My Life in Crime by Aline Templeton 18 November 2022

After her aborted visit last winter, victim of severe weather in the south-east, the Lit. Soc was delighted to welcome the acclaimed “Crime Czar” of Small-Town Scotland, revealing her life in crime. Like a mistress of the trade of crime fiction, she set the scene for the audience with a reading from the opening chapter of her novel “The Devil’s Garden” whose pace and intrigue swiftly evoked the requisite uneasy, dramatic tension. Her first faltering steps on the pathway to entry into the contemporary canon of Scottish crime fiction began at age 6 with a fierce grasp of the pencil and learning to fashion printed script. Mystery intruded even in this account of the prototype Mr. Wiz and Mrs. Woz’s weekend in Paris leaving her early readership to ponder on how this adventure was received by the travelling couple’s respective partners. The urge to write has turned out to be a lifelong compulsion. Aline was always a bibliophile and still regards her introduction to her local lending library as a foretaste of Heaven. Reading and writing were her thing although a summer placement in her local library, prior to reading English at Cambridge, proved a mixed blessing. Staff had the privilege of access to the “blue” books, literature deemed unsuitable for an undiscriminating public to consume, and thus the opportunity to thoroughly round off their liberal education but also the burden of hunting down and matching the missing tickets which formed the basis of the classification system in that pre-computer era. Our speaker recounted the discomfiture of the prim chief librarian who eventually yielded to an insistent customer’s demand to see the blue books and his confusion when confronted with this treasure trove of forbidden literary fruit. The engaged citizen had merely been requesting the Government Reports which always bore blue covers!

After graduation and her entry into the teaching profession, she continued to be a slave to the impulse to write. Initial published success was modest with articles in magazines and newspapers but convincing publishers to support her work was a heroic enterprise. She was drawn into crime fiction, an expanding field channelled and amplified by a plethora of crime programmes on television and the conviction among a growing proportion of the population that crime fiction reflected the inherently unfair nature of life. Wigtown Book Festival, the Scottish equivalent of Hay on Wye, provided the launch pad for her first book, honed for the market by the advice of a ruthless agent. Her first 6 books were set in England, but her Edinburgh base and her direct experience of the Scottish Legal System as a Justice of the Peace prompted a switch to rural Scottish settings. Eschewing the fashion for flawed detectives – alcoholics, drug addicts, victims of bipolar disorders – she summoned D.I. Marjory Fleming from her imagination; a farmer’s wife with 2 teenage children and a stable personality. The nine novels in which Fleming is the central figure are set in Galloway, the neglected south-west corner of Scotland, where an impressive backdrop of sea and hills fails to forestall the social devastation caused by the collapse of the fishing industry and an influx of part absentee second home owners. The centralising of the previously regionally based Scottish Police Service demanded a new main protagonist, the maverick DCI. Kelso Strang, a bereaved widower, and former Army officer who can be “parachuted” into remote Scottish locations on an ad hoc basis. Aline acknowledged a transition in her work with the later books being character driven. The abiding impression left from her time with the Law was of the “criminal stupidity” of many of the delinquents; admittedly she only saw the ones who allowed themselves to be caught. It will be intriguing to observe how the reset of her work-life equilibrium after her recent move from Edinburgh to Tenterden affects her literary output. Will the rugged, remote Scottish literary universe she created survive immersion in the soft South?

The evening closed with a Q&A in which the writer divulged she was not a tightly planned, detailed spreadsheet author but one who wrote linearly, allowing the plot flexibility as the characters increasingly took on a life of their own. The books are written to entertain and carry no hidden message and our speaker approvingly endorsed the definition offered by Miss Prism, the governess in Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”, “The good ended happily and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.” Pressed to choose a favourite from her work she opted for “The Devil’s Garden” and “Evil for Evil”. Our evening ended happily with a loose scrum forming round the speaker’s table as the audience invested in samples of the Templeton oeuvre, thoughtfully provided in a variety of formats.

