Mark Burnhope was born in 1982 and studied at London School
of Theology before completing an MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University.
His work has appeared in a variety of print and online publications. He
currently lives and writes in Bournemouth, Dorset with his partner, four
stepchildren, two geckos and a greyhound, and his first chapbook, The Snowboy, was recently published by
Salt.
I talked to him about it, poetry in general, and much much
more…
How much of an
influence is your background in theology on your writing? One of the things I
liked most about The Snowboy was the
way it made me look afresh at religion, and specifically Christianity, in terms
of metaphor.
That’s very kind of you. Yes, my first degree was in
theology, and you could say it’s been a lasting influence, especially some
progressive and liberation theologies like Nancy L Eisland’s The Disabled God, and various things
written from within the L’Arche Community. In poetry, though, I try to avoid exploring
those abstract concepts in a way which divorces them from life (‘No ideas but
in things’ and all that). I’m a fan of the Metaphysical poets; as well as being
serious explorers of faith, they were irreverent satirists. In Donne’s early
work there’s this confusion, self-doubt, the personal tension of needing to
write honestly while still honouring God, and that kaleidoscope of feeling,
mingled with a range of aesthetics, often amounts to something very funny. My
poem The House, the Church and
Fisherman’s Walk is a slightly farcical metaphysical conceit where I pit
two Christianities’ pictures of disability against one another. It has some of
the ecstasy of Hopkins, and the comedic side of Dylan Thomas.
I try not to write narrowly ‘religious’ poetry, but I’ve
found threads in the poetry I’ve loved and pulled them together: the Romantics,
landscape and nature, Confessional poetry, which grabbed me in a big way as a
teenager, and hasn’t let go. I love strong, blunt feeling. Emoliage, with its flower that can never be black enough, plays
with that stuff. If my poems have ‘God’ in them, I hope it’s by way of motifs,
metaphors and symbols which add up to an impression of him/her/it. I’m usually
more interested in open-ended symbol than metaphor. RS Thomas saw words as vessels
which embody, or signs which point towards, ‘something other’, rather than just
descriptors. His poems have that sacramental / incarnational approach. I see it
in current poets like Michael Symmons Roberts and Andrew Philip. I try to make
that part of my writing. Thomas often used ‘The Poet’ for ‘God’, which is
symbolically suggestive, not prescriptive. I’ve used ‘The Man Upstairs’ in a
slightly tongue-in-cheek way, playing with the story of the seamstress that
Schopenhauer allegedly pushed down the stairs (and to whom he’d owed money for 20
years). God backs me up in my demand to see buildings made accessible,
but there’s this suggestion that maybe he metaphorically pushed me (or us) down the stairs, and is shifting
responsibility. So it’s not all overly serious. In other poems, God is situated
in a landscape or relationship. I want to leave space for the reader to
interpret things for themselves.
Ah, I didn’t want to
mention RS Thomas, because I’m such a fan, I tend to worry that I see his
influence even where it’s not! I think in talking about ‘The Man Upstairs’, you
touched on one of the other things that’s most impressive about the chapbook –
its very pragmatic, realistic engagement with political concerns, most notably
disability. My own impression is that this is something that’s gathering real
momentum in UK poetry (thank heavens) – do you think that’s the case?
I really hope so. I remember discovering Zbigniew Herbert
years ago; his deadpan, caustic wit in dealing with difficult and public
subjects like the Nazi occupation in Poland, and received religious and poetic meaning.
I wanted to see people doing similar now in the UK. It cemented my view that
poetry is as diverse as visual art, so political and near-the-knuckle subjects
should be encompassed and encouraged. There’s only so much pure wordplay I can
take. I hear talk about ‘poetry for poetry’s sake’, and I know what it’s
getting at, but nothing can be written in a vacuum. There are always cultures,
viewpoints, theories buried in the words. Word-choice and form can carry a
political and public message as much as, or better than, any soapbox.
Maybe the biggest clue that we don’t sniff at political /
social activist stuff anymore is that Blake is back in fashion (was he ever out
of fashion?). There’s great queer poetry being written in the UK at the moment,
John McCullough’s The Frost Fairs and
others. Lots of stuff which isn’t UK-centric: Vesna Goldsworthy’s Crashaw prize-winning
The Angel of Salonika, just out from
Salt, is partly based in her ‘vanished Balkan homeland’, Communist Yugoslavia,
but also speaks about learning to write poetry in English. I’ve only read a
sample, but there seems to be an undercurrent about resituating ourselves, finding
freedom in language then having to take that freedom back when old ways are
lost to memory. That makes me think about reforming language in a political
sense, to speak about things which we apparently can’t or shouldn’t. I recently
reviewed two first collections by David Swann and River Wolton. They cover prison
life, war and political exile consecutively. There’s that social element again,
the urge to prove Auden wrong, and see that poetry does make something happen.
