A new collection of poems by Jacqui Rowe, published by Flarestack ISBN: 1 900397 98 6
"a rich layering of tone and image, with intriguing shifts of time and place"
- Robert Seatter,
Blue
Kandinsky, deepening it close to black, said blue
suits sorrow best and riders, not the skies
near bluebells, pressed as seed, into a round
which Rimbaud designated blue. And therefore last
suits sorrow best. And riders, not the skies,
Klein made a colour of his own, denying lapis lazuli,
which Rimbaud designated blue and therefore last.
Because paint soaked his way through rag to the invisible,
Klein made a colour of his own, denying. Lapis lazuli
spilled as powder over equilateral marble and slaked lime
because paint soaked. His way through rag to the invisible
optic nerve was wounded canvas. Weeping indigo
spilled, as powder over equilateral marble and slaked lime.
Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian, is orange where the
optic nerve was wounded. Canvas, weeping indigo
light, waves. Assume the frequency of ice until
Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian, is orange where,
near bluebells pressed as seed into a round,
light waves assume the frequency of ice until
Kandinsky, deepening it close to black, said, “Blue.”
Half Term
Autumn half term; on the Minster Pool, moorhens probe
the banks of leaves, hoping that shreds of bread might still
lie there. A woman stumbles up, and scratches in her bag.
We used to walk along the towpath, you and I, to watch
the water where the baby ducks grew up, counting
how the mother never lost one to the cold or to the fox,
until they were bigger than she was and old enough to go.
I saw the coots all summer in the park, faltering on rake
feet where the grass edges up to the lake, a nervous parent
and a solitary child, waiting and nodding as if they
knew me. The woman tears up half a loaf; geese race
and seagulls mimic them across the pool. One coot trails
behind. Autumn half term; children with pockets full
of crumbs will not be here now the young have gone.
Sonnet
I’m wondering if both puppies are still
yelping in the pet shop, if the terrapin
came back from the boundary of the world
to tell his brothers, “In the end, all it was
was glass,” if yellow petals on the palm
have ripened into dates, whether syllables
of marble stay implanted in my fingers, if
the stalagmite still stretches towards its mate.
And I wonder if I don’t keep faith by
fading with the weather, choosing neutrals,
wearing sleeves, eating syndicated tapas
and refusing the rioja, if I break the link by
writing different words in a new notebook,
and by pressing autumn lilies in its leaves.
FROM A REVIEW OF “BLUE” BY JULIE BODEN IN RAW EDGE
From the Torrox Costa picture on the cover of Jacqui Rowe’s book with its blue sea and sky; through the colourful journey that takes us, via the playful pantoum of a title poem, as it oozes melancholic assonance and weaves it – dreamlike – with an intellectual playfulness, to the final poem “Even the Sea is not Impossible”, Jacqui paints for us a Rhapsody in Blue...[Jacqui’s] sensitive nature, her willingness to hone her poetic skills and her patience in biding her time before publishing are evidenced in the quality of her writing. So many people publish too soon, but this first collection is well worth the wait. Congratulations to Jacqui on an impressive first collection and to Flarestack for continuing to highlight and promote talented new writers. Jacqui is empathetic in her observations of the characters she builds into her poetry but she is also aware of their weaknesses, injecting humour in order to convey some of her more sobering or gritty observations...
A REVIEW OF "BLUE" FROM SPHINX ONLINE MAGAZINE
Blue - Jacqui Rowe
Flarestack Publishing, 2007 - £3.00
The blue in these poems isn’t the blue of a Bernard Manning joke. It is the blue of Kandinsky, of “Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian” and the sky beneath which an emancipated woman tribal marks her arms and “cries curtains the colour of the universe”. But read on and you will find blue is just one of a rainbow of colours: orange pomegranate flowers, a mauve hospital, a red corner, a green detergent bottle, a yellow coat, “elasticated trousers half a shade lighter than sick”.
As someone who works in museums I was drawn to the long poem ‘Everyday Things’ which was inspired by the exhibition An Archaeology of Everyday Things at a Birmingham museum. The poem begins:
This is an exhibition about
the origins of human conflict
and towards the end it has a curator who suggests:
We’ll be known for what we don’t wear out,
not what we reinvent or turn to
compost, use until it falls apart.
I found myself cycling to and from work contemplating that so simple but rather frightening thought.
As Jacqui Rowe sits “between the café and the theatre/ to write about encounters amongst the objects’” the following incident occurs:
A beak faced boy protected by a cycle helmet,
hovers and dips to feel my copper basket. ‘It’s fine,’
I say before his carer says,
‘He’s only curious,’ and I pull my bag away.
This is a scene I’ve observed many times in museums but often not played out so positively. Jacqui Rowe presents this potential for conflict within a very simple description.
The poems in Blue take a wide variety of form and speak with many voices. Not all are easily accessible at first reading but it’s worth persevering. Try them and see. As it says in ‘Pictures of the Caves’:
I send pictures of the caves,
which are no substitute for
being there…
Sue Butler
.