William Doherty

TS Eliot: Into the Waste Land, and The Four Quartets - BBC iPlayer (Reviewed by Richard Thomas)

These two programmes were dished up for our delectation by BBC 4 a month or so ago, complementing BBC 2’s "Return to T S Eliotland" (reviewed separately, below).  They will be available on BBC iPlayer for another eleven months.  The first is in “Talking Heads” format, while the second is a televisual version of the solo recitation of the whole of The Four Quartets which Ralph Fiennes has been performing in various theatres in recent months.  Both are well worth watching.

The main thrust of "Into The Waste Land" is that knowledge gained from the release in 2020 of Emily Hale’s letters from their 50 year embargo has made it clear that the poem is built around a strong current both of romantic longing and of the poet’s agony, brought about by his disastrous inability to bring the longing to fruition – which indeed, in the opinion of some of the talking heads, together form the poem’s main genesis.  It is not, as had been the view hitherto, an abstract threnody for the past, accentuated by the horrors of the first world war.  It is a love poem – or rather a failed love poem – magnified into that threnody, and not really abstract at all.

This had long been the hunch of the main talking head, the academic and biographer Lindall Gordon, who had surmised in one of her earlier books on Eliot (three of them) that the key to the poem’s angst was lost or failed love, presumably for Emily Hale, whom Gordon had identified as the “hyacinth girl”.  This supposition had been derided at the time by a number of eminent critics, but she had stuck to it, determined to live long enough (she is now in her eighties) to be able to prove it right as soon as the embargo was lifted.  And sure enough she was at the gates of the Princeton Library at that very moment, and the content of hundreds of the newly accessible letters soon vindicated that long-held hunch.  The poem was the result of an emotional breakdown.

Eliot had then many years later left a posthumous time-bomb, designed to coincide with the lifting of the embargo, in the form of a lengthy and emphatic denial of any serious connection, emotional or literary, with Emily Hale.  He had also ensured that all her letters to him had been burnt.  These two posthumous interventions had more or less confirmed the “guilt”, or desperate regret, that had underlain his composition of the poem.  For, after all, he had declared his love for Hale, immediately before leaving for England and Oxford, where he had then almost instantly met and married Vivienne (or Vivien- she used both versions) Haigh-Wood, a surprising and impetuous act that led inexorably into a miserable failed marriage, with Vivienne’s gradual descent into the mental illness that led, in 1938, to her commitment to an asylum, where she died in 1947.

But the programme is not only about the poem’s emergence from Eliot’s Hale-induced emotional breakdown.  It is a skilful and wide-ranging exegesis of the whole poem, exploring the origins and identities of the various incidents and characters, such as the drive in the car and the “echt Deutsch”, and demonstrating how much both Vivienne and Ezra Pound edited and improved the text.  The talking heads, who include biographers, academics, actors, poets, a composer and a drag model, are wise and instructive.  I only wish, however, that they could be identified more than once, as there are too many of them to remember throughout a fairly intense ninety  minute programme.

Simon Russell Beale reads the excerpts beautifully, and there are plenty of helpful illustrations.  It is a pity however that most of them are displayed as though under rippling water, presumably to render them as “memories” – an irritating and unnecessary affectation.

There is not much that needs saying about the Ralph Fiennes programme, entitled Four Quartets.  It is simply a brilliant tour de force.  Over eleven hundred lines, delivered from memory, perfectly.

Sipping Nectar by Douglas Reid Skinner

 

The first precision atomic clock 

was built in 1955

by Louis Essen and Jack Parry.

It was accurate measuring down

to a millionth of a billionth of a second

and worked by counting the number of times

an atom of caesium-133

flipped from one state to another.

Defined this way, a second is the time it takes

for nine thousand, one hundred and ninety-two million,

six hundred and thirty-one thousand,

seven hundred and seventy spin flips

to have happened in your atom,

which on any one day is much the same time

as an Amethyst Woodstar hummingbird

requires for the eighty wingbeats that keep

it hovering in place and sipping nectar

from a delicate floral trombone.

