Review
A worthy effort, says Fred Johnston, but more non-English stuff next time!
- Landing Places – Immigrant Poets in Ireland
- Dedalus Press
Landing Places
The April issue of the French literary revue, Pages Insulaires, carried an interesting essay by writer Jean-Marc Couvé arguing that immigration has made French culture and should be embraced, and he cites such luminaries as Beckett, Picasso, Cioran, Gary, and others.
Some years ago, the Western Writers’ Centre – Ionad Scribhneoiri Chaitlin Maude – in Galway sent out feelers to gather together groups of immigrants and form a writers’ group. It was not very successful, although translations from one European writer were worked on and appeared in print.
One major flaw that might be perceived in this anthology is that the majority of its chosen writers work in English and some, such as Chuck Kruger, have been here since Moses was a lad.
The writers whose first language is not English and whose culture is not Western are the most interesting in terms of style and imagery. Czechslovokia-born Slavek Kwi’s work is fascinating. Angolan-French poet Landa Wo provides, for this reviewer, one of the more interesting group of poems. A product of the French education system, the poems keep their natal shrillness, and ‘Behind Tar Hill’ would never have evoked the images in an Irish poet such as this exile has found:
“All the hills in the world
Keep terrible secrets.
When mankind lost his mind
In the swift killing of innocents,
This refugee boy left his home . . . .”
This is as fine a melding of acquired historic and personal experience as one is likely to find, and not a mention of Anna Akhmatova to do the suffering for him. Wo’s work deserves a wider audience and perhaps, a collection. Likewise Panchali Mukherji, born in Calcutta, has a fine command of simple yet atmospheric imagery, in her ‘The Passage of Time in a Teashop:’
“And every table owes a bill
And every chair has had its day . . . .”
There are others who are fine poets first and immigrants second, and thereby hangs a tale. Not all immigrants are good poets, whether they come from Birmingham or Bratislava - and being an immigrant doesn’t make one a poet. Which is why, if one purchases this anthology to see rich woven linguistic diversity one might be disappointed. Everything is in English - save the delicate contributions of German poet Andreas Vogel, which are in Irish, and more power to him for that. Whether the contributor be from Japan or Russia or Congo, all trace of individual native languages has been erased.
It’s a worthy effort, but the lines are not yet distinct. We are not expected to make too much out of it but to regard it as a ‘window’ on a new Republic.
