The Departure, by Chris Emery
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The Departure, by Chris Emery
Ebook PDF The Departure, by Chris Emery
Shortlisted for the EDP-Jarrold East Anglian Book Awards At the centre of Emery's third collection are a series of narrative poems that reveal an astonishing range of personas, from the set of Mission Impossible, an extra from Gojira, porn stars, bombers and executioners - even Charles Bukowski turns up to take a leak. There are Pennine journeys, war zones, the Norfolk coast, the Suffolk coast, riots, bad hotel rooms and crazy conventions. Even the secret life of peas. Interspersed among all these are poems concerning the mysterious 'M'.
The Departure, by Chris Emery- Published on: 2015-10-12
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.99" h x .20" w x 5.00" l, .22 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 84 pages
Review The narrative poems are like snapshots of longer stories, like watching ten minutes of a film - you want to know more. The 'location poems' feature such vivid imagery, so real that you're right there - "a charcoal pushbike leaning on the door's black velour". Emery shows no sticking rigidly to poetic form, taking the theme of departures around a tour of haiku, sonnets, couplets, free verse. It's all here. The words are working hard - "the day moon is a wok", "the sea's womb bursts" - painting a vivid picture in your mind's eye. The breadth of this collection is tremendous, but my absolute favourite is the title poem 'The Departure', about leaving yourself and diving into your art. -- Michelle Teasdale Winning Words These words matter: these contexts, these agonised, pained, joyous, hilarious worlds. -- Catherine Edmunds Goodreads There are moments of great lucidity and philosophical insight in Emery's poetry, and a vocabulary born from experience that doesn't cry pretentious. There is grit, but not for its own sake, and a clean intelligence lies beneath "the dirt the dirt the dirt" of The Bukowskis that makes way for the brave political admonitions ('The Destroyers Convention' and 'Guest Starring'). It is also nice to see a dialogue poem in the form of 'Carl's Job'; these are rare and, to me, pave a way forward in poetry. Emery's excellent execution of this form delivers a haunting exchange of movie-talk, and shows the range of his literary prowess:"'I've no further plans on killing' I said. 'Those days are done.' / 'Let me tell you, Bud,' said Carl. 'Those days are sitting here now.'" -- Philippe Blenkiron Ink, Sweat & Tears Chris Emery's 'Departures' has affinities with those of John Hartley-Williams. A single poem can pile up seemingly unrelated images with an impact derived not from an understanding of the poem's logical surface connections, what the seventeenth century described as wit, but from the connections that Emery's images make with our emotions. A lazy reaction would be to lump him with the more overt surrealist procedures of Hartley-Williams, but I would prefer to describe his imagery sensually associative akin to the work of Elytis or Pablo Neruda. -- James Sutherland-Smith The Bow-Wow Shop A collection where linguistic invention and imagination combine in poems with a dazzling range of feeling never less than a true entertainment. -- James Sutherland-Smith The Bow-Wow Shop Studded with richly strange images and ideas, the poems, like the church bells which 'invert the town', in 'Sunday Fathers', are often skewed and unsettling: hat stands, 'wrists of ice'; snails, 'death's pale eccentrics'. -- Ellen Cranitch Poetry London Most of Emery's poems share an immediacy, a measured brashness, but there is nothing especially uniform about this collection: there is a 'cowboy song', a poem dedicated to a Victorian hangman, a visit to the frontline of a warzone, each poem shining a different kind of light on a different world of hope, or pain, or calm, or irony, or fortitude, or beauty. -- Rory Waterman The Times Literary Supplement Chris Emery drops you right into his poems/world, and once in you have very little chance to orientate yourself before being assaulted by the next image or poem; voices and fragments of lives hurtle past you leaving behind ghosts on the retina, neurons fired and blipping beyond the moment. The Parrish Lantern The poems made me feel and put images in my head, but I never understood why I felt that way, or how these quicksilver pictures fitted into the narratives. There is something about the quality of the images ('Snails' silently drowned in "forest tears" and awkward 'Sunday Fathers' "wasting time by the swings") and of the atmospheres conjured up (for me the book as a whole has a feeling of carparks and gritty sodium lights, isn't that odd!) that tells me I should trust Chris Emery and that there are more treasures to be found. Clare Law's Blog
About the Author Chris Emery is a director of Salt. He has published three collections of poetry, a writer's guide, an anthology of art and poems, and edited editions of Emily Bronte, Keats and Rossetti. His work has been widely published in magazines and anthologised, most recently in Identity Parade: New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe). He is a contributor to The Cambridge Companion to Creative Writing, edited by David Morley and Philip Neilsen. He lives in Cromer, North Norfolk, with his wife and children.