(From A Short Treatise on Mortality, uHlanga Press, 2022. £7.50, copies available from the author.

Contact: douglas.cranerivieras@me.com)

T S Eliot, by Richard Thomas

 The literary and broadcasting world is awash with Eliot just now. Books and articles galore have appeared, prompted by The Waste Land’s centenary, and the BBC has treated us to three excellent television programmes: T S Eliot: Into the Waste Land, Four Quartets, and Return to T S Eliotland. The first two will be available on iPlayer for another eleven months, but, annoyingly, the third will be there for only another week or so. So perhaps I should address it first, and come back to the other two later.

Return to T S Eliotland is a literary travelogue in which we are introduced by A N Wilson to the significant places lived in or visited by Eliot, and shown both how he used them as building blocks and how he was influenced by them, figuratively or literally, in his poetry: St Louis (childhood home, with its mighty Mississippi); Gloucester, Massachusetts (summer home, with the sea and sailing); Harvard (during his time there he first met his muse Emily Hale); Merton College Oxford (and during his time there he met his first wife, Vivienne Haig-Wood); London (Lloyds Bank and breakdown; Margate and Lausanne (recovery); London again (marriage failure, interaction with Ezra Pound, publication of The Waste Land, editorship at Faber and Faber, Second World War, second marriage – to his secretary, Valerie Fletcher, Nobel Prize); Burnt Norton and Little Gidding (visited, with Emily Hale); East Coker (also first visited with Emily Hale – and where he, and many years later, Valerie were buried). 

Wilson is an engaging and highly informative guide, with plenty of lateral, but always relevant, digression on, for instance, rivers (Mississippi, Thames, Ganges, Styx) and Dante’s Divine Comedy. Wilson regards The Waste Land as the greatest poem in the English language of the twentieth century (followed, though only by implication, by the Four Quartets), and he tells us why in an engrossing programme. But he is not starry-eyed. He is outraged by Eliott’s antisemitism and racism, and puzzled and saddened by the way he treated both Vivienne and Emily – in the latter case even posthumously, with a meretricious and wounding disclaimer of even the slightest degree of influence or affection, left to coincide with the release by Princeton University of his letters to her fifty years after her death, which occurred just two years before The Waste Land centenary. (He had already ensured that all her letters to him were burnt.) This programme neatly complements the other two, to which I shall revert shortly. What a pity that it cannot remain with them on iPlayer for a whole year.

Richard Thomas

The King's Touch, by Dr Stephen Brogan: 3 September 2022

 

The Lit. Soc. broke new ground, drilling down on the specialist literature of the distant past when Dr. Stephen Brogan presented his study of Adenochoiradelogia, the 1684 text on the presentation and treatment of scrofula with particular reference to the application of the King’s Touch. The enigmatic title stands firmly in a tradition of medical neologism drawn from the Classical languages and is a three volume anatomick-chirurgical treatise on glands and swellings which explains their nature, describes the clinical presentation and discusses the therapeutic efficacy of contemporary treatments. For both speaker and audience, attention was centred on a specific treatment, the Charisma Basilikon or Royal Touch. The author, one of King Charles II’s surgeons, Thomas Browne, had a ringside seat at the application of the Royal Touch. Scrofula would now be technically described as tuberculous cervical adenitis i.e., the spread of tuberculosis to the lymph glands in the neck, with Dr Brogan attributing the infection to the ingestion of unpasteurised milk from cows with TB. The affected glands could present as swellings which increased in size and became red and tender before sometimes rupturing to form a sinus, a tract from the abscess cavity which opened onto the skin surface and along which pus was intermittently discharged. Nowadays an uncommon clinical condition to encounter but our speaker gave some insight into the medical challenge it posed with a display of 19 th century photographs and watercolours of afflicted patients.

Dr. Brogan emphasised the importance of context in considering illness and healing in the 17th century. Disease was then considered providential, sited at an intersection of religion, health and medicine; a philosophy which may explain the wide spectrum of healers on offer – physicians, apothecaries, barber-surgeons, cunning men, diet advocates and lifestyle coaches.

