{"id":7484,"date":"2017-04-18T10:15:22","date_gmt":"2017-04-18T09:15:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7484"},"modified":"2017-04-18T10:18:08","modified_gmt":"2017-04-18T09:18:08","slug":"william-letford-dirt-reviewed-by-lucy-winrow","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7484","title":{"rendered":"William Letford, Dirt<\/em>, reviewed by Lucy Winrow"},"content":{"rendered":"
William Letford, Dirt<\/em> (Carcanet, \u00a39.99).<\/h5>\n

As you might expect from the compact title of William Letford\u2019s second collection, encounters with dirt are various and persistent throughout. In \u2018Purification,\u2019 we meet a hapless individual struggling to function after a night of heavy drinking: \u201ccrack open the eyes make fists with feet hangover check negative \/ stand up totter crease face call it a smile blink wade knee deep [.]\u201d Written in lowercase, without punctuation or conjunctions, these lines convey the mechanical actions of someone seamlessly going through the motions, at a distance from themselves. However, the cracked eyes and clenched feet foreground the body and the physical discomfort involved in this performance of happiness which, failing the first time, the protagonist reattempts: \u201ctoward coffee percolate wait for first smack of caffeine try again \/ lift corners of mouth crease face [.]\u201d The pun on \u201csmack\u201d highlights a modern-day obsession with coffee and productivity, but the protagonist\u2019s goal at this moment is to \u201cteeter towards ablution.\u201d The religious connotations of \u201cablution\u201d \u2013 particularly in light of the poem\u2019s title \u2013 lend a ritualistic element to the act of washing, as if the protagonist is atoning for something, although it is not clear what; to \u201cteeter\u201d and \u201ctotter\u201d suggests a lack of direction. It is not until we reach the title poem \u2018Dirt\u2019 that we start to get a sense of the poet\u2019s true attitude to this substance:<\/p>\n

I want the dust beneath the fridge to hold the DNA
\nof generations. I want to lift the delicate carcass
\nof an insect from the carpet. I want to sit by the window
\nand watch water in the gutter and when I pull back the
\nsheets I want them dirty. I want the dirt on my hands.<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

The collection\u2019s epigraph (\u201cTemples and monuments reach for \/ transcendence, beauty lies in the \/ carcass of an insect, cities within cities, \/ take your eyes from the heavens, \/ look long and deep\u201d) is echoed here. The reader is asked to drill down into the details, to look for beauty in unlikely places, in small things that are not striving to be beautiful or significant but achieve this nonetheless. There is something strangely spiritual about the DNA of generations past and present existing together in one place. To find dirt concealed under fridges and on bedsheets is evidence of life, and to wear dirt on one\u2019s hands represents an immediacy of experience. The speaker does not restrict themselves from experiences and inhibitions are cast away in the final lines: \u201cLay yourself open. We\u2019ll both \/ blossom. If you want me to call you a whore, I\u2019ll do it. Stand in the muck with me. Live amongst the flowers.\u201d The speaker\u2019s enthusiasm to be surrounded by, covered in and \u2018speak\u2019 dirt is a defiant rejection of the cleanliness and conformity painfully strived for in \u2018Purification\u2019 \u2013 they are fully alive to the idea that where there is dirt, there is possibility, spontaneity and adventure.<\/p>\n

Nowhere is the celebration of dirt more rebellious and jubilant than \u2018Let it go\u2019 in which the speaker \u2013 whose \u201csphincter pouts like a smoker\u2019s lips\u201d \u2013 searches for a toilet before eventually giving in to the most basic urge, with a sense of triumphant liberation: \u201cI lumber \/ toward the hostel, like a monkey in the \/ jungle of traffic, stinking, wild and free.\u201d The implied criticism of modern lifestyles in \u2018Purification\u2019 is reiterated, highlighting how far we have strayed from other animals in controlling certain instincts.<\/p>\n