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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Chris Emery drops you right into his poems/world By Amazon Customer I'm going to steal a quote by another fabulous poet, as my link into this book. George Szirtes, states on the back cover that the poems in this collection:" are like highly compressed short stories that we enter at high speed. Once in, the place is full of vivid detail keeping our head turning."I've taken this to mean that Chris Emery drops you right into his poems/world, and once in you have very little chance to orientate yourself before being assaulted by the next image or poem; voices and fragments of lives hurtle past you leaving behind ghosts on the retina, neurons fired and blipping beyond the moment. Again taking Szirtes idea of "compressed stories" I recently wrote a post on a microfiction collection, and stated that I wasn't sure where the difference between prose poetry and microfiction lie and that "like prose poetry, microfiction appears to be loose, possibly random paragraphs and to use everyday language, although it is heightened, making every word placed - placed with a specific purpose - as if it were a puzzle & could have only been placed there, would only fit there." , this description seems to fit Chris's poetry and even though he's far to adventurous to remain in one form when he could be exploring Sonnets, Couplets, Haiku's or free verse, I think the description an apt one.On leaving Wale Obelisk (for Jen).Did we shuck our suits that leaf-dense noon?Leave serious careers in lemon light,the high clouds, early swallows, the day moonweakened, nothing farmed, nothing tightabove the summer marriage of grasses,and all that luscious time receding inthe corporate years' climbing excesses,just a vacancy before the children?We made a kind of love pledge there. It leaves youin chromatic episodes like thisdoesn't it? Not quite nostalgia but whocould have imagined ageing like this?We had climbed up to lie on the piled hay,the tow-coloured earth all nice and neat,what with everything that's come our waywe're still breathing in that smashed-up wheatOn researching for this post, I read that this poet's work is characterised by a dystopian vision of the world, having read only this and Dr Mephisto, I can say there is an element of that, but if Chris paints the world as a dystopian, he paints it with a humour that cuts giant swathes through the darkness, highlighting the dissonance in modern living and with a language that makes me smile, makes me laugh, then makes me want to read again.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. The Departure By C. Edmunds I first read this book a week ago on the East Coast Mainline from Darlington to London Kings Cross (`Look left, a cobbled lane and a crypt of hats'). I read it again from St Pancras to Paris Gare du Nord (`above the summer marriage of grasses'), and again from Paris Montparnasse to Niort (`All the forks, the platters, the cruet set: everything is dancing.'). I waited several days, and read it again, three times on the return journey; the last time, back to front so that I ended with `Snails'. Those snails! (`Why are they all called Tony or Erasmus or King Nacre?') I love this poem. It opens the book and encapsulates all that for me is so wonderful about Chris Emery's poetry: the wit, the connections, the sheer joy in words and what they can do, the shock of unexpected juxtapositions, the extraordinary insight into the ordinary, the leap beyond the mundane into the terrifying, the ineffable logic - and Droylsden. Okay, Droylsden's not actually mentioned in the snail poem, but does appear elsewhere, more than once.For those nervous of the dreaded D word, I should mention the somewhat more genteel Southwold is there too, so you can relax. Temporarily. Where else? Bromley, of course (my husband has this theory that you'll read/see mention of Bromley at least once a week. I've no idea why this should be, but remember Janice from Bromley in that ad on the telly not so long ago?) plus Burnley, various Manchester locations, the Wale Obelisk, Celaenae (an ancient city of Phrygia - yes I had to look it up), Cromer, Cambridge and across the pond to the States for a quick tour, then back again to the penultimate poem: a glorious concoction of observations made in a nameless motel that had me spluttering with laughter at its grossness.George Szirtes, on the back cover blurb, says these poems `are like highly compressed short stories that we enter at high speed.' This is it exactly, and herein lies Emery's skill. When you write a novel, you're generally advised to lose the first few chapters of the early drafts so that in the finished product the reader is plunged straight into the heart of the tale without having to wade through endless waffle as the writer introduces the world they've created. Emery shortcuts this process with a vengeance. A lesser poet would ease the reader gently into the scene; would explain the settings and who these people are - particularly creepy Carl - but if Carl had been carefully introduced, the impact of the poem would be lost in the sensory dilution of too much guff. Emery's words are richly textured but never over-baked; never there just to say `Look at me! Don't I look good on the page!' These words matter: these contexts, these agonised, pained, joyous, hilarious worlds.A brief word about the book as an artefact. I'm an artist. I like things of beauty: tactile things, things that feel good, smell good, things with colours I can almost taste. This gorgeously bound hardback volume is a thing to possess, to handle - to ogle even - regardless of the poetry inside. That it contains some of the best poetry I've read in a long time is a welcome bonus, of course.So I arrived home from my train journey wanderings, my mind buzzing with the new sights, sounds and experiences of my trip abroad, and promptly wrote three poems. I like to think these were influenced in some way by my reading matter; that something of Emery's skill and way with words may have rubbed off. I certainly now have a determination to raise my game as a poet. I've always played with words, enjoyed words, enjoyed manipulating my readers' minds and emotions - but I could be doing so much more. I'm feeling inspired. Thank you, Chris Emery. I'm not going to wait for the next long train journey to read `The Departure' again. It's sitting beside me as I type this review, and is going to stay by my side for a long while yet.
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