As a reviews editor, I read a lot of poetry books. Strip is the only one that I've read and reread and kept beside my bed just so that I can pick it up and read it again.
The poems in Strip are the glittering twists of burlesque, then the smeared lipstick and fading smiles of the dressing room. They dazzle us with performance then drag us backstage; they are the untouchable neon of the main drag and skins abandoned in alleys. Underneath all the glitter is both a desire for and a denial of love, family, and home.
Angela Readman's poetry has been described as sharp, savage, dry, edgy, witty and authentic. Strip certainly deserves all of those adjectives, but underneath the sharp-savage-dry wit hums its sense of story. That's not to say that the poems are wannabe prose or stories in disguise; each poem stands by itself, but grouped together the narrative weaves effortlessly through the collection. The bulk of the poems, titled Life of a Porn Star, tell the story of a girl's journey from small-town child to an adult-film nymphet.
Before that, the narrative arc is foreshadowed in the long poem, 'Bodil and the Pig'. This tells the story of Bodil Joensen, the 'Boar Girl', Danish star of 40 bestiality films between 1969 and 1972. In the first few, Bodil "arranges a toy farm", watches her parents embrace, and brings her father his morning beer. Her parents grow smaller and she begins to speak; her turning point is her indignation at her classmates' farmyard noises:
"The children sing 'The pigs go oink.'
The girl stands up,
stamps, 'No. No.'
...makes a sound like the skin of a girl
being unzipped to let a wolf in."
She is not allowed to talk to boys, but is fascinated by watching animals mate.
Everything has become both sexualised and sinister: "Trains groan to the platform,/leave with a gasp." By the end of the poem Bodil may have found solace in unusual places, but it is there.
This search for solace is echoed in the Life of a Porn Star poems. Throughout, there is a sense of unanswered questions, cracks and breakages that cannot be mended "a jigsaw with pieces missing"), and the honest purity of the countryside.
The girl's transformation is clear from the understated tragedy of 'Dinner With No Name', where she makes dinner with her father after her mother leaves: I press myself into a helper, a worker, my father's daughter,/ branded, by flour on my cheek in the shape of a thumb." She becomes whomever she needs to be; whomever men make her into. In 'One Thing', she says that her first lover "takes the bad-girl that lives inside me/and pulls it out, back in, out again", and in 'Milk and Cigarettes" she "has made herself absent". This building of the self comes to a climax in 'Braces', where she removes the braces from her teeth with nail clippers and tweezers so that she will look old enough. She manages her final, awful transformation in 'How a Girl Could Do That', when she realises: "Sometimes a man is a room I walk into/and won't find myself in."
Of course, no collection is ever quite perfect. A few of the poems from the early days of the girl's life seem to cover the same ground. 'Tomatoes' and 'Postcard to the Photographer', though well-written, does not seem to say anything not already drawn by the other poems. But this can't take away from the beauty and tragedy of Strip. I think I was in love right from the collection's third poem, the 'Tom and Jerry Transaction', where on her first day of nursery the girl lifts her skirt in return for a Snickers:
"Mom lifted me on the counter,
gouged eyes from potatoes and asked
what I had learnt at school
and all I could say was 'something'."