The other thing I’ve noticed recently is sheer variety, the
blurring of boundaries like ‘light’ and ‘serious’, ‘mainstream’ and
‘experimental’. Poems are multilingual, multi-worldview, infinitely pliable in
structure, respectful of ‘tradition’ and given to linguistic anarchy. Katy
Evans-Bush’s Egg Printing Explained
has a kaleidoscopic approach where no worldview, school or aesthetic is given
precedence. Jonty Tiplady, Anthony Joseph, Benjamin Friedlander (and so many
others) are pushing that pretty far. Some have called this
everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach ‘post-lyrical’. I don’t know the term,
but to me it amounts to a political act; or at least, it reflects where we are
as a culture: a desire for diversity, inclusion, equality. That’s a good
landscape for poets to deal with those difficult public subjects, I think. I’ve
found so little poetry being written from within disability in the UK. In
America there’s a fledgling movement some have called crip poetry, comparable to
queer poetry in that it’s trying to redress tradition, a very able-bodied one
in this case; trying to take back and redefine vocabulary (‘crip’ as a term of
endearment, for one). My interest in that happened by accident. In compiling my
poems, I realised that lots of them had this disability, prejudice and
discrimination thread running through them. I’m happy to join the conversation,
if there is one. It seems arrogant to think I’m starting one; I just want to
write more poems. Incidentally, I’ve just heard of an anthology of American
disability poetry coming out in September, called Beauty is a Verb. Really excited about that.
One question I always
find myself asking poets is how their collection came together. Did you set out
writing with a definite plan, or was it more a case of allowing ‘occasional’
poems to coalesce around the themes that emerged?
There was no plan initially, I was just collecting together
what I thought were my best poems. But I wanted the book to cohere in some way,
not just be a random collection of jottings. They had to talk to each other. I’d
had vague ideas before: one of those was to respond to Blake. I had a couple of
poems which did, but not enough reasons to force the Blakean idea on the whole
pamphlet. I had poems about the sea, and at one point I thought I’d have a sea
pamphlet. But then that seemed too one-note for me, even though I’d seen others
do it well. I had these epistles to fictional characters, and chose three of
the best ones. I hadn’t been consciously writing about disability or faith at
the time; they were both things that I wanted to do, but I considered them
blind spots (apart from two or three poems which spoke of disability
explicitly; they were a fluke, I thought). But collecting them together, I
found that I’d used these images of the body – sea, land, constructed things,
buildings, puppets, machines, monuments. I’d written poems where prejudice
tended to pop up, those prejudices which religion has tried to excuse, to do
with the body, sexuality, nationality. I wanted The SnowboyThe Snowboy was a good central
poem to encompass the whole. I got used to that idea pretty quickly.
That’s when I had my title. in there but it was a while before I saw it as an
emotional focal point, being born out of the miscarriage my partner and
I had grieved a couple of years ago. Ira Lightman was looking at the
manuscript, and one day he said that
That seems a good
point to ask about influences and mentors. I think I was very lucky when I
started writing and publishing that the internet was just starting to make it
easy to get feedback and support from all over the place, and that seems to be
even more the case now. Or have you been part of a more traditional ‘scene’,
centred on a local group, for example?
In some ways, I’d love to say I’ve been part of a ‘scene’ or
a local group. I’ve seen these mentoring schemes and always slightly envied
anyone who did them. The truth is, I did my creative writing MA, but I didn’t
write much poetry as part of the course. I’m not sure what it’s like now, but
at the time it was very much focussed on fiction, and to say I’ve written very
little fiction since would be the understatement of the century. No, I’m
definitely a product of the Internet generation. I’ve been a member of the
online poetry workshop PFFA for a few years, and that’s where I’ve learned so
much of my craft. The opportunities the Internet gives you to meet other
writers either at a similar stage as you, or a little further forward, is
staggering. PFFA allowed me to learn the technical basics, to interact with a
few writers I didn’t know who were going through the same baptism of fire as I
was, as well as a few I’d already read and respected. Around the time I was published
in Magma last year, I was reading about
the need to have an ‘online presence’, so I started blogging, feeling the fear
but doing it anyway. Shortly after that I joined Facebook. I didn’t know how to
network, but I said hello to various poets one after the other. Some of them
have become good online friends, and haven’t been shy about critiquing and
offering advice. So I feel as if I’ve had lots of mentors. There are so many
poets I’d thank for their advice, criticism, correction and support over the
last year or much more, if only I could get them all in the same chat room.
