose marriages suffered from bisexual temptations). Key to Search Me is this lack of guilt, for example about the failure of a marriage, and the lack of assertion of a rigid identity, so that the speaker is always changing in changing situations. If the central theme of 20th C poetry was the assertion and recording of a character, Anderson was suspicious about Character and was moving towards the idea of personality as a process. Whereas both communism's view of History and romantic fiction's view of marriage see a final transition to a static and exalted state, Anderson sees both marriage and social life as a continuous series of adjustments; like someone seeing an object a thousand times and gradually grasping its real dimensions and shape. In the end, I felt that the
theme of the book is that, once one has abolished guilt and
obligation, a new version of 20th C life opens up, where the
inability of social roles to fit the urgings of pleasure is abiding – not moving towards a resolution, but swept
along on a shimmering tide of incidents. That is, it is reminiscent
of Nigel Dennis’ Cards of Identity. Both books centre on the
need for adjustment, but find that process mysterious and comic. They are at least amenable to the idea that both advertisements and magazines, and even films, may serve to adjust the consumer to society (and commodities to the consumer), and even that this is a long-term function of culture. Could this be the end of alienation?
I feel obliged to quote a poem from the book, as it is possibly otherwise unrecorded. This is “a description of my return to England in 1947”:
I feel obliged to quote a poem from the book, as it is possibly otherwise unrecorded. This is “a description of my return to England in 1947”:
I
At evening the
rocks, the fissures,
the slanted
knife-shape like a gull tilting
and the cave
becoming an arch and the arch crumbling
hold blue-white
light over gravel,
startle like falling
of plaster but do not fall:
westward the
headlands veil and swell,
the mountain humps
over the cooling beaches,
the cars start up,
the picnic is dismantled,
a trifling litter
swings and fills
with the flooding
tide, the spine of the conger.
The dogfish egg
floats in the darkness.
The dried-out tissue
of the sea-pink trembles.
2
Excitement
blesses the objects.
Form can give
security. One hides
in the attractive
sense of an island.
But tonight
by the oil lamp in
the parlour
or changing my shoes
on the cold linoleum
by the light of a
candle, running out the sand,
or turning into the
sea-dark at the doorway,
vague, warm, the
moth in the wind
damp on the privet
and fuchsia,
the honeysuckle
swing with a tendril
and the ivy clipped
to the rock and the heather
wired to its peaty
soil,
I shall be ashamed
of alliteration
and the obvious
delight. I shall be ashamed
of rootless
sensuality that pumps
the blood-red flower
and impacts the stone,
for the poem behind
the poem is inconsolable.
I shall want to cry
with my own voice:
‘I have come back.
It is after ten years.
How does one learn
to live?’ and the question,
hidden behind the
question, once again,
will rise in its
unconscionable boyhood
to be the gunman of
another twilight.
(possibly running
out on the sand?)
The realisation that
one cannot compete with Anderson as a commentator on his own poems is
modified by the fact that in Search Me he is
describing poems later than The Colour as Naked,
or ones he has not written yet. He is so creative that the ideas of a
few years before hardly crop up in this prose book.
I also feel that the
sheer flow of ideas could not have been contained in poems, and this
is why he moved into the less constrained, or organised, medium of
prose. I think the scene is less Anderson as someone in internal
exile, hiding behind entertainment, than someone gregarious and
amusing who was genuinely like the people who wrote and staged Rank
films, who knew all the reasons for not being abstract and demanding.
So I don’t see Anderson's career as tragic.
PS. genuinely obscure Anderson fact. In 1948, a poem of his was published in Poetry Quarterly but attributed to GS Fraser, because Wrey Gardiner had mixed the sheets up.
PPS An interested scholar (JEK) has advised that the poem was attributed to WS Graham - Wrey Gardiner's correction note itself contained an error. ‘he dies daily writing his doom’s diary/ while body’s queer career is his carrier/ in time across a plain of life and paper’ – a touch of Graham there, I guess.
There are three vital essays on Anderson in ECW (originally Essays in Canadian Writing but after expansion Extremely Canadian Writing or possibly Endlessly Canadian Writing), volumes for 1991 and 1997, which really get with the homophobia and the psychological blocks of the time.
JEK has also pointed out how similar Anderson's poetry is to P.K.Page. A poem like the "return" one sounds as if he had been talking to painters a lot, probably his wife and Canadian painters she hung out with. That might link to writing poems about the body, which is part of the link to Page. cf.:
... and if you became lost, say, on the lawn,
unable to distinguish left from right
and that strange longitude that divides the body
sharply in half – that line that separates
so that one hand could never be the other –
dissolved and both your hands were one,
then in the garden though birds
and on the ground
flowers wrote their signatures in coloured ink –
would you call help like a woman assaulted,
cry to be found?
- which is Page but sounds like a series of Anderson passages, in prose or verse (see the poem about the Hand, quoted above).
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