This is the second book of poetry published by the Bristol based writer, Matthew J. Hall. The free verse writing is exceedingly clear and largely focuses on human vulnerabilities and defects and on the fleeting and sometimes nasty side to relationships. You will also discover a variety of reflective pieces, portrait poems, poems about growing up and meta-poems about the process of writing. The language is typically simple, fresh and authentic.
The poems tap into Hall’s evolving literary
spine and represent a significant step-up from his first collection Pigeons and Peace Doves (Blood Pudding
Press, 2015).
The quirky plastic farm yard menagerie on the
front and back covers was designed by BareBackPress publisher Peter Jelen. In a
recent email, he explained his representation, “Well, I guess after
talking with Matthew, getting to know him through correspondence and his work,
I gathered the impression he doesn’t look upon humanity with fondness and
admiration. After reading the manuscript as many times as I did I came up with
this image of a really fucked up plastic world filled with mutant and hybrid
animals with humanity at the low end of the food chain. The teeth are mine, I
asked my dentist for it when I needed a bridge made, painted it, and added it
to the forefront to enhance the sense of devouring going on in scene.
That’s basically it.”
The title The Human Condition is a Terminal Illness derives from the opening
poem “petrol station”, a mammoth 51 stanza epic poem in which the poet
describes some of his rare memorable encounters in an otherwise mindless dead-end
job. A frequent visitor to the station was “Cathy”, a fucked-up addict who
offered a ray of light in a sea of misery:
Cathy was the only line of poetry
in that box of artificial light
built on a foundation of greed and
illegal practice
there was nothing else to say
working at the petrol station
suicide was often on my mind
I was often bored
more often depressed
and more often than not,
disabled by a raging sense of anxiety
I realised early on
that the general public’s common
stupidity
was symptomatic of lots and lots of
individual selfishness
and their anxiety was contagious;
the human condition is a terminal illness
In the interview which follows, Matthew J.
Hall says of this sad, harrowing period of his life, “In hindsight I realise
that my hatred for that job was largely due to a long-lasting and severe bout
of anxiety. Having said that, I do believe the extremity of my anxiety was
triggered by working in a petrol station. It was miserable. The poem is an
honest account. The people I mention in the poem were all real people. The only
one mentioned by name is Cathy. And of course, that isn't her real name. She
was one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. Just a mess of
contradictions. Hopelessly addicted to drugs yet so pure of personality.
Physically speaking, she was fucked; malnourished, broken teeth, offensive
scent, caked in grime. But she was so kind. She was known locally as an addict,
an arsonist and a prostitute. I don't think she was a prostitute, but she was
an addict and she did have a fascination with fire. Of all the thousands of
interactions in that job, Cathy's were the only ones I would care to repeat.”
Read the poem “petrol station” in full
here: http://www.barebackpress.com/SAMPLE_The_Human_Condition_Is_A_Terminal_Illness.pdf
In a later email, Hall says of the title,
“In the poem I'm trying to make comment on how prone to selfishness so
many people are. I think there is a widespread loneliness and sadness,
particularly in built up areas, which is rooted in this obsessive need to be
first. Selfishness is a sickness, and in a very honest way, I believe it is
deadly. Of course I am also making the obvious comment about life and death. As
soon as we're born
we have started on a journey toward death. I felt like it captured the tone of
the collection fairly well.”
Most
of the poems in the collection are about Hall’s relationship with woman, in
particular his partner Esther May, one of the women he dedicates his book to. In
a series of poems scattered throughout the collection he explores the
vicissitudes of a fragile relationship- the cruelty, the fights, the
temptations, the guilt, the pleasures and the constant need to be reassured
that love still exists.
The
most memorable poems are often confessional in form, sometimes third person
narrative poems, in other instances second person narratives directly addressed
to Hall’s partner or his former lovers. “Play the sad violin”, “my mannequin
and I” and “moths dressed as butterflies” are particularly vicious in sinking
the boot into the hearts & minds of former or perhaps present “loved ones.”
“Play
the sad violin” is a bitter personal lament which propels insult into an art form.