A striking aspect to Letford\u2019s writing is the stylistic variety: poems range from lyrical to concrete; dialects shift between Scots and English; locations flit between the UK and India (where he travelled for six months on a Creative Scotland Artists\u2019 Bursary), and the perspective moves between Letford in his previous job as a roofer (\u2018a garden\u2019 and \u2018Young Rambo\u2019) and his current one as a poet. The different influences at work may account for a refrain of \u201cannaromamoof\u201d that appears throughout the collection in \u2018Gon yursel\u2019, \u2018You\u2019 and \u2018Talknaboot?\u2019:<\/p>\n

annaromamoof<\/p>\n

neerda<\/p>\n

so wit eh yi talknaboot<\/p>\n

am sayin annaromamoof<\/p>\n

aye well neerda<\/p><\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

As one voice struggles to understand the other, we hear the poet\u2019s internal dialogue, attempting to reconcile different aspects of his identity. Attention to sound runs throughout this collection: the wheeze of an asthmatic boy, \u201csomewhere \/ between a moan and a whistle\u201d in \u2018Wisdom\u2019; the lovers whose \u201csweat and skin slapped \/ like a biological whip\u201d in \u2018Feedback Loop\u2019; or the multifarious sounds amassed in \u2018the crack\u2019:<\/p>\n

the crack of a bone the moon and the tide that
\nbrings its song forests of cellos gardens of violins
\nthe silent flap of a worm in mud the groan of bamboo
\nthe sound of frost every orgasm in every bedroom back
\nroom and public toilet the sound of light as it hits the
\nmouth of a cave skin is a symphony every mirror is
\na sheet of music reflection is reverb countless re
\nreflection is reverb re countless collaborations<\/center><\/p>\n

A diverse orchestra of noises \u2013 ranging from loud, to barely discernible, to imaginary \u2013 combine in one broad stroke across our senses in this plectrum-shaped poem. The vivid imagery restates the poet\u2019s attention to remaining alert in the world, while the repetition of reflection\/reverb (imagery and sound) replicates these connections at a deeper level. This complex process is distilled down into the final lines, ending on the lyrical \u2018I\u2019 that also feels like a point of origin (if the poem were to be read bottom to top) for this process:<\/p>\n

a drop of reverb
\nyou and her
\nand him
\nand
\nme
\ni<\/center><\/p>\n

The powerful impact of sound is also explored in \u2018This is it\u2019, in which the speaker returns home after some time spent away: \u201cSkint, baw ragged, poakets ful eh ma \/ fingers, cannae afford tae burn toast an \/ it\u2019s November, Christmas is close.\u201d Restless in his own company and anxious over finances nearing Christmas, the speaker feels out of place as the city has changed without him: \u201civery coarner \/ is a different colour.\u201d Eventually, he chances upon a busker whose youth and ambition is unexpectedly heartening: \u201ceez young an the dreams thit \/ wur boarn in eez bedroom wake me up.\u201d However, no-one stops to listen to him (\u201cthey know \/ thit eez good bit they don\u2019t want tae look\u201d) and even the speaker holds back from showing his full appreciation:<\/p>\n

I\u2019d like tae tell um thit this is it, this is
\nwhere the hammer hits the stane and sparks
\nur made, standin oan a coarner in yur hame
\ntoon, an audience eh one radge eatin a
\nmacaroni pie, bit singin, wee man, yur singin.<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

The reluctance of anyone to \u201clook\u201d at the man, whose sound feels primal and vital (\u201cthe hammer hits the stane\u201d) may be because this clashes with modern lifestyles, where there is no time to pause for simple pleasures (recalling the speaker\u2019s desire to sit and \u201cwatch water in the gutter\u201d in \u2018Dirt\u2019). The busker\u2019s passion and vulnerability \u2013 his \u201cdreams\u201d are laid bare \u2013 contrast with the unglamorous surroundings to leave the speaker speechless but bursting inside at this embodiment of flowers growing amongst the dirt.<\/p>\n

Lucy Winrow<\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

William Letford, Dirt (Carcanet, \u00a39.99). As you might expect from the compact title of William Letford\u2019s second collection, encounters with dirt are various and persistent throughout. In \u2018Purification,\u2019 we meet a hapless individual struggling to function after a night of heavy drinking: \u201ccrack open the eyes make fists with feet hangover check negative \/ stand […]<\/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":"\nWilliam Letford, Dirt, 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=7484\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"William Letford, Dirt, reviewed by Lucy Winrow - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"William Letford, Dirt (Carcanet, \u00a39.99). 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