Tactile healing was not an exclusively royal preserve and the Irish 

J.P., Valentine Greatrakes,attracted thousands of supplicants following his arrival in London in 1665. The busiest monarchical adept of the King’s Touch was Charles II whose production line of medical ministrations followed a seasonal calendar of Easter and Michaelmas, the latter coinciding with harvest time. During these 10-day seasons, the Merry Monarch touched 300 sufferers each morning and the events were trailed with advertisements in The London Gazette. Before participating in one of these sessions, the patient required a referral letter from his vicar confirming the scrofula diagnosis with the vicar being obliged to record the names of those he had referred. To attend the actual ceremony the patient had to collect an admission token from the surgeon’s house beforehand and we can only speculate at the febrile atmosphere which must have prevailed there from the diarist John Evelyn's description of seven deaths in the crush at one surgeon’s door. Lest we imagine that those submitting to the cure were drawn from a gullible underclass, aristocrats also underwent the process although they could avoid the frenzied scramble to acquire an admission token, being favoured with a domiciliary visit and personal delivery. The surprisingly modern bureaucracy which attended presenting yourself for the Touch was inspired by the contemporary fear of masterless men roaming the countryside and possibly, horror of horrors, becoming a charge on the Poor Law although two thirds of victims were actually women. The ceremonial choreography was thoughtfully arranged; the venue was the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, in front of which the King’s father had been executed by Cromwell’s regicidal republicans in 1649. Father and son shared a belief in the Divine Right of Kings, hankered after a French-style absolute monarchy and saw the ruler as the Lord’s Anointed, leaving only a small step to crediting him with supernatural powers; so, dispensing the Charisma Basilikon was a political endeavour for the Stuarts. Charles also took the religious element seriously as well, topping up the royal reservoir of spirituality by taking Communion beforehand and having prayers from St. John’s Gospel intoned throughout with the inspiration for the whole ceremony drawn from St. Mark: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. St. Mark 16, v.18 (KJV) The king duly laid his hands on the lesions for 15 – 20 seconds. At a second phase of the ceremony the patient was given a gold coin known as an Angel, to be worn from a ribbon round the neck, which contained more of the royal metal, gold, than any other coin in circulation at that time. Nowadays one can fetch anything from £1,000 to £4,000 on eBay. On one face there was a depiction of St.Michael the Archangel killing a wyvern, representing the triumph of good over evil and by extension health over disease, while the obverse showed a ship at full sail coming towards the viewer, signifying a healthy body politic following the true course. The coin’s rubric read "Soli Dei Gloria" – The Glory of God

Alone. Charles II took Touching seriously and is estimated to have touched 100,000 people in his lifetime, probably seeing it as a conservative reaction to the regicide Republic/Commonwealth and the political malaise he felt accompanied it. Browne’s text reports a 75 patient case series, 5 of whom were healed within 2 to 3 days and another 30 improved over 4 to 6 weeks. As in modern medicine, managing expectations was important. Many sufferers were not expecting an overnight cure but wished to be heard on the subject of their misfortune and were prepared to settle for even a slow, incremental improvement. Evidence for a political dimension comes from the refusal of the Calvinist William III or the House of Hanover to continue the practice despite its revival under Queen Anne and its impressive historical lineage, dating back to Edward the Confessor.

As ever, the Lit. Soc. audience rose to the challenge of novelty, firing in a series of intelligent questions in the Q & A.

William Doherty

The Glass Rainbow, by James Lee Burke, reviewed by William Doherty

 The literary dictatorship to which Book Group members voluntarily submit can sometimes corral them onto strange, previously unexplored pastures which they vow to try.  Last month my group chose to eschew the avant-garde, the English Classics and those watershed texts which signposted major changes in the tastes of the reading public, in favour of the well-trodden path of American crime fiction.  Strictly speaking, James Lee Burke’s The Glass Rainbow did not qualify as "pastures new" for me as I had previously read at least a dozen of Burke’s works. Treating this as an exercise in Critical Reading gave me the chance to view this novel with fresh eyes.

