{"id":11583,"date":"2020-07-22T18:21:25","date_gmt":"2020-07-22T17:21:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583"},"modified":"2020-07-29T11:54:24","modified_gmt":"2020-07-29T10:54:24","slug":"adam-wyeth-interview-with-colette-bryce","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583","title":{"rendered":"Adam Wyeth Interview with Colette Bryce"},"content":{"rendered":"

I corresponded with Colette in the summer and autumn months of 2018, amid the publication of her Selected Poems<\/em>. She was based in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne at the time, and our emails covered many of the highlights from her distinguished publishing career.<\/p>\n

Bryce is Derry-born and was a recipient of the Eric Gregory Award. Her poetry has been described in The Guardian<\/em> as \u2018precise, her word play sensuous, smart and snappy.\u2019 Her work first came to my attention with her poem, \u2018The Full Indian Rope Trick\u2019 which won the National Poetry Competition in 2003 and went on to become the title of her second collection, published by Picador, 2004; short-listed for the TS Eliot prize.<\/p>\n

What I like about Bryce\u2019s work is its ability to fuse strange and surprising scenarios with immediacy and clarity. Her forensic and singular gaze, the unfussy syntax and subtle lyricism, gives space for her stirring anecdotes and often haunting metaphors on modern life and our inner-lives. On the back of the recent publication of her Selected Poems, I took the opportunity to ask her questions on her compilation process, as well as delving deeper into poetry-making and preoccupations. As it is a time of Irish centenaries, I also asked Colette about her relationship with Ireland, her personal experience of growing up in Northern Ireland and how this may have influenced her work.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Colette Bryce<\/h4>\n

Adam Wyeth: Your Selected Poems was published in 2017. What was this selection process like? Was it a simple exercise of choosing certain poems that stood the test of time and losing some old darlings, or was it difficult to know which poems not to include?<\/strong>
\nColette Bryce: The selection process involved travelling back as a reader and seeing if the poems still held their own. It\u2019s like meeting one\u2019s younger selves in an elevator, quite unnerving. You know, to paraphrase Lou Reed, they\u2019re still doing things that you gave up years ago. Poetry is a long process, not always linear, sometimes circling back, but we\u2019re forever striving onwards to the next poem. That\u2019s the exciting thing, the realm of possibility. So I found myself reluctant to go back and scrutinize my previous work in this way. I knew I would have to find a degree of objectivity, and try not to interfere belatedly. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s the same for other poets, but I\u2019m a good deal more critical when it comes to my own work.
\nLater, meeting with my editor, some of the conversation was about what to put back in, to allow the earlier work fair representation. I hadn\u2019t reached a point where I felt a need to compile a Selected, but once my publisher had suggested it, I found the process helpful as a way of taking stock. It turned out to be a good experience, a growing experience. I could see lines of connection that I hadn\u2019t paused to consider before.
\nGenerally speaking, a kind of reduction is natural for me, being an inveterate editor. Trying to get the poem down to its essentials. Selected Poems is perhaps a bigger book than I might have created naturally, left to my own devices. Running the poems together as one book, one collection, was pleasing \u2013 I wanted that continuity, unity, rather than sections representing individual books. There\u2019s an old theory that some poets are really writing the one book, published in instalments. Each collection is important to you, of course, but the ongoing process much more so.<\/p>\n

AW: Gerry Murphy called his recently published Selected Poems, End of Part 1. Which seems an apt title for a first Selected book. How do you think you\u2019ve changed as a poet since the Colette Bryce of her first or second collection? Have your core concerns and\/or aesthetic sensibility remained intact?<\/strong>
\nCB: It\u2019s quite hard to answer that about yourself. The poetry is inseparable from the life, and we all bear the dents of experience. I write out of experience, a kind of translation. Poems I suppose might represent \u2018selected\u2019 experience. They\u2019re all pinned to the pilgrim progress.
\nThe virtuous obscurity in which some poets work (that Oscar Wilde considered \u2018anything better than\u2019) is probably helpful in retaining a core sensibility. The writing remains an intensely private process. For that reason I\u2019m always wary of laying down firm opinions about poetry. The more I know, the less I know. There\u2019s a private place of unknowing that is connected to the impulse. An artistic innocence, perhaps.<\/p>\n

