Another book I'm looking forward to and which we have Bloodaxe to thank is
Bernard Spencer's 'Complete Poetry, Translations and Selected Prose', due for release in February 2011.
Spencer died in 1963 and as far as I can tell his work is better known and admired among poets than the reading public. It deserves a wider audience and hopefully this will start to change that.
A Collected Poems was last published by OUP in 1981 and before that by Alan Ross in 1965.
I happen to know this because I chanced across a copy of the latter in a book shop on Charing Cross Road in the early 90s and was impressed by how contemporary-sounding many of his poems are.
I figure this is why he is so admired by other poets since they can enjoy and use his work far easier than, say, Auden's.
His work is conversational, often elegant, and precisely detailed. He sometimes reminds me of Louis MacNeice, and as in the poem below, Elizabeth Bishop.
I wish there were a touch of these boats about my life;
so to speak, a tarring,
the touch of inspired disorder and something more than that,
something more too
than the mobility of sails or a primitive bumpy engine,
under that tiny hot-house window,
which eats up oil and benzine perhaps
but will go on beating in spite of the many strains
not needing with luck to be repaired too often,
with luck lasting years piled on years.
There must be a kind of envy which brings me peering
and nosing at the boats along the island quay
either in the hot morning
with the lace-light shaking up against their hulls from the water,
or when their mast-tops
keep on drawing lines between stars.
(I do not speak here of the private yachts from the clubs
which stalk across the harbour like magnificent white cats
but sheer off and keep mostly to themselves.)
Look for example at the Bartolomé a deck-full
of mineral water and bottles of beer in cases
and great booming barrels of wine from the mainland,
and lengths of timber and iron rods for building
and, curiously, a pig with flying ears
ramming a wet snout into whatever it explores.
Or the Virgin del Pilar, mantled and weary with drooping nets
with starfish and pieces of cod drying on the wheel-house roof
some wine, the remains of supper on an enamel plate
and trousers and singlets ‘passim’;
both of these boats stinky and forgivable like some great men
both needing paint,
but both, one observes, armoured far better than us against jolts
by a belt of old motor-tyres lobbed round their sides for buffers.
And having in their swerving planks and in the point of their bows
authority of a great tradition, the sea-shape
simple and true like a vase,
something that stays too in the carved head of an eagle
or that white-eyed wooden hound crying up beneath the bowsprit.
Qualities clearly admirable. So is their response to occasion,
how they celebrate such times
and suddenly fountain with bunting and stand like ocean maypoles
on a Saint’s Day when a gun bangs from the fortifications,
and an echo-gun throws a bang back
and all the old kitchen bells start hammering from the churches.
how one of them, perhaps tomorrow, will have gone with no hooting or fuss,
simply absent from its place among the others,
occupied, without self-importance, in the thousands-of-