The lure of the alphabet as a way of organising poetry is not new to Christopher Reid, whose work for children includes Alphabicycle Order. It might be interesting to discover why he felt moved to write a collection in which every poem began with a C (C for Christopher?). Whatever – the surprise is that, contrary to what you might predict (C is for contrivance and constraint), the book (his 13th for adults) rises above the formulaic, ranges far and wide, goes deep, paddles in the shallows and is never less than readably miscellaneous (C is for compendious).
But enough. The Curiosities reminds us how relaxedly established Reid has become as a poet. His voice knows itself – he manages satire surely, risks the risque safely, is a ventriloquist where necessary and can revert to being straight-faced without a nervous twitch. I especially enjoyed The Couch, which describes a bored housewife having it off with a pizza delivery boy. So far, so seedy – or doughy. But the narrative wittily redeems itself as a generalised song of praise to the long-suffering couch itself, employed for the purposes of seduction:
“Veteran of a thousand
identical scenes, it alone
acquits itself
with something like grace:
the eternal supporting player,
dignified, sturdy, self-effacing
and uncredited.”
Credited now, though, especially with that perfect multi-tasker: “supporting player”.
Several poems offer themselves up to be tasted: distinct mouthfuls. There is a deliciously rich, faux-academic poem about chocolate in which the “complicity of the chocolate” is highlighted as if characterising an adulterer. Chocolate – a bit on the side. And then there is the more soberly disconcerting The Coin with its rough boatman, an unnamed Charon, prizing the coin from the poet’s mouth with “strong hard fingers”. And then there is The Connoisseur, a poem that spills and swills into a mouth-to-mouth wine-tasting, an “unexpected” kiss.
In contrast to the tasting poems, there are several about the untasted. The Confessions spells out rueful details. The Craving explores a shaming desire unsatisfied, and an entire poem is dedicated to an inviting collarbone (no prizes for guessing the title):
“If I asked you nicely…?
No: I shall never put
my lips, my nose,
my tongue there to taste
the tart/sweet perfume
you no doubt touched in
left/right at the start
of the evening. Too bad.”
A more serious poem about desire-in-waiting is The Cupboard. The furniture arrangement reminded me of Emily Dickinson’s “I cannot live with You –/ It would be Life –/ And Life is over there –/ Behind the Shelf.”
But Reid’s captive, as she herself boasts, will not stay on the shelf – or in the cupboard – for long. He has another grim joke about imprisonment within coupledom in The Cufflinks, a short poem in which the gift of art deco cufflinks is greeted by a husband with one word: “Handcuffs.”
One of the many pleasures of reading Reid’s poetry is his mastery of tone and aversion to the over-inflated. Crow’ (with a possible wink at Ted Hughes) is a particularly persuasive refusal to let the anthropormorphic rule:
“Courtship for him
is arranging his feathers
askew and doing a truculent
war-jig in front of the object
of his desire; and yet they say
he mates for life. Even so,
you mustn’t forget
he’s just a crow.”
And we must not forget that Reid is a poet who acts but never postures.
The Curiosities is published by Faber (£14.99). Click here to buy it for £11.99
.png?w=600)
