‘Time Lines’ Launch for Corrie poet
David Underdown is well known on Arran for his thoughtful and reflective poetry, and it is much to be welcomed that he is publishing his first book of poems at the end of this month. To celebrate its publication, there will be a launch party in Corrie Hall at 2.30 pm on Sunday July 3rd, and everyone is welcome to attend.
Called Time Lines, this collection will ring true with many people who love Arran for its landscape and for the warmth of connection between people. A strong feeling of nurture shines through these poems, quietly celebrating the hard, rewarding work of tending children and animals and land that provides food as well as colour and scent and beauty of form. Physical delight in these elemental things is always there, given space to speak for itself.
In the kitchen the smells are these:
fragrance of cinnamon, ripe apples, boiled cabbage,
yeast and the reek of anthracite, the scent of babies,
aroma of bacon, and fruitcake, and hints of hidden webs.
There is an authority in the poems that comes from experience. Nobody who has not grown and picked them will know the absolute nature of such things as broad beans.
We are shucking broad beans,
my wife, my wife’s mother and I,
great baskets of fleece-lined olive pods,
rust-spotted, contoured to their contents.
They spit out, round and stout, into the pan
to be blanched and frozen and to wait for winter.
At the same time, David’s poetry is careful not to become over-earnest. A shrewd sense of humour is not far off, ready to smile at human absurdities.
Staked out on mats like raw kebabs
we baste our flesh with Nivea and oil
until each side is done.
Underlying the pleasure and amusement is a sensitive awareness of truths that lie below the discernible surface. In a poem called National Trust, memories of war and loss pre-date the mundane truth of coach parties.
That autumn Florence in her riding cape
bent and took the telegram,
brought it to mother in her room,
waited while she wept,
watched as the flag was lowered.
The transition to the present, seen by the long-bereaved mother, brings an uncomplaining but poignant end to the poem.
Up in the house the volunteers in tailored slacks
are proud to serve as front line troops.
They stand at ease by roped-off doorways
offering glimpses of antique interiors
and proffer potted history to visitors.
I wait inside till after tea
when all the gates have closed
and men in yellow jackets have patrolled the field
ensuring fallen litter is removed.
David’s poems won a competition last year that had as its prize a promise of publication. Since then, there has been a lot more work on the collection, expanding it and scrupulously editing and redrafting. Published by Cinnamon Press, (which seems very suitably named for such a resonant, flavoursome collection), the book is handsomely produced and designed, a pleasure to the eye and hand as well as to the mind. This poetry is never obscure. On the contrary, it turns over small pieces of common experience with a skilled hand, revealing and clarifying the wealth of meaning that lies within them.
