At the Alan Garner Centre, Wolverhampton, February
The translation of pain into language gives remarkable energy to piece of writing. Literature that draws from the suffering of another, or of oneself, is crucially honest, and while most writings are ‘not equipped for life in a world where people actually die’, some master the articulation. The brutal honesty of this kind of writing (I can think of Janos Pilinszky’s Fable, Homer’s Odyssey, Poe’sConqueror Worm) sustain the inevitable erosion that time’s passing impedes, and in their learned immortality, inherit a bleaker strength that somehow outlasts – and furthermore defines – what we (should) consider to be ‘long-standing literature’.
This idea – that things must make their mark – seems to have deeply embedded itself within the anatomy of Owen Sheers’ work. It occurs again and again, whether in writings of contemporary war, the beauty of the Welsh landscape, or ‘the victory of human spirit’. This is a good sign – both the writer and his work are developing in synchrony. And the integral subject of the writing (that infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing) seems to be revealing itself…
Continue reading – Wales Arts Review Issue 10
On the 25th of April (exactly twenty-four days from now) I’ll be reading at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival with support from Helen Harvey, and Joy Amy Wigman. Three beautiful poets, in a beautiful month.
My first collection (Perdika Press) is out very soon this year – but I won’t be reading from that. Instead I’d like to introduce some new material, gathered over the last six months or so.
There’s been a period of absence since October – though this doesn’t mean I haven’t been working. The long hours spent ‘half-at-write’ as TH put it, seems to have paid off. Things are finally starting to fall into place, creatively. And I’d like to share the results.
This new material will be grouped under the heading North Light – currently unpublished and unread. For those interested, ‘north light’ refers to the consistent light necessary for any artist at work, preferably from a north facing window.
BY FARHAD SORABJEE
Review by Helen Calcutt
Novels that aspire to the conditions of the elements, where the mythical and spiritual weight of their presence is at the very heart of the text, have perhaps fallen out of fashion. In both poetry and fiction, language that is impalpably dry, witty – dare I say ‘urban’ – is favoured over the kind that ‘lives and breathes’ on the page. A great deal of modern fiction offers a kind of grey distortion: a flatness, which makes for both a tiresome and disappointing read. This makes the appearance of Farhad Sorabjee’s God on Every Wind all the more refreshing.
At last, an author not only concerned with the conventions of good storytelling (and it is good storytelling) but also the patterning of language, the depth and vision of the imagery, the richness of the text. There’s a lot of information, and for those unfamiliar with particular Indian and/or West African traditions, the book demands careful attention. And why not? It’s an absolute pleasure to read, and re-read a sentence concerned not only with the placing of the words, but also the musicality in their ordering. The descriptions are, to quote, ‘gusts of pure bliss’ and although at times a little bumbling and disjointed, the pace is beautifully executed.
The novel’s beginning is sonorously magical; fresh, and unfamiliar: ‘The rain came late to the last monsoon in the life of Philomena Avan DaCruz. In the evening angry clouds prowled the horizon over the Arabian Sea. But the next morning they were gone and the sun was back, sucking solace from ponds and watering holes…’ Oh the rain, the rain. This is a beautiful opening metaphor, an introduction to both place and character. Nothing clunks or sinks; the gentle imagery lifts and glides across the paper. In the opening alone, Sorabjee has managed to unveil what Wordsworth called ‘the light of things’, and this sets the tone for the rest of the book. There are moments of poetic revelation, conjured in a single phrase, an image, or even an entire paragraph. Plot, character and reviewing obligations aside, I found myself reading God on Every Wind for these moments – and it didn’t disappoint. They recurred without fail to the end of the book.
Love and loss, rebellion and allegiance, are interwoven into the detailed fabric of God on Every Wind. We begin with an introduction to Philomena, the history of her family, and their residence, the Casa de Familia DaCruz. We are then introduced to her father and mother, through to the birth of her brother Lancelot, and then eventually, her own rather dramatic entrance into the world. The turn of events from here are generally unexpected, and there’s a lot to be taken in…Continue reading