The narrative structure follows a conventional third person path, albeit leavened with copious passages of earthy, direct speech.  The central character, Dave Robicheaux, has featured in 17 earlier novels which have a contemporary, American setting.  After a varied working life in law enforcement, he is now a mature deputy sheriff in New Iberia in South-West Louisiana.  Place is critical in shaping the cultural contours of these stories.  The town lies near Bayou Teche, a 135 mile stretch of water which was once the course of the Mississippi before the river opted to turn sharp left then right and empty into the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans, thereby creating a setting that even unfettered geography has elected to avoid.  The town sits in the administrative subdivision (parish) of Acadia which reinforces the distinctive ethnic framing of Robicheaux as a Cajun, a group with their own unique cultural, linguistic, musical and gastronomic heritage. Acadie was a 17th century French colony in what are now the Atlantic Provinces of Canada and was named after the Peloponnesian region which became a mythological symbol of an idealised pastoral wilderness.  The Yin and the Yang of 18th century European wars saw them becoming British subjects by the Treaty of Utrecht (1713) and then being largely ignored until their expulsion in the 1750s as the British laid the groundwork for their conquest of France’s St. Lawrence-based North American settler colony.  Scattered along America’s Atlantic seaboard, thousands of these Acadiens made their way to the French colony of Louisiana and settled on its Gulf coast. The transformative, corrupting power of speech has turned them into Cajuns.  Their precipitous flight from Nova Scotia meant few arrived in the slave colony of Louisiana with the capital to enter the dominant plantation economy and they were destined to join the ranks of the poor whites.  The Louisiana Purchase saw the huge nominally French Mississippi - based colony of Louisiana sold by Napoleonic France to the USA in 1803.  The Cajuns were further scarred by the defeat of the Confederacy in the American Civil War which pitched their state into a military occupation, the aborted Reconstruction project, murderous racial strife (the Colfax Massacre), the Jim Crow laws and 150 years as one of the poorest states in the Union.  Our hero draws on this emotive backdrop, making reference to historical incidents, and Burke exploits the unsettling topography and climatic conditions to inject disruptive dramatic notes into the narrative melody.  Water courses move slowly through swamp, harbouring alligators and deadly cottonmouth snakes, and fashion the distinctive landscape of bayous, levees and coulées with the whole intermittently transformed by violent thunderstorms suddenly sweeping in from the Gulf.  The sense of place is more powerful than Morse’s Oxford or Taggart’s Glasgow and is consciously introduced as a pillar to support the narrative. 

Robicheaux, tuned in to all these nuances, is a sure-footed traveller through this landscape, driven by a strong, if understated, moral imperative; he is aware of, but immune to, racial and social distinctions and has an innate ability to spot a delinquent, even those fêted by wider society.  His ancestry frees him from guilt as either an engineer or beneficiary of the racialised social structure of Louisiana.  Flawed like so many modern heroes, he is a recovering alcoholic, a Vietnam vet. subject to post-traumatic stress disorder, taking the form of wartime flashbacks, and a protective family man, a role which can morph into a vulnerability when the family becomes a target.  The partner is often a necessary adjunct in serial detective novels and Clete Purcel adds further ethnic colour to the novel’s cast.  He is descended from the Irish “navvies” brought to dig New Orleans'  Basin Canal in the 19th century and combines alcohol addiction with an explosive irascibility but like Robicheaux at bottom has a strong moral core.  The duo’s outspoken natures and willingness to verbally engage with the rogues’ gallery in the plot results in vivid, lengthy passages of dialogue whose sexual, anatomical inventiveness might draw plaudits in the changing room of a University Rugby team but might dissuade more fastidious readers from engaging further with the story.  Setting a story in the Deep South always gives an author licence to draw his villains from the Grand Guignol section of Central Casting and the varied ranks of the book’s malefactors range from the physically and morally repellent to those clothed in an ominously sinister detachment.  Briefly, to avoid issuing a spoiler alert, the plot hinges on our two protagonists’ investigation of the murder of two teenage girls whose backstories differentiate them from the prostitutes and drug addicts who constitute the rest of this file.  This takes them on a Dante-esque journey through circles of evil and the bodies pile up with the dispensing of contrapassi   The pace of the tale markedly quickens in the violent, detailed recounting of the action sequences.  Notoriously, the Ku Klux Klan wore white bed sheets to symbolise the ghosts of the Confederate dead whom they believed  rode with them and the author draws from this well of eccentric Southern spirituality as the ghost world seems to summon Robicheaux when, in  moments of danger, he feels seduced by the quasi-suicidal hallucination of a 19th century Mississippi paddle steamer complete with Southern belles and ship’s officers on deck, an audible orchestra and an insistent ship’s horn, all drawing him to submit to crossing over to a nether world.  The title The Glass Rainbow echoes two instances in the book where a character comments on the transformative effect of viewing people in light which has passed through stained glass and conceivably, by extension, how our judgement on someone can be influenced by the filter we use on the lens through which we view them.  This would apply to the spectrum of characters from the atypical murder victims to the socially prominent but deceptive villains.   

