Making Friends
This past week has been mostly spent on reading as much as I can on Modern British Poetry. Luckily I have quite a lot of the recommended titles on the course outline. Some poets I've taught before (i.e., presented examples of their work, not given them lessons - can you imagine a classroom full of poets? It would probably be like herding cats). I've been scouring our shelves for various companions to this or that poet or poetic period, and the whole picture is gradually coming back into colour and focus.
Meanwhile, speaking of herding cats, Donner and Blitzen seemed to have turned into sleek black panthers almost overnight. Although they are still smallish, they are far less kittenish, and as they approach the completion of their first complete six months of life have developed strong feline physiques and distinct personalities too: Donner is brave and adventurous, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness. Blitzen is thoughtful; a planner, a strategist. It's Blitzen who has worked out how to use the kitchen's catflap; Donner still likes to be let out and in again by human hand. Donner has several times got himself almost stuck up the tree trunk at the back of our little garden; on one occasion Blitzen had to alert me to his predicament by persistent high pitched mewing. They are allowed out into our garden now, when K- or myself are around. O the astonishment of those first steps outside!
But I met with a different type of astonishment a couple of days ago, to find that one of the visiting cats of the area (for there are several) who normally cause fluffed up tails and general symptoms of consternation on the part of both Donner and Blitzen, had not only infiltrated the garden while they were ostensibly patrolling it, but had invited herself into their game of kitten tag. I looked up from my poetry book and was amazed: they all seemed to be playing nicely, like the most well-behaved Victorian children. Ms Sox (for so we call her due to her pretty white feet and otherwise sleek black fur) is of a similar size to the boys, so perhaps that accounted for a feeling of equality in the playground. Donner even progressed to attempted fly-catching, in an effort to impress his two seated feline observers. Well, well. Who says that cats are all solitaries and naturally hostile to those who trespass on their territory? Something to teach us all.
However, I did observe this morning a slightly acidic tinge to the goings-on; all three were again playing leaf-football, tag, and strings-on-a-stick (the latter with my help) but I noticed young Ms Sox displaying what appeared to be a slightly bullying quality. Not only was she winning all the games, but she was doing most of the chasing too, and a few hisses and bushy tails were the result. I broke up the play session early, and not just because I needed to get into the office.
Concentration re-attained at work, I carried on reading up on the Poetry Wars (not to be confused with the War Poets)…what a concept – poets at war! Visions of massed poet troops facing each other across the playground; sorry, battlefield, gleaming pens at the ready. Poetry wars is one of those strange phrases which is applied with some alacrity today to describe apparent mutual distrust and hostility between mainstream and experimental ‘schools’. It seems unlikely but I’ve witnessed fervent war speeches (at conferences and the like) from critics hailing from each side.
But the phrase is also applied to the early years of the twentieth century too, in particular the gradually hardening demarcation lines between the formally and thematically conservative Georgians and the innovative Imagists and their modernist successors. Peter Howarth’s book on ‘British Poetry in the Age of Modernism’ in particular shows how the lines gradually firm up, and how we now see contemporary lyrical mainstreamers linked to the former, and the avant garde to the latter…but surely it’s never as clear as that.
Most poets, like cats, dislike being co-opted into battles, unless it’s to saunter proudly across the playground on their own terms, or to circle a playful visitor from over the fence with a welcoming paw - and, perhaps, a tail raised in warning too.
Meanwhile, speaking of herding cats, Donner and Blitzen seemed to have turned into sleek black panthers almost overnight. Although they are still smallish, they are far less kittenish, and as they approach the completion of their first complete six months of life have developed strong feline physiques and distinct personalities too: Donner is brave and adventurous, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness. Blitzen is thoughtful; a planner, a strategist. It's Blitzen who has worked out how to use the kitchen's catflap; Donner still likes to be let out and in again by human hand. Donner has several times got himself almost stuck up the tree trunk at the back of our little garden; on one occasion Blitzen had to alert me to his predicament by persistent high pitched mewing. They are allowed out into our garden now, when K- or myself are around. O the astonishment of those first steps outside!
But I met with a different type of astonishment a couple of days ago, to find that one of the visiting cats of the area (for there are several) who normally cause fluffed up tails and general symptoms of consternation on the part of both Donner and Blitzen, had not only infiltrated the garden while they were ostensibly patrolling it, but had invited herself into their game of kitten tag. I looked up from my poetry book and was amazed: they all seemed to be playing nicely, like the most well-behaved Victorian children. Ms Sox (for so we call her due to her pretty white feet and otherwise sleek black fur) is of a similar size to the boys, so perhaps that accounted for a feeling of equality in the playground. Donner even progressed to attempted fly-catching, in an effort to impress his two seated feline observers. Well, well. Who says that cats are all solitaries and naturally hostile to those who trespass on their territory? Something to teach us all.
However, I did observe this morning a slightly acidic tinge to the goings-on; all three were again playing leaf-football, tag, and strings-on-a-stick (the latter with my help) but I noticed young Ms Sox displaying what appeared to be a slightly bullying quality. Not only was she winning all the games, but she was doing most of the chasing too, and a few hisses and bushy tails were the result. I broke up the play session early, and not just because I needed to get into the office.
Concentration re-attained at work, I carried on reading up on the Poetry Wars (not to be confused with the War Poets)…what a concept – poets at war! Visions of massed poet troops facing each other across the playground; sorry, battlefield, gleaming pens at the ready. Poetry wars is one of those strange phrases which is applied with some alacrity today to describe apparent mutual distrust and hostility between mainstream and experimental ‘schools’. It seems unlikely but I’ve witnessed fervent war speeches (at conferences and the like) from critics hailing from each side.
But the phrase is also applied to the early years of the twentieth century too, in particular the gradually hardening demarcation lines between the formally and thematically conservative Georgians and the innovative Imagists and their modernist successors. Peter Howarth’s book on ‘British Poetry in the Age of Modernism’ in particular shows how the lines gradually firm up, and how we now see contemporary lyrical mainstreamers linked to the former, and the avant garde to the latter…but surely it’s never as clear as that.
Most poets, like cats, dislike being co-opted into battles, unless it’s to saunter proudly across the playground on their own terms, or to circle a playful visitor from over the fence with a welcoming paw - and, perhaps, a tail raised in warning too.
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