{"id":6857,"date":"2016-11-11T14:57:59","date_gmt":"2016-11-11T13:57:59","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857"},"modified":"2016-11-11T14:58:11","modified_gmt":"2016-11-11T13:58:11","slug":"ruby-robinson-every-little-sound-pavilion-poetry-9-99-reviewed-by-lucy-winrow","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857","title":{"rendered":"Ruby Robinson, Every Little Sound<\/em> (Pavilion Poetry, \u00a39.99), reviewed by Lucy Winrow"},"content":{"rendered":"

The title of Ruby Robinson\u2019s poetry debut is derived from a line within its pages; the notion of paying close attention to \u201cevery little sound\u201d appears in \u201cInternal Gain,\u201d a poem that traverses a gamut of sounds from \u201cthe conversation downstairs\u201d to \u201cechoes of planets slowly creaking.\u201d The preface provides a definition of this central listening practice: \u201can internal volume control which helps us amplify and focus upon quiet sounds in times of threat, danger or intense concentration.\u201d In Robinson\u2019s work, this threat stems from intimate relationships \u2013 particularly those between family members and lovers \u2013 with their capacity to nurture, shape and harm us. <\/p>\n

As Robinson explores these interpersonal relationships, the work nevertheless remains outward-looking, inviting us in from the very first line: \u201ccome in. I\u2019m opening my door to you \u2013 the trap | door of a modern barn conversion.\u201d The lowercase first word gives the impression of stumbling across something already in motion, of an experience joining fluidly onto our own, while enjambment alerts us to a possible trap. Indeed, despite the welcome, appearances are deceptive: \u201cthere\u2019s soup. Bread in the oven to warm. Take off your shoes,\u201d the house is decorated with \u201cawkward plastic chairs for interrogating guests\u201d and the speaker\u2019s penetrating address is unsettling: \u201cI know your deepest thread, like a baked-in hair.\u201d However, the suggested privacy afforded by this space (\u201cthe walls here don\u2019t have eyes\u201d) adds to the suspicion that we are in fact listening to a reflective inner voice, one which may prove to be both challenging and revealing, as \u201cshadows of stags are cast like stalking giants\u201d onto the walls.<\/p>\n

\u201cInterlude\u201d uses the extended metaphor of watching a play to tune into moments too convoluted or painful to articulate that emerge from our interactions with others. During the break, as \u201cblack T-shirts reposition the world\u201d in darkness, there is a sense of something unseen taking shape and the fidgety unease this induces: \u201cthe squeak of a shoe\u2019s leather, a boiled sweet | rolling from one cheek to the other.\u201d In a startling switch of pace, the speaker imagines what would happen \u201cwere the actors | to drop dead:\u201d<\/p>\n

and soldiers, politicians, vicars, presidents,
\nthe actors\u2019 mothers, sisters, brothers, the actors\u2019 fathers to burst in,<\/p>\n

sprint past the blocks of seats, beat the corpses, rape them, set dogs
\non them \u2013 judges and juries would look on through gleaming faces
\nas we look on now for fifteen minutes, breathing out, breathing in<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The overwhelming speed with which the flurry of familial and social figures flood in may represent an internal backlash against suppressed thought, while their actions foreground the emotional violence underpinning everyday relationships. Conversely, time elongates within this brief interlude: \u201cyears pass. Some shout their pain from a soundproof box[.]\u201d conveying the difficulties of communicating clearly with those around us. The play resumes in the final stanza, signalled by a chime from the orchestra pit: \u201cwe see ourselves rise from the stage and play on,\u201d suggesting how we might continue to assume damaging yet familiar behavioural and social roles. The \u201cjudges and juries\u201d we are likened to, both watching and being watched, highlight our complicity in this process. <\/p>\n

The quest to isolate elusive, unspoken aspects of interpersonal relationships continues in \u201cTime,\u201d as two lovers use a high-speed camera to capture their life together for \u201csixteen seconds.\u201d Each resulting print is \u201cidentical to the last, as one heartbeat, | displaced inaudibly, | by the next.\u201d Such efforts are similarly fruitless in \u201cUnlocatable,\u201d which concerns the speaker\u2019s troubled relationship with her mother, who is \u201csomewhere | like a drowned fish on the very end of some | fucker\u2019s very long line.\u201d The resentful tone stresses the mother\u2019s thoughtless prioritising of random men, and the speaker\u2019s frustration at being unable to reach a physically and emotionally \u2018unlocatable\u2019 mother. Depicted as a fish with \u201cno hands to hold anyone | body encased in scales,\u201d she is both is ill-suited to a maternal role, and vulnerable to being exploited by others. This understanding may account for the speaker\u2019s self-harm, as if an explanation (and blame) for their discordant relationship lies within her:<\/p>\n

