Peter Robinson: Untitled Deeds (Salt Publishing, Cambridge, 2004. ISBN 1-844710-44-0. 124pp, 8.5 x 5.5ins, pb, £8.95/$13.95). An interesting read for those seeking to understand the focus and frustrations of the poet's mind at work, though I found the composition of the book uneven. Imbalance is caused both by the placement and nature of the opening work, which besides taking up over half the volume makes different demands on the reader from what follows – a selection of prose poems from different periods of the poet's life.

In Untitled Deeds, the work which gives the book its title, Robinson shares with us his extensive experience as a writer, confessing self-doubt alongside a considerable self-awareness. 354 prose sections are comprised of aphorisms, wisdom, opinions, dreams, reasoning and meditations on a range of subjects which can be listed under the general headings: life, society and art. He shows a profound regard for humanity, revealing a deep concern for the oppressed and underprivileged. Part of the poet's task, no matter how much in vain, he sees as encompassing the Quixotic vision of 'the righting of wrongs'.

Robinson's willingness to share personal experiences of being a practising poet gives the opening piece a special interest for the young writer. Confessing the frustration and hurt when a work is not accepted or being correctly understood, he pinpoints the absurdity of his success by underlining the doubt and anticlimax he experiences when finally achieved:

So why is it that I'm able to bank my failures and live off their capital, but can't do the same with my successes? This impaired capacity to enjoy achievements can hardly be construed as a virtue.

But what comes across to the reader is that Robinson is a writer through and through, who like so many others cannot help but pursue his vocation regardless:

I'm left with an undiminished urge to write, yet precious little sense of what good it might do.

Unsurprisingly, critics and reviewers provoke vitriol and barely disguised pain and we are in no doubt as to the intensity of his feelings. But the irony here is lost on the poet, who in this piece seeks to set himself up as the arbiter of all things – then irony is not a device he favours.

The vitality and uniqueness of 'Untitled Deeds' lies in the fact that it contains the truthful and direct reflections of a creative artist, presenting us with the likes/dislikes, strengths/weaknesses, life history, ideas and understandings which fuel him, enabling us to gain a more rounded insight into how this particular writer functions. We should welcome the brief intimacy.

In 'The Draft Will', the prose poem that follows this extended opening, the poet meticulously recreates a world of the 1950s working class North. His precise descriptions are wonderfully evocative and the close, object-rich space of his grandmother's house expertly brought to life through the eyes of the poet as a child:

… On the left was another large chest, its drawers filled with letters, bits of string, odds and ends like call-up papers, an identity tag from the war.

Above it there hung a huge monochrome photo of dad – aged two or three years old – in polished black boots and a white cotton dress.

But behind the evident candour and open relationships there lurked a secret, a cherished dream or delusion, which sustained an otherwise mundane and failed life of a grandfather who had:

His gaze ever fixed on those farther shores…

The poem is extremely well sustained and dramatically crafted, while maintaining a lyric intimacy with the narrator.

The final part of the book, entitled 'Side Effects', contains a further 16 prose poems. Once again they display Robinson's enormous descriptive ability over a range of situations and sceneries:

Crows fly among the moonlit pines, return to their nests in threes and fours as I climb up past outworks of the castle walls. Street lamps are shiny in branches, bark's silvered, everything astir on the walk back home …

And conjuring nature, heat and the languid repose in 'Summer Cinema':

Cracks in the plaster show structural problems, as acute-angled shadows do under doors. In a breeze, great tendrils flail; the hammocks weave's frayed with the years.

Under the pergola's trailing vines, political discussions lose their thread as day grows dark. There's more substance in the shadows cast than their still-life objects.

His abilities are harnessed to masterly effect in 'Talking to Language', in which a conversation is described in a vividly depicted location between the poet and the female personification of the English language.

Robinson's Quixotic ideal in action is revealed to us in three poems: 'The Windscreen Cleaner', 'Leaving the Country', and 'The Blue Shelters', each supplying the reader with an instance of dispossession and under privilege. Simply expressed and exposed to us in 'The Blue Shelters', the life of those reduced to sleeping on park benches on a freezing Japanese night is contrasted with the loftier expectations of those secure enough indulge in abstract speculation.

'Personal Boxes' again talking place in Japan, centres on a visit to a Joseph Cornell exhibition. Each of the 5 sections is constructed as if it were one of the artist's exhibition boxes and comprises a distinctly boxed moment, standing alone but contributing to the impact of the 'exhibition' overall – which is the poem:

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'There are things you can't come back from,' this friend of mine let slip. We were waiting in a glass-walled bus stop, 'like words you wouldn't want to fault, yet still they're screening off your past…'

But leaves gusting over asphalt, leaves in their autumn tones replied –

'Oh don't take life too personally.'

Robinson is least admirable when he does take 'life too seriously', which is a weakness for me in the opening section of the book. Personal uncertainties force him into a position as self-appointed interpreter of a higher culture, with few relaxations and little levity; supreme certainty sees him set himself up as a serious arbiter of understanding and its attainment, without ever once letting us in on how precisely he is using the word. I like aphorisms because they always conjure that aura of incontestable truth and I respect the work's creativity, frankness and understanding – an echo of Nietzsche with a little bit of Brecht. But it is in the prose poems – in his descriptive powers, simple direct vocabulary, well-crafted sentences and gently sustained music – that the true testament to the man as writer will be found.

 

copyright © John Couth, 2004. All quotations in this review are copyright © Peter Robinson, 2004.

John Couth was educated at Warwick and Exeter Universities; he now lives as a freelance writer, photographer and translator; his publications include Buriton – Spirit of a Village, and Aveyron. He lives and works in Britain and France.