A Consideration of Pearse Hutchinson's Poetry

Placed not Cast

Hurling the frail door wide open, erupting down
from dim-lit narrow side-street three shallow steps
into the dark, small, quiet pub the raw young marine
in the dark blue blared
‘Is there nobody here?’ (from Saturnino by Pearse Hutchinson)

Following the marine back out onto the street, publican Saturnino cried Are we nobody? and back in the bar, Are we not people? not once nor twice but three times at least. This declaration of the most basic human right: to be recognized as a person, occurring in a circumstance most of us would probably file under forgettable, is a recurrent theme in Pearse Hutchinson’s writing.

The poems are frequently anecdotal. In the telling, he relates an incident, a minute event, the sort most of us think nothing of; and in the light he throws, we see the metal strip, the watermark. So much that passes as mundane transactions between people carries within them the watermarks we’re born with. Hutchinson recognises this; his anecdotes carry within them the universal truths about humankind.

His regard for people, the downtrodden, small, voiceless people is apparent time and time again. The narrowing of his focus from the Vatican-voluptuous, higher than God’s own sky ceiling in York minster to the timber model of Barnsley Main Seam....... nestling modest into the minster wall exemplifies this perfectly. The grandeur merits myriad cold, lavish adjectives. By contrast, the small model made by miners receives a distinct lack of adjectives, but the warmth in (and when was ‘w’ more effectively used) the phrase he chooses, well worked in wood, is palpable. It is not primarily a statement on the relative merits of the craftsmanship on display, but the honest endeavour of those who do not have the means to be loud. When he contemplates what would be revolutionary, it’s not of the ‘pull the palaces and parliaments down’ variety, but universal courtesy that comes to his mind. He is right; though not often referred to nowadays, courtesy between all would indeed eliminate most of the injustices we live with.

Another seldom mentioned virtue, gentleness, appears regularly in his poetry; a virtue that manifests itself in the daily transactions between individuals.

If love is the greatest reality
and I believe it is,
the gentle are more real
than the violent or than
those like me who
hate violence,
long for gentleness,
but never in our own act
achieve true gentleness.
We fall in love with people
we consider gentle,
we love them violently
for their gentleness” (from Into their true gentleness)

His gentle spirit suffuses not only the subject matter of many of his poems e.g. regarding the raw-looking hand in All The Old Gems but also in the expression of his subject matter as in Legend:

The Russian word for beautiful
is the Russian word for red.
The Chinese word for silk
is the Chinese word for love.

Beautiful red silk love.

Silk isn’t always red -
is love always beautiful?
When you are with me,
yes.

even in his choice of writing style e.g. the softness of the prose style adopted in A True Story of Art and Friendship.

His eye for the small detail: a snowflake in a web, a dandelion recalling a yellow fire, a wooden stile, enables him to reach the heart of poetry as a listener for the bass line in music reaches into the middle of the tune. Who else would ask,

Would unspent matches
lightly driven against
the handle of a silver spoon
make a different sound?

This after hearing the sound of spent matches touching the handle of a silver spoon in the poem Koan.

The last poem in Pearse Hutchinson’s Collected Poems is River. A girl plucks a flower and walks to the river outside the town,

She stood for a minute, watching the water move,
Then bending down she placed - not cast -
The flower on the water.

This last image might well be his poetry.

Increasing Poetry Readership

When I passed up Manchester United on television to give a poetry reading in the back room, the barman commented, as he pulled his chair closer to the screen, that it was easy to see that I was a poet. I bit my lip; there’s not many things I enjoy more than settling down in front of a good game of football.

But this view of poets, (and similarly for practitioners of other art forms), is extremely common and one that will have to be addressed if we are not to witness the continued shrinkage of the poetry sections in bookshops, readings on radio, indeed its perceived relevance to society in general.

It’s not that there isn’t a fondness for poetry; there is, maybe even more than previously but it’s losing out to other forms of entertainment in the media and no one is going to come to the rescue if those involved don’t.

Elsewhere on this blog I suggested that Poetry Ireland, (since it will take such a central organisation), organise a Poets Corner in Dublin (maybe the first of many throughout the country) where everyone/anyone can stop for 15 minutes to listen and buy poetry. I would suggest that a meeting of interested parties be set up to discuss the initiative and organise as big a kick-start as can be mustered.

Secondly. I was for a time involved in the organisation of poetry competitions for students. I discovered that the prospect of publication in a well-distributed book had greater appeal than prizes and drew in greater numbers of entries. I firmly believe that it is in the student years that readers can be won over to poetry. Is there a possibility that Gallery Press, Dedalus Press, Salmon Press and all the other poetry presses in Ireland, with or without Poetry Ireland, could pool their resources to produce such a publication? It would be very saleable in schools and colleges, seriously crank up their visibility and would be an investment in their own futures.