The Point of the Stick, Neil Fulwood (Shoestring Press)
A year or so ago I reviewed See Saw, a chapbook by Adrian Buckner, (https://internationaltimes.it/looking-and-seeing/) in which I said (among other things) that
they are poems in response to paintings, and while the connection between
painting and poem is necessarily and understandably close, we are neither talking of
descriptions nor, strictly speaking, of interpretations, but of a creative consequence
and, for the most part, poems able to stand alone without a painting to help keep them
on their feet
As such, they don’t require of the reader any knowledge of the paintings,
although there are maybe a couple of poems where knowing the painting is
more than a little bit useful and, anyway, the more you know the better, and
looking up the paintings – before, during, or after reading the poem(s) – is an
additional bonus pleasure.
I mention this because I intend to say much the same thing about Neil Fulwood’s poems in this very elegant little chapbook, although the ‘subject’ here is not paintings but orchestral maestri: 39 fairly short poems which seek, to quote the poet’s introduction, ‘to distil the essence’ of some of the great maestri ‘either by alluding to their personality or focussing on a formative moment in their life or career.’
At this point, I have to say that while over the last two or three years I have listened to more classical music than ever I did in the previous 70-odd, I really know bugger all about it, and will probably always know more and understand more about Marc Bolan and Syd Barrett than Gustav Mahler. I discovered Sibelius’ ‘Karelia Suite’ and Bach’s ‘Brandenburg Concertos’ courtesy of The Nice back in the late 1960s when I was still at school, and Beethoven through A Clockwork Orange, but that was about it, to be honest. But lately I have explored, and discovered I like a lot of it, and while the music is of course infinitely various I’m often finding that violins or cellos or the piano can be what I need, and the electric guitar can step aside for a while. And as for the chap with the baton: well, there’s a sketch by David Mitchell and Robert Webb on their old radio show that satirizes a dumbing down of The Proms, in which the presenter speaks of the conductor ‘waving at the band’, and that’s not a million miles from where I am as far as having any real understanding of what the conductor does. (I might mention also that of the 39 maestri here, I had heard of 13 of them.) But I know for a fact that Fulwood is much smarter than I am (in this respect at least . . . ) and knows his classical music, and can speak eloquently about how different conductors work and/or interpret the music. It is fascinating stuff, and I don’t understand it at all.
But I do understand (forgive that word) poems. And these are really very good poems.
Here is the Eugen Jochum poem, in full:
His Bruckner is a symphony cycle
for the ages: a definitive statement
on the sacred, the all-too-human
and those terrifying void-like spaces
in between; a treatise on faith
and darkness and the interstices
of the deeply felt and seldom
admitted, a masterclass in agony
and transcendence; an edifice
set in visceral contrast against
our earthly ruins: a cathedral
incandescent with the fear of God.
This is perhaps one of the more intense and abstract of the poems, but the tone of the poetry changes to suit the man (and they are all men, as it happens) and its content. The poem on Andre Previn, for example, references the conductor’s famous appearance on the Morecambe & Wise Christmas television show in 1971, and ends:
all the right moves made,
by anybody’s definition,
in absolutely the right order.
This is more or less the method of the poems: whether it be describing the man on the podium, or referring to a particular event or set of circumstances, the language is economical and precise, and the poem culminates in an elegant and perceptive summation of the maestro’s essence. Examples:
communication as a non-verbal act,
score as holy writ, understood
on the deepest, most intimate level
(Arthur Nikisch)
the score sometimes
little more than a suggestion.
(Leopold Stokowski)
nerves like high-tensile wire
turned to the agonies
of the great composers.
(Klaus Tennstedt)
Self-discipline
as act of self-destruction.
(Karl Richter)
A touch of the shaman.
The dreamwoven soul of the poet.
The ageless care of the curator.
(Jordi Savall)
Some of the poems come with brief Notes at the end of the book, providing background information which adds context that might be of help regarding certain events referenced in the poems, such as the smuggling of the score of Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony out of Russia on microfiche. These notes are useful, but the poems would, I think, be able stand without them. Oh, and I have to mention that the poems are untitled, and one can only find out who a poem is about by checking with a list of names at the back of the book. I’m not sure I’m crazy about that, but never mind. It is what it is.
This is not a collection of poems solely for the classical music afficionado. It is one for those who appreciate poetry, and a poet pretty much at the top of his game.
Copyright © Martin Stannard, 2024
(First published by Litter magazine)
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