Some of Burke’s descriptive writing verges on the lyrical, inviting comparisons with Le Carré raising the spy thriller to an art form and the text is liberally sprinkled with intermittently perceptive, introspective philosophising.  This and his tendency to luxuriate in verbal and physical violence makes for an increasingly tenuous relationship with the plot lines.  It is almost as if his Muse has been transformed into a literary Frankenstein’s Monster careering round the script and inserting characters and incidents purely as vehicles to display the author’s virtuosity.  More stringent editing could have made this more than the decent read that it is, leaving this reader to ponder if Burke’s literary canon should be added to the South’s Lost Cause myth.    

A Short Treatise on Mortality, by Douglas Reid Skinner: An Appreciation by Stephen Wrigley

 

In “A Short Treatise on Mortality”, the eighth poetry collection by the South African Douglas Reid Skinner, the reader will discover many interesting, arresting, enjoyable and also challenging poems. Published by Uhlanga Press in South Africa, the collection is well presented in attractive covers where front and back are generously leafed which allows one to easily keep one’s place when reading through. The cover photo artwork of a peopled coastal scene by Revel J Fox is appropriate and to me, evocative of a South African shoreline.

44 poems feature, divided into three sections - Poetry, After and Sunday. Amongst them are a villanelle, four sonnet length poems and a small number of rhyming ones. Doug writes mainly in four line verse form, in an iambic voice and his poems rarely exceed 40 lines: regarding the latter, are modern poets influenced, I wonder, by current poetry competition line limitations, or a production acceptability by poetry magazine editors, one of whom is the author himself who edits Stanzas, a prominent SA poetry mag?

Throughout Doug writes most coherently and accessibly and is a master, it seems to me, of poetic techniques - simile, metaphor, alliteration and, as I have noticed in his earlier books, the effective use of repetition, for example here in Two Minutes where he repeats the first and last verses –

 

We tend to think about things

on the limited scale of our lives,

which are not much more than hamlets

in the wide and dark landscapes of time

 

which comes over as an early indication of the book’s tone. He also has a layout technique of presenting a poem’s last line separately, for emphasis I think, and in this book uses it eleven times: a fond habit.

Although not always commented on in poetry reviews, the titles of poems the author uses here are both effective and challenging; I had to look up Bricolages (def - something constructed or created from a diverse range of things) but it worked well for the poem. Also In The Labyrinth (about a medical condition) and Traces (ostensibly and movingly about ploughing with a horse but possibly something much deeper) are other examples of his skill in this aspect. Occasionally, unforced rhymes appear but in this mostly unrhymed verse and from a poet of Doug’s calibre, I would expect that.

