Curated by Jonathan Day
Published April 2016 | Paperback
88 pages | 22 full page illustrations
“Orpheus lyre is strung with the sinews of poets” (Two Gentlemen of Verona)
There is a thread in contemporary writing on poetry that argues for a hard delineation between poetry and songwriting. The arguments revolve in the main around the tension between the poem as read on the page and the lyric as sung.
LYRIC is a new collection bringing together works by songwriters from Snow Patrol, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Jake Bugg, Nizlopi, James Bay, Cliff Richards, Gentle Giant and many others, all presented as poetry in black on white. In his introductory essay Jonathan Day, Professor of Transmedia Arts and critically acclaimed songwriter, examines poetry and song from a number of cultures and, through reference to some of the greatest writers in the canon, argues for the central significance of sound in poetry on the page as well as in song.
LYRIC is an essential read for anyone interested in the (song)writers craft and this developing debate.
LYRIC is published by Fairacre Press, Wenlock Poetry Festival and BirTH.
For further information or a review copy, please contact Sam Evans. e. firstname.lastname@example.org | m. 07952 761617
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INDEPENDENT ARTICLE, published April '16
So Shakespeare is now officially 400 years dead. This enormously wonderful and argued over figure may be responsible for some of the finest ever works in English. On the other hand he may simply be a cipher, a name used to conveniently disguise another, shadier, character or, as some argue, a secret group of writers. What is certain is that not a word of his entire Collected Works exists anywhere in manuscript form, written by him. Not one. Strange. My subject here is not Shakespeare (though thanks, Bill, love your work), the point is that the works have survived as a result of sound – the sound of voices on a stage, written down at some point, by someone. Homer is the same – the ‘singer’ of the Iliad and Odyssey was an illiterate performer whose words were so stunning that someone decided to write them down.
In a new book called Lyric, I am arguing for the central importance of sound to poetry – and trying to heal some of the wounds that have been opening recently between poets and songwriters. One particular poet has been moved to denounce songwriting, saying that the white of the page eats the songs’ words, as soon as they are removed from the trinity of melody harmony and rhythm. He goes on to insist that no ever talk to him again about songs as poetry. The wound clearly runs deep.
I was shocked when I read that. For me poetry and songwriting are the same thing – and that really matters.
I grew up in an underclass Northern factory town, escaping the lime sludge, smoking furnace heaps and dead rivers through tattered paperbacks with titles like Modern Poets – graffitied and doodled over. In those words I found my way out to sun and sky. Most of my songs have a reference somewhere to the words of a favourite writer.
So I wanted to make a volume that denied that claim, a book of songs presented as poetry – black on white, words printed onto the expanse of the page shouting to the world and the doubters that they are poetry. I couldn’t clearly cover all styles and genres of music, so focussed particularly on writers networked around roots and acoustic music. This was because of Laurel Canyon, that arroyo on the edge of Los Angles, in the Hollywood hills where more than anywhere the ‘singer-songwriter’ was born. Poetry and song that had flirted so sensuously and relentlessly through Bebop jazz (Coltrane and Parker’s howling saxophones underscored by Kerouac, and Ginsberg’s written Howl), finally moved in together there and set up house (the Our House of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young). It felt right for me to start with the Canyon’s lost grandchildren. Some of the writers are here because I was taken with the power of their words. Iain Archer has written number one hits for Snow Patrol (Run) and was nominated for a Grammy this year for James Bay’s Hold Back the Rover, which he co-wrote. His words sing from the pages of Lyric. Jess Morgan’s lovely narratives describe richly observed moments in the life of someone allergic to the Modern World. Still others (and I would include my own contributions here) are nearer to the metaphysical, relating perhaps best to writers like Dylan Thomas, with a subtle helping of zen for good measure. I included a number of writers because of their popularity – with hits from Jake Bugg, Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ (Come on Eileen), Gentle Giant, Tired Pony, Nizlopi and even Cliff Richard to their names. I wanted to know how much it was their words that achieved that. I didn’t, though, want to pull any punches, or tell it like it isn’t. If song is truly ‘poetically wrong’ then so be it, I wanted to know, however much that might disappoint me. Look in the book for the pages where the “white eats the words” as Glyn Maxwell would have it, and those where it does not. Pop music can be reductive and trite, fulfilling in its comforting predictability a social need for reassurance in this wild and strange Universe. Music functioning like concrete and street
lighting, divorcing and shielding tiny, timid humanity from the immensity of its context. But so much of popular music is entirely other – pushing the limits and boundaries of who we are, picking at the holes of our hermetic, socially–mediated world views and waking the imaginations of generations. I have represented both poles in this short collection, and touch moments in all the territories between. I have thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and I hope you will, too.
I think I understand, though. Like Keats so many of us eschew the alarum of popular praise, saying with him that our works are for the discerning – or maybe not even for other human ears at all, in some cases. Fame may, as songwriter Nick Drake says, be “but a fruit tree, so very unsound”, but songwriters – or some of them at least - are feted and rewarded, celebrated, applauded and their pockets stuffed with money until they’re bloated and rich as Croesus. Never in my life have I seen the same for a poet. Take the recent beatification of Bowie, a words and melody man widely hailed as more humanly significant than Popes, Actors or Emperors – and by extension than poets.
The sound of the phonemes as they flow, the resonance in the skull, the rattling of our bones. Transmission in the braincase, electrical flow between cochlea, inner ear and grey matter, the buzzing of our teeth as we speak. The grounding and shorting of the manipulated groans and squeaks and grunts, so that all the clicks and warbles of our sound creating possibilities become attached to dreams and imaginations, descriptions and intuitions. I love the black on white of a poem on a page, but it is a repository, an arcane and beautiful extension of the profound promethean moment when we speak. In defence of song I need to argue that the poetic moment, the poetic heart lies not on the page: the black on white is in service to the word sounded in the mind, and, further, the net of implications and intuitions that those imagined phonemes carry/signify.
writers networked around a vague sense of roots and acoustic music. Because of Laurel Canyon – obviously. Poetry and song that flirted so sensuously and relentlessly through Bebop (Coltrane and Parker’s howling underscored by Kerouac, and Ginsberg’s Howl), finally moved in together there and set up house (the Our House of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young). It just felt right for me to start with the Canyon’s lost grandchildren. Some of the writers are here because I was taken with the power of their words. Some are very popular and I wanted to know if it was their words that achieved that. I certainly didn’t want to pull any punches, or tell it like it isn’t. If song is truly poetically wrong then so be it, I wanted to know. Look in the book for the pages where the “white eats the words” as Glyn Maxwell would have it, and those where it does not. Pop music can be reductive and trite, fulfilling in its comforting predictability a social need for reassurance in this wild and strange Universe. Music functioning like concrete and street lighting, divorcing and shielding tiny, timid humanity from the immensity of its context. But so much of popular music is entirely other – pushing the limits and boundaries of who we are, picking at the holes of our hermetic, socially–mediated world views and waking the imaginations of generations. I have represented both poles in this short collection, and touch moments in all the territories between. I have thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and I hope you will, too.