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We need more fresh poetic voices!
Yet while Mr Laird's work is fresh, its shortcomings do become irritating before too long. Firstly, he has no more than a tenuous grip on metre. Yeah, metre's soooo twentieth century, right? Perhaps, but it does make a piece sing when done well.
Mr Laird relies a little too often on blank verse to see him through. The problem is, to my mind at least, that he mistakes ordinary prose for blank verse. For instance, he writes: "The pistol jammed and they kicked him over. They could break his legs, they offered [sic], but he waited, and another gun was brought...."
Oh sorry, my mistake; / I've omitted the line breaks / In the above. / Their insertion would magically / Transform this into verse, / Don't you think?
If poetry were that simple, we'd all be doing it. Of course poetry is more than metre; it's about knowing one's language, and knowing it a helluva lot better than the next man. If a poet does not know the true meaning of a word then he should leave it alone. Again, this is where Mr Laird comes a cropper.
At times one is convinced that he is not fully at home with the English language. He writes (oh so cleverly!) not of plain old "blood" on the streets, but observes that "blood serum / is several shades darker than you ever remember". Really? I remember it as being a colourless liquid, as do most others who actually know what they're talking about for much of the time. My enjoyment of "To a Fault" was spoilt by such solecisms.
For all that, it's not a bad first effort. No, not bad. But not very good, and certainly not outstanding. For this reason, one is left wondering why the great house of Faber and Faber considered Mr Laird worthy of joining its list.
The first poem, Cuttings, tells of the poet's "angry and beautiful father" crossing "the widest road in Ireland" for a haircut; we see him tilted back in a chair occupied by terrorists and policemen before him, his head "full of lather and unusual thoughts". The themes of this poem prefigure many of those to be explored throughout the collection - among them family, identity, history, relationships, the nature and function of poetry, the multiplicity of meanings inherent in language.
The poetry is honest, frank, blunt and beautiful, pregnant with ideas and layered with meanings. Some verses dazzle on the surface while others perplex, but all demand to be read and read again, and on each visit yield new perspectives.
I have been deeply moved by some of these poems, have felt enlightened by the vision and insight they convey - and this is only Laird's first collection! I've no doubt we'll be seeing even greater things from him in the future.
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