- Robert Seatter,
Blue
Kandinsky, deepening it close to black, said blue
suits sorrow best and riders, not the skies
near bluebells, pressed as seed, into a round
which Rimbaud designated blue. And therefore last
suits sorrow best. And riders, not the skies,
Klein made a colour of his own, denying lapis lazuli,
which Rimbaud designated blue and therefore last.
Because paint soaked his way through rag to the invisible,
Klein made a colour of his own, denying. Lapis lazuli
spilled as powder over equilateral marble and slaked lime
because paint soaked. His way through rag to the invisible
optic nerve was wounded canvas. Weeping indigo
spilled, as powder over equilateral marble and slaked lime.
Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian, is orange where the
optic nerve was wounded. Canvas, weeping indigo
light, waves. Assume the frequency of ice until
Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian, is orange where,
near bluebells pressed as seed into a round,
light waves assume the frequency of ice until
Kandinsky, deepening it close to black, said, “Blue.”
Half Term
Autumn half term; on the Minster Pool, moorhens probe
the banks of leaves, hoping that shreds of bread might still
lie there. A woman stumbles up, and scratches in her bag.
We used to walk along the towpath, you and I, to watch
the water where the baby ducks grew up, counting
how the mother never lost one to the cold or to the fox,
until they were bigger than she was and old enough to go.
I saw the coots all summer in the park, faltering on rake
feet where the grass edges up to the lake, a nervous parent
and a solitary child, waiting and nodding as if they
knew me. The woman tears up half a loaf; geese race
and seagulls mimic them across the pool. One coot trails
behind. Autumn half term; children with pockets full
of crumbs will not be here now the young have gone.
Sonnet
I’m wondering if both puppies are still
yelping in the pet shop, if the terrapin
came back from the boundary of the world
to tell his brothers, “In the end, all it was
was glass,” if yellow petals on the palm
have ripened into dates, whether syllables
of marble stay implanted in my fingers, if
the stalagmite still stretches towards its mate.
And I wonder if I don’t keep faith by
fading with the weather, choosing neutrals,
wearing sleeves, eating syndicated tapas
and refusing the rioja, if I break the link by
writing different words in a new notebook,
and by pressing autumn lilies in its leaves.
FROM A REVIEW OF “BLUE” BY JULIE BODEN IN RAW EDGE
From the Torrox Costa picture on the cover of Jacqui Rowe’s book with its blue sea and sky; through the colourful journey that takes us, via the playful pantoum of a title poem, as it oozes melancholic assonance and weaves it – dreamlike – with an intellectual playfulness, to the final poem “Even the Sea is not Impossible”, Jacqui paints for us a Rhapsody in Blue...[Jacqui’s] sensitive nature, her willingness to hone her poetic skills and her patience in biding her time before publishing are evidenced in the quality of her writing. So many people publish too soon, but this first collection is well worth the wait. Congratulations to Jacqui on an impressive first collection and to Flarestack for continuing to highlight and promote talented new writers. Jacqui is empathetic in her observations of the characters she builds into her poetry but she is also aware of their weaknesses, injecting humour in order to convey some of her more sobering or gritty observations...
A REVIEW OF "BLUE" FROM SPHINX ONLINE MAGAZINE
Blue - Jacqui Rowe
Flarestack Publishing, 2007 - £3.00
The blue in these poems isn’t the blue of a Bernard Manning joke. It is the blue of Kandinsky, of “Picasso’s woman, cheap and Prussian” and the sky beneath which an emancipated woman tribal marks her arms and “cries curtains the colour of the universe”. But read on and you will find blue is just one of a rainbow of colours: orange pomegranate flowers, a mauve hospital, a red corner, a green detergent bottle, a yellow coat, “elasticated trousers half a shade lighter than sick”.
As someone who works in museums I was drawn to the long poem ‘Everyday Things’ which was inspired by the exhibition An Archaeology of Everyday Things at a Birmingham museum. The poem begins:
This is an exhibition about
the origins of human conflict
and towards the end it has a curator who suggests:
We’ll be known for what we don’t wear out,
not what we reinvent or turn to
compost, use until it falls apart.
I found myself cycling to and from work contemplating that so simple but rather frightening thought.
As Jacqui Rowe sits “between the café and the theatre/ to write about encounters amongst the objects’” the following incident occurs:
A beak faced boy protected by a cycle helmet,
hovers and dips to feel my copper basket. ‘It’s fine,’
I say before his carer says,
‘He’s only curious,’ and I pull my bag away.
This is a scene I’ve observed many times in museums but often not played out so positively. Jacqui Rowe presents this potential for conflict within a very simple description.
The poems in Blue take a wide variety of form and speak with many voices. Not all are easily accessible at first reading but it’s worth persevering. Try them and see. As it says in ‘Pictures of the Caves’:
I send pictures of the caves,
which are no substitute for
being there…
Sue Butler
.