That's a handshake met and made, Chris, and I should like to salute the
generosity of your follow-up responses.
Whether there's a British poetry is probably not a question that leads far. I
presume we're not confusing English poetry (in the world's various English
languages) with British poetry (simple geographical siting). No doubt, there
are various British poetries and they do not unite into a national entity. I
should have acknowledged this.
My underlying point, however, is that internationalism is a very shaky
achievement in the modern world. It hasn't held up so far at any political
level where issues that really matter to nations are involved: then, the old
chauvinist bickering restarts. The recent Birmingham summit dismissal of the
admittedly delicate rescheduling of African debts is a particularly poignant
case. I don't believe poetry has solved this or that we are yet ready to talk
in more than vague terms about the disappearance of an essentially British
poetry. I get worried when the criteria for judging British poetry turn out
to be set in the US and then borrowed back by British poets -- my worry is not
for chauvinist reasons, but because there's more mutual opacity between
cultures than is often recognised. I hope to be the opposite of chauvinist,
actually, am a lifelong fan of US poetry, have had at least as much contact
with it as most of my peers, and for many reasons haven't lived in Britain
since 1982.
But if you think mere poets have transcended the national, try British
football fever, for starters! Another example, local identity and a certain
amount of very British power struggling for status is very strong in a lot of
the "new generation" work and there's not much international outlook, though
there is a praiseworthy multi-culturalism at times.
There is a new outlook to strive for and it will transcend both a poetry which
at present necessarily investigates more arcane worlds of intellect as well as
a poetry willing to tackle day to day issues in a less intellectual way.
Can't we feel ourselves forward towards something strange? We can be stuck in
the past, yes; and stuck in the present, too. My own interests at the moment
lie in what it's like to live in an international city like Paris, what kinds
of book come out of that experience. It turns out to be a far cry from Paris
of mists over the Seine and the little bouquinistes overcharging as usual.
It's very international, but mine is a tinny little British consciousness too,
reacting to it: I'm not going to lie about that, because I just hate lies in
poetry.
Best
Doug
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