I dismembered myself, disassembled
\nan entire vocabulary and constellations
\nof thoughts, disembowelled my body,<\/p>\n

placed my head on a shelf,
\npicked through everything else
\nwith a very thin blade<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Dismemberment also creates a physical representation of, and the illusion of momentary escape from, the speaker\u2019s distress. Unfortunately, the only realisation to emerge is of the harm the speaker has inflicted upon herself: \u201chalf-witted, unpicked, flaked | out.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cApology,\u201d however, offers a glimpse of hope; comprised of a long sequence of short stanzas, each cascading into the next with cathartic release, the poem lists the many reasons the speaker believes she must apologise to her mother. Again, she recognises her mother\u2019s vulnerabilities: \u201cso many names for all your predators | and crushes and suitors. I\u2019m sorry,\u201d making later reference to her apparent alcohol addiction (\u201cI\u2019m sorry I was ill-prepared for your soiled mattress | and comatose body\u201d) and mental illness (\u201cI\u2019m sorry that consensus reality had you set fire to your bed.\u201d) The speaker\u2019s guilt over failing to support her mother extends to her own resilience in the face of trauma: \u201cLook at me \u2013 flaunting my own survival. Who am I? | Except the parasite that accidentally caught on | to your womb wall[.]\u201d A crucial question emerges amongst the expressions of guilt, and shame over her supposed role in her mother\u2019s downfall. In the absence of answers, the speaker instead finds a voice \u2013 and the words \u2013 through which to articulate herself. Reflecting upon her mother\u2019s life, she recognises the ease with which we adopt or are forced into destructive roles in intimate relationships, replaying them years later: \u201cthe piano thunders on, | sustain pedal wired to the facial muscles of all your neglecters, | aching like hell behind their stamina and machinery.\u201d Just as the mother in \u201cUnlocatable\u201d is on the end of \u201csome fucker\u2019s\u201d line, they are on the end of hers, as she engages in the exhausting process of sustaining and reliving past experiences. The speaker\u2019s response is unsympathetic and decisive: \u201cclose the piano lid. Empty the drawer. Things happen.\u201d <\/p>\n

This mind-set culminates in the final poem, \u201cTo My Family,\u201d in which the speaker confidently states: \u201cI\u2019m just words, and you have not the tenacity | to smother me, so I\u2019ll wait here, written, biding my time.\u201d These liberating lines come from having at last found a space for expression following years of oppressive silence, while maintaining a safe distance from face-to-face interaction, for now.
\n <\/p>\n

Every Little Sound<\/em> is available to buy from Liverpool University Press<\/a>.<\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The title of Ruby Robinson\u2019s poetry debut is derived from a line within its pages; the notion of paying close attention to \u201cevery little sound\u201d appears in \u201cInternal Gain,\u201d a poem that traverses a gamut of sounds from \u201cthe conversation downstairs\u201d to \u201cechoes of planets slowly creaking.\u201d The preface provides a definition of this central […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":45,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[13,283],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nRuby Robinson, Every Little Sound (Pavilion Poetry, \u00a39.99), reviewed by Lucy Winrow - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ruby Robinson, Every Little Sound (Pavilion Poetry, \u00a39.99), reviewed by Lucy Winrow - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The title of Ruby Robinson\u2019s poetry debut is derived from a line within its pages; the notion of paying close attention to \u201cevery little sound\u201d appears in \u201cInternal Gain,\u201d a poem that traverses a gamut of sounds from \u201cthe conversation downstairs\u201d to \u201cechoes of planets slowly creaking.\u201d The preface provides a definition of this central […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2016-11-11T13:57:59+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2016-11-11T13:58:11+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"6 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857\",\"name\":\"Ruby Robinson, Every Little Sound (Pavilion Poetry, \u00a39.99), reviewed by Lucy Winrow - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2016-11-11T13:57:59+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2016-11-11T13:58:11+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/e6deb0374609919f6e86f6ee1defe8cc\"},\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=6857#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Ruby Robinson, Every Little Sound (Pavilion Poetry, \u00a39.99), reviewed by Lucy Winrow\"}]},{\"@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\/e6deb0374609919f6e86f6ee1defe8cc\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"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\":\"The Manchester Review\"},\"description\":\"The Manchester Review was founded in 2008 and is published by the Centre for New Writing at The University of Manchester. 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