Though T.S. Eliot was born right here in St. Louis, he decided later on in life that he was actually an Englishman. Kind of like those goth kids in high school who cop a fake British accent, that's how I always thought of it, but nevermind—one of the Brits' most prestigious poetry prizes is now named for Eliot, so they have claimed him as one of their own. This year that prize was awarded to a young woman named Jen Hadfield, for her book Nigh-No-Place. Hadfield has 30 years and two books to her name, making her quite different from the folks who usually win this award ... most of them are closer in age and output to past awardee Seamus Heaney.
After reading about Hadfield, I was really glad to hear that she'd won. She plays music, makes visual art and has worked in a fish factory; in fact, she still works in a shop to supplement what she earns from writing and teaching. Hadfield lives in Shetland, a rather remote and rural place, and writes poems that integrate nature and the landscape, though I hestitate to call them "nature poems," because they aren't quite. They acknowledge the presence of humans, for one thing. And she fuses old school organic diction and subject matter with a really modern use of poetic language; the news stories about Hadfield often mention "Paternoster," her draught-horse Lord's Prayer, as a way of explaining her style:
Paternoster
for A.B.J
Paternoster. Paternoster. Hallowed be dy mane. D'kingdom come. D'draftwork be done though heart stiffen in the harness. Still plough the day an give out daily bray. Then sleep fasten harness with bear-bells and trot on bravely into sleep where the black an bay the sorrel an the grey an foals an bearded wheat are waiting. It is on earth as it is in heaven. Drought, wildfire; skinny wild asparagus, yellow flowers on the flowering cactus. Give our daily wheat, wet whiskers in the tin bucket. Knead my heart, hardened daily. Ease the imprint in my heart. Gies our oats at bedtime an in the night half sleeping. Give meadows, hayrolls, whiskery knappin.* Paternoster. Paternoster. Hallowed be dy hot mash.
*knappin - two ponies cleaning each other's hair with their mouths.
See more of her work here.
And that's a long and digressive introduction to the subject I was going to post about this morning:just wanted to let the poetry heads know that this Thursday at 7pm, I'll be hosting Literature for the Halibut on KDHX FM 88.1. The guest is poet Oliver de la Paz, who'll be reading from his latest book, Furious Lullabye and talking about his reading next Monday for River Styx at Duff's with Virginia Slachman, the author of Heidegger’s Temple. All the pertinent details on where/when/how much/ here; if you're too lazy to click the mouse, Duff's is located at 392 North Euclid. The reading is $5, $4 for members, seniors and students, and the whole shebang commences at 7:30 p.m. And just to whet your whistle, here's a "postcard poem" from Oliver, originally printed in Shampoo:
Dear Empire,
The ice shelf leaves a heart-shaped cleft in the earth. From space its shadow is as small as the grooves in your hand.
This hand is writing
you a letter. It is making
an oasis of salt.
—Stefene Russell
