dublinka

The Spoken Word Revolution Redux (edited by Mark Eleveld), has been on my table for a while now. It's a big clunky mulch of an ugly book reminiscent of a computer programming manual, not something you might carry around with you. Nevertheless it managed to hold my attention because of the dazzling variety of poetry it contains: a fascinating slice of diversity, from slam to laureate, complete with glimmering audio cd and interviews.

Each section contains a mixture of treasure and trash. One section musicians meeting poets / music meeting poetry, throws out an interesting letter from Jeff Buckley, where Buckley addresses Dylan in a gesture of public intimacy "It just kills me to know that whatever they told you is what you think I think of you", two beautiful curios from Jeff Tweedy of Wilco "the least wanted crayon" and the damp squib of Billy Corgan's Poetry of my heart ". But pride of place goes to Simone Muench's homage Tome Waits, I hate you: "the way your voice snags my skin when I'm waltzing." and Linton Kwesi Johnson's unforgettable Sonny's Lettah, which should be posted on the door of Brixton's cop shop. It's the story of Sonny, writing home to his mother from prison, having inadvertently killed a police officer, after stepping in to help resist a brutal attempt to arrest his brother. "mama, I jus couldn't stan up deh, nah do nuttin"

More policman come dung
dem beat me to the grung
dem charge Jim fi sus
dem charge me fi murdah

On a social level the work casts back into the light the reality of Brixton prison and many of its inmates, who find themselves locked away, due to the continued failure of London's policing to integrate itself into local communities; and which still after all these years operate on a policy of mistrust, tension, and brutality. On an individual level it speaks of loyalty, love and the randomness of life. Proving that effective communication which has broken down, or is absent on one level, is very much alive on another.

Elsewhere in It's History, Brendan Murphy tackles the interesting topic of an Essex's man attempting to rationalise the history of English behaviour in Ireland: It's 'istry, innit'ey? It's 'istry. Ben, from Essex attempts to balance up the various injustices inflicted by the English, with some of those carried out by the Irish. "And what about the horses in London? When they bombed the bloody horses. Poor bloody horses. I thought the Irish were meant to like horses. I thought the Irish were meant to like horses. I don't blame them for that, do I?". His solution, which gives voice to the dubious idea of writing everything off to the bad debt of history, fails to take into consideration the effects history continues to have on the present, whether we like it or not, and that it is not merely something past, without further effect. His failure to recognise this continued effect of history on his own emotions, and the taciturn Irish pub drinkers at who he rants, highlights a tension, that has recently been recognised in many societies; the problem of reconciling or making sense of the lingering sentiments of historical injustice. A first rate piece of poetry.

With other great pieces from Daphne Gotlieb, Nora Gomringer, and Marc Smith, this book is well worth a look see. The good outweighs the indifferent by a long shot. And chances are you might find a poet for life in here.