AW: 2018 was\u00a0the 20th anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement and the Omagh bombing. Northern Ireland,\u00a0language, and politics run parallel in your work. I wonder how much of an effect Northern Ireland has had on your poetry? Do you think Ireland has played any part in you coming to poetry in the first place?<\/strong>
\nCB: When I left Northern Ireland, becoming a poet was about as imaginable to me as becoming an astronaut. I had never heard of a living woman poet, although I was an avid reader of women\u2019s fiction. Somehow, female poets had not been admitted into the culture I was exposed to, or to my education. A friend\u2019s mother had a library of Virago and Women\u2019s Press fiction titles that were a revelation to me, and the first steps in my feminist consciousness. Yet, in my limited experience, there was no model for poetry. And there were Irish women poets writing great work back then, but I didn\u2019t know about them. That came later. The importance of role models can\u2019t be underestimated.
\nThe impulse to write was there, but counteracted by a strong resistance. I had grown up in a culture of secrecy, so in some ways writing always felt like a rebellion against this, and it took time, distance and courage to begin to write. Writing can seem incredibly exposing, whereas I\u2019m a naturally private person. It was only after my degree, when I started discovering younger contemporary poets, that I found a sense of connection and permission. For the first time, I could read of women\u2019s lives and urban and working-class experience in poetry, and that was enormously energising. In fact, it was life-changing.
\nBut getting back to the present moment, and the anniversaries. The poetry of Northern Ireland \u2013 of Ireland as a whole, actually – has provided an alternative way of thinking about those years and events. I am steeped in that poetry, and I\u2019m fascinated always by how my predecessors, peers, and the next generation, add their voices to the range of perspectives. For me, the war there, or conflict, or Troubles, or whatever we choose to call it, was my ordinary lived experience as a child and teenager. My writing about that time comes from a fairly direct perspective. I was involved in the activism in my community from a young age, and we were fired up about the issues. The Bloody Sunday justice marches, anti-internment, the Hunger Strikes, with all their attendant demonstrations. Politics was in the warp and weft of the everyday, and my context was a Catholic, republican community with a history of oppression. There was great energy for change, as the recent anniversary of the civil rights movement reminds us. There\u2019s a phrase in my poem \u2018Heritance\u2019 \u2013 \u2018an historical anger\u2019 – that I associate with my mother. I always sensed it was not the done thing to write from that perspective. There\u2019s a nervousness around it, for obvious reasons.<\/p>\n

AW: In\u00a0an essay of yours from 2014, you refer to a Heaney essay where he talks about the word, \u2018Omphalos,\u2019\u00a0the Greek term for the\u00a0centre\u00a0of things,\u00a0which\u00a0conjured up for him the pump in his childhood yard. For\u00a0you, however,\u00a0this word called to mind the helicopters hovering over Derry\u2026 You write how, \u2018The blades are related to words, in opposition to our words, slicing up sentences in the wind.\u2019 This violence of having one\u2019s words and\/or even a tongue sliced up is a powerful and memorable image. Do the slicing blades refer more to other people\u2019s sentences, or to your own?<\/strong>
\nBoth, I think. There\u2019s an image in my poem \u2018Derry\u2019 of Gerry Adam\u2019s mouth moving on the BBC news, only dubbed by an actor. I can remember seeing the tiny, tightly-wrapped letters that were smuggled out of the prisons via kisses. Illegal words. And there was the pervasive culture of nervous reticence summed up in Heaney\u2019s poem \u2018Whatever you say, say nothing\u2019- \u2018the tight gag of place and times\u2019. The helicopters drowning out speeches is a clear memory I have from demonstrations at Free Derry Corner, and also at political funerals\/memorials. Words were dangerous. The Don\u2019t Speak directive became a noticeable thread in my last book. In my recent poems, I see it weaving in again \u2013phrases like \u2018don\u2019t say any of this\u2019, or an image of the \u2018stitched mouth of censorship\u2019. I\u2019m interested in both repression and suppression, the unconscious censoring of experience, and then the willed or sometimes externally imposed censorship, in the public and in the private sphere.
\nI remember in my twenties, when I was reading everything I could get my hands on, discovering the American poet Sharon Olds. Her first slim volume, Satan Says, had a powerful effect on me. The drama of the opening poem, where the speaker is trying to write her way out of a box, prompted by Satan. And other American women poets like Muriel Rukeyser and Audre Lorde, queer and political writers, were exciting to read. Closer to home, a new generation of poets in the UK where I lived were responding to Thatcherism and social issues. Speaking out, in creative ways. I admired poets with a bit of nerve.
\nPoetry is at its essence \u2018memorable speech\u2019. When we work away for weeks on a short lyric, we\u2019re taking a long time trying to say something well. I\u2019m fascinated by the extent to which the written word is splurged out in our contemporary moment on social media, an incessant river of randomness. To publish one\u2019s thoughts as they occur seems amazing to me. Like the opposite of poetry. I was brought up with a cultural respect for the written word; to commit something to writing was a telling phrase \u2013 there was a degree of commitment.<\/p>\n

