Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Waterhouse and the Tempest – Sean Elliott; Acumen Publications, £3.50

It may be brave or foolhardy to bring out a pamphlet entitled Waterhouse and the Tempest to coincide with the Royal Academy’s great retrospective celebration of the career of this modern Pre-Raphaelite… What is clear is that Elliott’s opening poem describes, in rather unsympathetic terms, Waterhouse’s second study of Miranda, made shortly before the artist’s death.

Many of Waterhouse’s supporters will believe Elliott’s poem to be inaccurate and unfairly critical. Other people may view its publication as a piece of brilliant opportunism, allowing the publication to ride on the wave of interest generated by the exhibition of the artist’s work. Personally, I think it is not the best choice for an opening or title poem – particularly when compared to Elliott’s other poems. However, this unfortunate misjudgement should not deter the reader: the rest of Elliott’s mini-collection is beautifully crafted and he pulls off that most difficult trick: making poems that are both instantly accessible and worth re-reading.

Elliott’s subject matter draws strongly on the autobiographical – most affecting being his poems tracing aspects of various relationships. He is most comfortable using iambic pentameter in conjunction with various types of rhyme – over one third of the poems here are sonnets. Elliott’s sonnets break with tradition, both in form and rhyme scheme. These poems dispense with the familiar octave/sestet layout, being set in uneven stanzas of 4/4/3/3 lines. His smooth rhymes are varied and unlike the configurations popularly associated with the sonnet (Sicillian, Petrarchian, Shakespearean, etc). Here, in its entirety is Elliott’s evocative

HOME THROUGH CAMDEN

The drunks and beggars shout each other down,
a lash of light, the kebab stalls, the smart
and shaven bouncers by their doors, and drawn
to certain clubs, the girls who make crowds part,

unworldly seers with a far off stare,
the Goths and pseudo-vampires gliding past,
defiant for a time, at Time, aware
that immortality will never last.

I dip beyond them all, past patient queues
and men that stagger on their girlfriends’ arms,
the scream of lovers and of car alarms

towards the black canals and formal Mews,
then to the silence of this planned estate,
my concrete stillness where your letters wait.