Charlie Connelly has chosen The Grail Roads as his book of the year for 2018.
‘Above all it is beautiful poetry, evocative and accessible, subtle and nuanced, varying in style and format to create a startlingly good piece of work that, for this writer, provides the last word on the First World Warand the commemoration of the Armistice. The Grail Roads is, by some distance, my book of 2018.’
The New European, 3 – 9 January 2019
To all of you who came from far and wide to the launch performance of The Grail Roads.
To Brian Lewis for working so intuitively with me to produce a beautiful book.
To Ray Hearne and Matt Clegg for helping me deliver the reading with total commitment.
To Deborah Egan and all those at DINA for wonderful hosting in a great venue.
To Emma Bolland for her perfectly judged photography, both for the book jacket and for turning us into pop stars for a night.
To everyone who has bought the book (and if you’re still shopping for Christmas, look no further than Longbarrow Press and its season’s offers!).
To all those who have reviewed the book so kindly.
Thanks and Happy Christmas!
My third full-length collection The Grail Roads, published by Longbarrow Press, is launched with a performance at DINA in Sheffield. On the centenary of the Armistice that ended the First World War, I’m reading with Matthew Clegg and Ray Hearne in what promises to be a memorable event in DINA’s beautiful Jara Room.
DINA, 32 Cambridge Street, Sheffield, S1 4HP
Sunday 11 November 2018 | 7pm – 9.30pm | Admission £5 / £3 – pre-booking only: click here for details)
I’m delighted to say that my next collection, The Grail Roads, is to be published later this month by Longbarrow Press. The final editing and preparation has been a real collaboration with Brian Lewis, for which I’m extremely grateful. Thanks also to Matt Clegg, Chris Jones, Jim Caruth and Ray Hearne for their support and creative comments on various sections and drafts, and to Emma Bolland who, with Brian and myself, tramped around the old training trenches at Redmires above Sheffield in search of the ideal image for the jacket. Which she got, I think.
It is 100 years since the end of the First World War this autumn, so a fitting season for the launch. Watch this space. In the meantime, a micro-site provides an introduction to the book.
Something about birds of prey. Far up, their eyes and shadows on the landscape, they occupy an outer world: kin to karst, moraine, arête, they are abstracts, like cave drawings. Close by – that buzzard on that telegraph post on Skye, the kite flashing out of an orchard in an Oxfordshire village – they are startling as mummers: unlike in everything to domestic birds. Truly, they haunt our places.
Driving from Madrid to anywhere,
the glinting, diminishing city in the mirror,
everything you love about this country
is reduced to a few roofs among the prairie,
a brown gorge chocked from the mesa
and a pair of buzzards climbing the hot air.
Millmoor, 1975, rain piling out of the night
gold in the floodlights, black against green.
Against a soldered sky the arc-flight
of a hawk, uncanny, bewildering.
That damp Welsh summer, a house
of thick-walled cold clamped at the head
of a track, the grey boles of mountains.
Each morning we watched birds a mile up
drifting in the frail sky, small as balloons
let go from a fair, sunlit and miraculous.
I’m enjoying Thomas Dilworth’s study of David Jones who, harried by a strict religious upbringing and his experiences in the trenches, suffers severe neurasthenia leading to a major breakdown and sustained mental ill health. In this context, it is both remarkable that he was able to realise his masterwork, In Parenthesis – and unsurprising that he describes its symbolic arc as transcendental.
Crossing similar terrain (somewhat unwittingly – I read Jones for the first time, and in snatches, while writing a long sequence of poems called The Grail Roads) I was always clear that the trajectory for my work would offer a very different perspective. Like Jones I draw heavily on Malory (though his chief source is the Morte D’Arthur whereas mine is the Sankgreal); but for me, the end of the road is just that: the tragic death of soldiers isn’t alleviated by faithful glory.
Of course, that’s easy for me to say: I wasn’t there. Men who came back had to live out their lives however they could. In Jones’ writing – and painting – ghosts are also angels. The ghosts in my poems haven’t moved on.
After Edward Thomas
Bors stirred at the jolted stop –
some empty platform outside,
bare sky, line curving towards trees
and a low building. The guard
passed down the train; someone
in the next compartment spoke to him.
Steam filled the window, cleared;
a cough repeated like an engine.
There was no sign on the platform
and in the late daylight the place
looked drab and somehow ruined.
Then a bird called, close and startling;
and Bors thought of what he might say
to Arthur when he saw him. Galahad
bydde him remember of this worlde unstable:
better, perhaps, than how and why he died.
At Grace, heads bowed at the table,
they keep their eyes open,
hands knit, chins resting on them.
The lamp burns behind the colonel’s head.
He drops a little, starts, clears his throat,
leads the Amen.
Amen. The soup is brought up
and bread broken. There is good wine
of course, but no song
only conversation, well-informed
and ignorant, knowing the names of battles
but not who died in them.