Do you have a poem of yours that best sums up your experience of growing up during the Troubles?
\n<\/strong>Gosh no. But a few might speak to me of that experience in unusual ways. \u2018A Spider\u2019, for example, can I hope be related to anyone\u2019s experience of being trapped. \u2018Don\u2019t Speak to the Brits\u2026\u2019 is a more playful take on the cultural confusion of our life on the border, and the suppression of speech I mentioned before. The ballad-like poem \u2018Derry\u2019 sought to tell a story of sorts about that experience. In its narrative directness, it\u2019s unlike other poems in the Whole and Rain-domed Universe, which circle around that place more than in any other book. An earlier poem \u2018The Full Indian Rope Trick\u2019 holds something of the vanishing point of emigration, a rite of passage that seemed so inevitable then.<\/p>\n

I should probably say that I never consciously intended to write \u2018about\u2019 Northern Ireland. There was a sense in which that place and time had been endlessly processed in the language of journalism. But I\u2019m very much at the mercy of where the poems lead. In my early 40s, I noticed that quite a few poems were conjuring that place and time, perhaps it\u2019s a time of life thing. When I began to assemble the collection, I was surprised to find how they fitted together. My new work, on the other hand, is not about the place at all. The recent poems are concerned with other matters.<\/p>\n

Hiddenness and disappearance are recurring themes in your work. How much is this a conscious element in your poetry? Dennis O\u2019Driscoll\u00a0thought\u00a0that each poet has a particular word that is particular to them. Would it be fair to say that your particular word might be \u2018hiddenness\u2019 or \u2018disappearing\u2019, or is it something closer to transcendence perhaps?<\/strong>
\nIt\u2019s funny you ask that, as I have the manuscript of a new collection lying on my desk and I had already noticed that the last word is \u2018disappear\u2019. I\u2019ve become more aware of mortality recently, as I lost two close family members in the last year. The new poems are striving to think through the reality, and the attendant sense of unreality it brings.
\nIn terms of a word or concept, I think sometimes of outsiderness. Various layers of outsiderness that come from the emigrant experience and also being gay in a predominantly heterosexual cultural context. From working for a long time in a solitary discipline. Of being categorised a British writer in one place, an Irish writer somewhere else, sometimes neither, and you\u2019re simply not there. I\u2019ve often felt at a remove. But I\u2019m aware too it can be an interesting (no)place to write from.<\/p>\n

The etymology of the word poet in English is \u2018to make\u2019 whereas in Irish it\u2019s file, \u2018to see\u2019. Your poetry is all about keen observation. Your meditation poems on creatures for example, such as lobsters, crabs, spiders become complex metaphors often revealing aspects of our own\u00a0inner-lives. Virginia Woolf, one of the great observers of English Literature, in her essay The Death of the Moth ekes out a world of details from this tiny, seemingly insignificant creature. Are noticing the small things of our world, something you are drawn to as a poet?<\/strong>
\nI\u2019m a great admirer of Elizabeth Bishop, who probably exemplifies that close observation you refer to. There are times when the act of close description can lead you into a subject and the poem emerges out of it, in an unexpected way. It\u2019s good practice, I think, like sketching for a painter or sculptor. The image is the fruit of this endeavour, the simile, the metaphor. What is it like? Connection and connection. As a young poet, I was charmed to learn that the Greek work Metaphor means literally a carrying over, and there is a variety of transport vehicle in Greece with the brand \u2018Metaphor\u2019 across the bumper.
\n\u2018To make\u2019 seems closer to my experience of poetry. Which brings me back to the pleasure of process. Derek Mahon refers, in his new book, to the \u2018trance of composition\u2019. That\u2019s the happy place, of making and tinkering. Hours disappear.<\/p>\n

The musicality of poetry comes across as a powerful element in your work. What comes to you first when you are composing a poem, is it music or meaning, or are the two inseparable?<\/strong>
\nThe essential task, and sometimes the greatest difficulty, is to reconcile the patterns of sound and sense as much as one can. The nucleus of a poem is often a single image, and then a spidering out from that with pen on paper. The poem begins to gather itself. In my poems, I have always sought to communicate directly on one level, to create a speaking voice where the reader feels addressed and included. I genuinely wish to communicate, to bridge across to the experience of another person. And yet, poetry is close to song for me, there is a musical tension to be attended to, in which the poetic line, and line break, is key. Thom Gunn once observed how metrical poetry is ultimately allied to song, and free verse to conversation, and how he liked both connections. I do too, and an apparently free form poem is often a delicate negotiation between the two. Poetry is always working on the reader in that aural and rhythmical way, beyond what the words are saying. When these two things are in harmony, we\u2019re in business.<\/p>\n