And how about the
next step? Are you working towards a full collection?
Well, first things first: I have The Snowboy to promote. I have a poem in Roddy Lumsden’s new
anthology The Best British Poetry 2011
(Salt), which is doing well I think. I have poems in two other anthologies
coming up, the details of which will be released fairly soon. I have vague
ideas about what a first collection might look like. But I’ve only been
publishing poems for just over a year. I’ve got a way to go, I’m in no rush. I
have a couple of new pamphlet ideas, one of which might go to The Knives Forks
and Spoons Press, if I can get it up to scratch. I’m excited about pamphlets;
they’re realistically inexpensive, a good introduction to a poet’s work, and a
great way for a writer to practice collecting together poems on a larger scale.
I’m happy to stay in that territory for a while. Other than that, I’m going to
just keep writing poems, and reviews. I hope to end up with enough stuff for a
full collection, eventually.
Yes, the revival of
chapbooks in the last decade or so is something I like a lot, and a lot of
younger poets, or new poets (Helen Mort is one who immediately springs to
mind), seem to be using them really imaginatively to try different approaches
before moving to a full collection. I want to ask now about readings – do you
do them, and is it something you enjoy?
I’m fairly new at reading my poems, and the only major
readings I’ve done so far were at the Magma
48 launch last year, and the Best British Poetry launch in September. But I
plan on doing more, yes. I have a couple of readings coming up for the Salt
Modern Voices Tour, in Oxford (24th Oct) and London (28th
Nov). Part of the problem is my lack of funds, a car, and the lack of disabled
access in so many of the venues where poetry is read. I’ve not found a reading
venue without a staircase (or with a lift) yet. There’s an infinite amount of
loopholes preventing many cultural heritage sites, arts venues and stuff, from
becoming accessible. So there are those barriers. Lack of disabled access is
possibly a big factor in why there aren’t more physically disabled people on
the circuit. But yes, I’m looking to do more readings whenever I can, and based
on the Magma 48 launch, I can say that I really do enjoy the live event. I have
this uncomfortable mixed feeling: I think poetry really does belong on the
stage (and if it was seen in more public performance venues, maybe it would get
wider recognition) but that as long as readings are held in cellars and lofts,
it’s excluding some of us. That complaint isn’t exclusive to poetry: I was in a
band for 10 years or so, and the problem of finding gigs at accessible venues
was the same. As a way of counteracting all that, I’ve been looking at
alternative ways of providing readings online, all of that viral marketing
stuff. I don’t think the Internet has been fully mined yet, in terms of the
opportunities it might present to those with similar difficulties in ‘getting
out there’.
I think that’s a good
point – I’m not sure poets and people staging poetry events always think hard
enough about just what audience they’re trying to attract. It’s interesting
that you mention a band – what did you play? And did your involvement in poetry
and music ever cross over?
I was in a rock band, yeah. I played drums. We formed (if I
remember rightly) in ’97, when the grunge / alternative scene was still a huge
deal. At that point we were called Hollow. I don’t think my musical heart has
ever really left Seattle, to be honest (I’ve never been to Seattle, but in
terms of that early-mid 90’s music scene). We changed our name to The Witness
Reel much later on, when one of our friends joined as a fourth member, our
style was changing quite a bit, and there was a trend of having ‘The’ at the
start of your band name. Shortly after that, we all lost touch for various
reasons, and now we’re all living in different parts of the country. I miss the
gigging, actually. If I could go back, I would definitely try to involve my
poetry in some way. I really believe in all the projects people are doing to
fuse the artforms, or just have them work alongside one another. That synthesis
is really important. Poetry started with that, didn’t it? The word ‘lyric’ gets
thrown around today, but its original intent has largely been lost. Anyway, when
I was playing in my band, I hadn’t fully settled on poetry as a main priority.
I did try and get a few songs written, but I don’t play guitar, so the most I
could do was to write lyrics and give them to Jon, our guitarist and
songwriter, to see what he could do with them. Sometimes it worked, sometimes
it didn’t. Besides, you’ve heard all the jokes about drummers who think they
can write songs? Needless to say, mine never became live staples.
Finally, one question
slightly out of left field – which one thing would you do to enthuse schoolkids
about poetry (it can be as little as exposing them to a particular poem)?