In the first section, Poetry, Doug presents the reader with his take on how he handles the poetic impulse, his frustration when it proves elusive, the personal cost involved in writing; after I had read the poems here more closely, I detected (hopefully correctly) that “she” appearing from nowhere in the fifth verse of Two Minutes was/is in fact a Muse; he then refers to her more explicitly in a later poem, same section, An Epistle to T Voss in Sydney, in the seventh verse as “... the language queen.” In that poem, which I really admire, Doug compares the contents of an Australian poetry anthology to “...a great, big busy beehive,” its “...sweetness inside,”

“...the words, each ready to sting

whoever is trying to get at the honey,

each ready to die for the language queen.”

Which does include Douglas, I think.

Other poems in Poetry which I liked were The Placeholder (about a book marker!), again Traces, beautifully written and as I say, probably on two levels, ie learning to plough but also learning to write. Other poem titles accurately introduce the reader to the art of writing - Out of the Blue, Words, Uninvited and Tightrope. It’s all there, what writers experience.

The second section, After, I found to be the challenging part where many of the poems are written to or with reference to particular literary figures - CJ Driver, Elizabeth Bishop, Eugenio Montale, CP Cavafy, Pliny, Geoffrey Hill. Nothing wrong with this, of course, since no doubt they are Doug’s own reference points, but the average reader might not have sufficient knowledge to appreciate the inferences Doug wishes to make. (So go and look them up, I hear him say!) But all at

 

 Winchelsea LitSoc members should have no difficulty recognising Doug’s teasing in A Riposte of Jonty Driver where the latter’s favoured use of iambics is tellingly portrayed as, I guess, a humorous joust between old friends. “Challenging” aside, I did enjoy Ovid in the Cape (a fragment); Ovid, as readers may know, was banished by the Emperor Augustus to Tomis on the Black Sea; Doug sympathetically explores that exile, and perhaps knowledgeably too, being like his friend Jonty, a white South African.

Readers may find the third section, Sunday, the most accessible.

Who Now Regards...? is a short, delightful, rhyming poem about small and humble things. The Tool explores archaeological discovery, blunt in its vocabulary - “...killed by a blow from behind.”

In On a Conversation Never Had, tears sprang to my eyes as Douglas talks, possibly, to his mother. Lovely.

Thirty-Four South, Eighteen East” to me, as an ex-mariner, is an excellent title and as the poet refers to in his Notes at the end, the geographical location of Cape Point, SA. VG.

The last poem of this balanced and thought provoking collection is Sunday. Here, at his most conversational - there are four, eight line verses each featuring a first and last line-end rhyme - Doug deploys his considerable skill in the contemplation of, as in the book’s title and first poem, mortality. Here is his skill in line repetition, used twice -

“I’d so much planned for Sunday” and “I’d been before, I knew the way”

and in so doing, talks to the reader in a quiet and intimate way, in a tone we can all relate to “...so much planned” but then he finds he “...cannot stir” and indeed, he recognises that soon he may not at all. The title of the poem is both understated and astute but Douglas ends, believing

“... I must rise into the air

towards the promised recompense,

the saviour’s hands and heaven’s glow.”

Beautiful poetry, a good example of this well compiled collection.

To conclude, it seems to me that Douglas does indeed confront mortality - the condition of being mortal - not just head on as in his first and last poems, but throughout in and by his poetic expression. We live our lives, he writes, often on a tightrope but stuff can indeed come along out of the blue. There will be time to joke with a friend or again, sadly to contemplate a banishment. If one failed to talk to someone whom we loved, then a poem perhaps can offer redemption. If the medium we use to come to terms with mortality is through verse, then there will still be a cost and a price to pay through effort, but occasionally the gift of happenstance occurs. Death came, Doug writes, long ago to early man using a tool, it nods to us in the labyrinth of life, and might even allow the respite that a drug offers. But if you are prepared as Douglas observes, and far more adroitly on the page, to pause awhile and stand in the buffeting wind, then life itself, despite our insignificance, continues and will allow us to sense what is going on; its deep and musical beat keeps on playing.

Stephen Wrigley

Jonty Driver has some copies for sale. Email him on jontydriver@hotmail.com and he'll tell you how to pay (£10 for the book, £2 for p&p)