You\u2019ve spoken how you write formally for the ear more than for the eye. Yet you often approach line endings and punctuation in a very particular way. How important is the look of the poem on the page for you?<\/strong>
\nWell, it\u2019s extremely important. I\u2019m drawn to pattern, symmetry, and the fruitful interaction with the white space, the silence around and within the poem. Some poets like to memorise their poems and recite them \u2018hands-free\u2019, so to speak. For me, the page is very much involved. I like to read my work with the book in hand, my eye still interacting with the visual of the written poem.
\nHow important is the blank space, or the \u2018frosted glass\u2019 around your poems for you?
\nIt\u2019s a key element, the way in which the words interact with, or come up against, the representational silence. It\u2019s where the music happens. And in meaning, yes, sometimes omission is the right choice. My last book, The Whole & Rain-domed Universe, begins with \u2018a dream of white\u2019, the lure of passivity and silence. And it closes with a reinstatement of \u2018each white space\u2019 in a crossword grid, alluding to the retreat of language in (my mother\u2019s) old age.
\nYou\u2019ve lived in England for many years now and have spoken about how emigration has been a central and continual experience in your life, and this perhaps is reflected in your work where people leave or even disappear, such as the speaker in \u2018The Full Indian Rope Trick\u2019. In the wake of the Brexit referendum, we hear stories of people who are leaving the UK because they feel unwelcome or insecure there. How does the referendum result affect you, and has it ignited anything in your poetry?
\nIt\u2019s clarified my desire to move back to Ireland. I value Irish literary culture more and more, as a kind of deceitful populism becomes the norm in the UK. But at my (advancing) age, you start to appreciate the long view. Poets have always worked away quietly on the margins, and I like that. You get very little response. It takes resilience to keep going, and a faith in the process. Geographically, I\u2019ve always felt homeless in my adult life. A novelist recently described the feeling well, describing her location as \u2018the city in which I don\u2019t feel I live, but in which I have actually lived for twelve years\u2019. That resonated with my experience. I travel a lot these days, which I love, including to Ireland often. I feel oddly at home in transit.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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Her poetry has […]","og_url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583","og_site_name":"The Manchester Review","article_published_time":"2020-07-22T17:21:25+00:00","article_modified_time":"2020-07-29T10:54:24+00:00","author":"Adam Wyeth","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Adam Wyeth","Est. reading time":"16 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583","name":"Adam Wyeth Interview with Colette Bryce - The Manchester Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website"},"datePublished":"2020-07-22T17:21:25+00:00","dateModified":"2020-07-29T10:54:24+00:00","author":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/d0d20bac2fc65bcfbc5a36827c776c09"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11583#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Adam Wyeth Interview with Colette Bryce"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/","name":"The Manchester Review","description":"The Manchester Review","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":"required name=search_term_string"}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/d0d20bac2fc65bcfbc5a36827c776c09","name":"Adam Wyeth","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","caption":"Adam Wyeth"},"description":"Adam Wyeth is an award-winning and critically acclaimed poet, playwright and essayist with four books published with Salmon Poetry. In 2019 he received The Kavanagh Fellowship Award. Wyeth is the author of Silent Music, Highly Commended by the UK\u2019s Forward Poetry Prize and The Art of Dying, An Irish Times Book of the Year. In 2013 Salmon published his essays, The Hidden World of Poetry: Unravelling Celtic Mythology in Contemporary Irish Poetry. Adam\u2019s plays have been performed across Ireland and also in New York and Berlin. His play This Is What Happened was published by Salmon in 2019. His next book \u2018about:blank\u2019 will be published later in 2020. It is an experimental sequence, which blurs genre, moving across, poetry, prose and drama. It is currently in production as an audio work performed by actors Owen Roe and Olwen Fouere. Adam is an Associate Artist of the Civic Theatre, Dublin, and works on ideas and research for the RTE Poetry Programme. He teaches online creative writing correspondence courses at adamwyeth.com and Fishpublishing.com.","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=350"}]}},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p2PuXo-30P","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11583"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/350"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=11583"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11583\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11753,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11583\/revisions\/11753"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=11583"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=11583"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=11583"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}