Ann Drysdale: Between Dryden and Duffy: Another Collection (Peterloo, 2005)
If poets could be divided into inward-looking and outward-looking ― which of course they can’t, but let’s pretend ― Drysdale would belong to the latter group. She’s not spelunking in the murky underwater caves of the unconscious; she’s looking around at the world and commenting on what she sees: in nature, in literature, and, especially,in society. So after reading her latest book, Between Dryden and Duffy: Another Collection, I wasn’t surprised to learn she had worked as a journalist for many years, and written a long-running column for the Yorkshire Post.
Others have commented on her wry wit. She can be very funny, it’s true, but let’s not neglect her other qualities (as some people do with Gail White). The first thing you notice is that she’s an accomplished formalist who works equally well in a variety of meters, with or without rhyme. Then there’s her ability to describe things vividly without sounding precious or twee. Drysdale lives in Wales, and in this book there’s a strong sense of place. I had to Google a few references, but it was easy and worth it. Now I know who L. S. Lowry and Idris Davies were, among other things.
Here’s the beginning of “Thinking of you,” which ends with a nod to Philip Larkin:
They joined the train at Didcot. Angel faces
On a school trip for pre-pubescent teens.
Bejewelled belly-buttons, dental braces;
All shrunken tops and elephantine jeans.
Now up and down the central aisle strides Sir
Seeing his jailbait cargo safely through;
He moves his lips as if in silent prayer,
Counts little titties and divides by two.
“Don’t move the cooker!” parodies ‘Inversnaid’, whose sentiments Drysdale clearly shares. Near the beginning of the book is a 15-poem sequence from “A Landscape in Waiting”, which was commissioned by the Bargoed Town Council “to celebrate the creation of a woodland park.” It’s better than it sounds.
Drysdale’s best poems about nature are really about people. Here’s an excerpt from “Leaves of Grass,” in which the narrator tries to explain the phrase to a “city kid”:
Like the close relative who hits a child
Repeatedly, giving the flawed reason
That it is for the youngster’s benefit,
These good citizens castigate their grass,
Saying “it wanted doing”.
Rhys can no more conceive of leaves of grass
Than can his little shaven bullet-head
Admit the possibility of ringlets.
Many of the poems are anything but light. In “Mending a Snail”, the narrator, who was unable to prevent her husband’s death, goes to extreme lengths trying to save a snail with a broken shell. In “Background Music,” a restaurant patron’s heartbreak is cleverly conveyed by snippets of song lyrics. In “The Dream Catchers” a hospital visitor uses verbal art to bring comfort and cheer to a patient:
Scheherezade is sitting in the corner
Catching the floating facts in the still air,
Combing them slowly between her long, cool fingers,
Dwelling deliberately on small acts of kindness,
Teasing out pleasure from among the pain,
Singing the new songs softly in the night.
That one’s unusual; you’ll find more close observation here than fancy. “Traditional Seaside Fun” is more typical:
Peter is here. See how he stares, engrossed,
into the kingdom of the captive crane.
The single article he covets most
has pulled him down the pier to try again.
At last the mouth-organ is standing proud
of all the other treasures in the cage;
he drops the maximum he is allowed
into the slot and feels the wheels engage...
Who says funny poems have to rhyme? The first twenty or so lines of “Baby’s Hat” describe a hideous bonnet. Here’s how it ends (Warning: Spoiler!)
Fat plastic pearls, clinging like beads of sweat
Around the baby’s flaky little forehead,
Artfully mirroring the beads of snot
Collected in its nostrils. I am moved
To snatch the child, to run away with it,
To hold it somewhere safe while I contrive
To conjure up a less abusive hat.
In “The Case for Light Verse,” Drysdale argues for “giving the common man his amuse-bouche.” Nicely put, but some poems amuse the bouche more than others. One or two of the light verse offerings are the kind that rely too heavily on rhyme and meter for that ba-dump-bump effect. The title poem, however, is priceless. I won’t give it away; you’ll have to trust me.
Most of the poems are written in the first person, in pentameter or longer lines, somewhere between a sonnet and a page long. You’ll find touching anecdotes, insights, and a healthy dose of humor. The “canon poem” is well represented. The book also includes several translations of poems by Théophile Gautier and Catullus.
I’ll be honest: while I enjoyed the read, at times I found myself wishing for just a bit more strangeness, more darkness, and a bit less wholesome good sense. But that’s me. If you like literate, well-crafted formal verse that engages with the contemporary world and isn’t too weird or depressing, this book is a good bet.