I’ve only taught young adults, and in a charity workshop
capacity rather than school. But based on the little experience I have, the
first thing I think is that we can’t force enthusiasm. It seems to me that kids
need to know that their own response is OK. Very often our own response is all
we have as a bridge into a poem. Something about training kids to answer
questions ‘correctly’ in order to pass exams etc. seems paradoxical (if not
antithetical) to teaching poetry, because all that stuff tricks kids into
thinking they should always be aiming for ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ answers. The one
thing they’re not being asked is ‘What do you think?’ There’s always a fear
that they will say ‘I hate it; it’s rubbish.’ Why are we scared of that? We could
be saying ‘OK then, tell me why it’s rubbish.’ There’s a massive learning
opportunity there; and when we’re encouraged to delve in and find out why we
don’t like a poem, we often realise that we actually do. This piece of writing
we once thought had nothing going for it is actually extremely exciting. That’s
exactly what happened to me years ago with The
Red Wheelbarrow.
I’m not sure kids need encouragement to write poetry; create
the right environment and they will. They do need teachers who will tell them it’s
OK to write poetry – in fact, it’s cool, and fun, and can be meaningful to
them. Those teachers need to then cultivate talent when they see it, as one
teacher – Mr. Matthews – did for me during my GCSEs. Most kids are worrying
about what their friends will think if they pick up a pen and withdraw from the
‘real world’ of video games and football. Again, there’s a balance to strike.
We can’t force kids to think poetry is cool. We have to rely on the fact that
it just is, and some kids will see that. Some won’t, but that’s alright. Films
and music are cool as well. Oh, and we need to be showing kids more
contemporary stuff. They need to know that poetry’s still being written.
They’re so used to reading stuff which is 30 years old or more. I was at
secondary school, anyway.
To buy The Snowboy, click here.
THREE
POEMS BY MARK BURNHOPE
The Ideal Bed
Double bed which shouldn’t look
like this: so skewiff but no one on,
I can’t even stand to smooth its sheet.
I try to circle round it, but my wheels
won’t fit down the right side, the one
which, incidentally, I try to imagine hides
who we were five years ago: you standing
heaving the bed to and fro, trying to catch
our south-facing garden’s light
(the bulbs were always blowing)
and me laughing; then afterwards
us, falling bed-long into this
self-same undividable iron maiden.
My nurse has just replaced our mattress
with a manmade, farcical memory-foam
thing: cures pressure sores faster.
You’d laugh if you could be here.
Remember shopping in IKEA,
wondering what kind of carpenter
constructed, folded, boxed and sold our
bed?
Hardly
an artist, probably couldn’t
have
given an actual fuck, you said.
When we got home the bed refused to stand
up in the room we’d meant for it. In its
form,
we saw the ideal parts to shed:
a
little off this surface, that corner.
We grew hungry, desperately so
pushed it against the larder door
so neither of us could hoard
when the waves crashed hard. Its back
was flimsy chipboard and would give
out in the year’s most unnewsworthy
quake, if the front of the frame stayed.
So you sanded back for days, weeks,
months; pored over cookbooks,
catalogues and promotions; reclined
on the mattress like an ocean, faced
me and my canvas, and said, Draw!
(But the kitchen bulb was dying.)
Hardness the Lord made then tore:
the one you pushed aside to get past
the fact we never found
the perfect light to lie in.
The Man Upstairs Drafts a Letter to the Councils
obit anus, abit onus
Dear . . . no. My Loving . . . no. None of
you
love me; neither should you, really. Look,
we never intended our peaceful landlady
to tumble those twenty steps to her death.
So I am about pay forward the blame,
but do you blame me? Money’s a root
of nearly every evil, don’t you know. Hers
was a house but henceforth, let all places
apply:
eatery, train tour, music venue, centre for
the frothing-over of mugs and mouths —
grant yourselves a great favour, raise
every lower surface to its higher. Fit a
lift.
Twelve Steps towards Better Despair
Rehearse its salt between your fingers
often, vigorously.
Have it amalgamate into your petrol-slick
tinted lethargy.
Write of the cormorant’s yellow beak over
her black body.
The iceberg: for a sound few seconds, it
will stand
for solid material to marvel at. It need
not sink your battleship
before you shy away from it. So don’t
bemoan its tip, thank it.
Make sure you have shouldered the world for
a man who tried
dying — sorry, died trying — to climb a cliff summit,
or summat like it, to find a stronger
sunlight.
Write of the good in global warming,
icebergs melting, salt.
Recite names of the dead on your fingers
often, vigorously.
Have their ashes sown into the stinking
spumes of elegy.
Write of the widow’s blonde wig over her
black bodice.
Go fearlessly: for a modest seventy years
we’ll stand,
most of us men, to be gawped at; never
forget that. So choose
your battles, and — if you buy — the best
cruiser in the marina.
Make sure you have shouldered rope for a
man who tied
skilfully: docked a boat and helped his
lover onto the land
for both to stand under the cliffs and
observe a cormorant.
Find and write of the good in swiftly dying
— sorry, flying.