The middle section of the poem has echoes of Robert Browning’s macabre
“Prophyria’s Lover” but the poem stumbles towards a tearful, melodramatic
resolution:
play
the sad violin
there
is a stranger inside
who
refuses analysis
a
sickness, an undefined nausea
who
over the years
has
formed her own personality
she
is dying down there
the
scent of death on her breath
is
overpowering
I
can hear her playing
the
sad violin
the
notes are in my chest
and
in her eyes
she
plays in A minor
a
song I can’t quite hear
her
salty tears
coat
the back of my throat
and
strangle my laugh
she
resents my peaceful surroundings
detests
those who love me
insists
I punish them
as
she has been punished
she
calls for me quietly
with
a sad and steady bow
longs
for me to join her
invites
me insistently
from
somewhere deep in the intestines
I
hate the love I have for her
I
should kill her
but
how do you murder
an
already dead flower
I
could swallow poison
and
silence her
but
deeper down
and
deeper yet
I
know that is what she wants
she
imagines us as dancing ghosts
far
from all the others
embraced
in a smokey waltz
our
bare feet
light
and free
on
floorboards of dreams and mist
but
the other woman
won’t
let me go
she
doesn’t hide her song from me
and
you may know something of love down there
but
you know nothing of her
her
tears stand out in the rain
and
though she is cynical of the promise
she
believes in every rainbow
she
washes my face and wants me to live
she
tells me to look after myself
she
looks at me expectantly
trusting
we will reap as we sow
she
does not play the sad violin
yet
I hear her song clearly
as
the oak
as
its limbs
withstanding
strong winds
she
places her head on my chest
straining
her ears to hear
she
wants to get to know her
but
I won’t let her
and
neither will she
we
are too jealous for that
and
it is breaking all of our hearts
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
Poems
such as “the birds were yet to start sing”, “love seat”, “always fighting”,
“quick and fast”, “the day’s hopeless patterns” and the meta-poem “it’s all
lies” are more moderated in tone but have an underlying impatience, frustration
and undefined sadness about them.
Asked
about what his partner Esther thinks about including her in his work, Hall explains
to me cautiously, “I think she is in two minds about this. I have been
public about the private. There have been times when I have handed her a poem
and asked her to check it for spelling errors. I've been in that place where
I'm only concerned about the poem as a piece of writing and have moved on from
the emotion of the thing. Only the poems in question are a highly, emotionally
charged comment on her and my flaws and qualities; a fight, a moment, some
shared tears. I stand there waiting impatiently and she's like, ‘what the hell
am I supposed to do with this?’ Writing is a very selfish affair. Particularly
autobiographical writing. Esther doesn't think it's all that autobiographical,
though. She told me that I write from a combination of personalities. Some of
it is painfully honest, some of it is fiction and some of it is bullshit. I'd
say she's also accurate in her assertion.”
Hall also includes a half a dozen second person poems
in which he metaphorically attempts to capture his partner through a wide
variety of art forms, including sculpture “getting creative”, a pencil drawing
“gutless”, acrylic paint and charcoal “incarcerated in canvas”, and paint and
pastel in “trapped inside my furniture.” As Hall admits in the latter poem
there is something “creepy” about this obsession. Perhaps he uses this artistic
metaphor as a way to pin down and idealize an otherwise fleeting and all too emotionally
sapping situation. In “trapped inside my furniture”, for example, he paints a
robust portrait of his partner on the base of his drawer. He talks to his
drawing and hopes one day she will learn to love him despite her confines.
Similarly, “trespassing” explores through an extended
metaphor the notion of cracking “the codes”, searching “out your secrets”- to
understand better her “version of me”. Interestingly, the quest appears driven
by self-interest rather than empathy. The persona, presumably Hall, says
matter-of-factly, “of course, the first door of interest would have my name/
inscribed above it.”
“The best I could do” is a more positive love poem. In
it, the speaker discovers an innovative way to emotionally appeal to his
missus:
the
best I could do
I
wanted to do something romantic for you
because
in spite of the senseless circle
you
have shown me sharp corners
where
the destination and journey merge
and
a single moment becomes all of life
and
all of life becomes whole
I
wanted to say thank you
I
wanted to do something romantic for you
I
wanted to give you something special
I
wanted to say something of your truth
wanted
to find that honest line and lay it out at your feet
but
the rose petals ripped under my ball-point pen
and
the thorns on the spindly stem
were
too small and obstinate
the
poesy wouldn’t fit no matter how tiny the words
so
I pinned our poem to a homing bird’s leg
whispered
words of instruction and sent him off
but
he had a mind of his own
he
flew around and around and around as though he were lost
then
he spotted some discarded food
and
with our words he stopped
I
wanted to do something romantic for you
and
with regret
I
am afraid
this,
my love
is
the best I can do
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
In
asking Hall why so few blokes appear in his poetry he replied, “I'm speaking
generally now, but I have found many men to be emotionally vacant and lacking
in intellect. So many male conversations are nothing more than a conformation
of established opinions. That's fine, but there has to be more. I've learnt
more from women and I think they are more interesting than men; they have a
higher pain threshold, they have faced more adversity, they are better company.
I think this is true in writing. There are plenty of exceptions, but of the
authors writing today, of which I've read with some regularity, I have found
the men to be repetitious. Their major concern is to become prolific, they are
succeeding in this goal but it's essentially the same poem or story, over and
over again. The female writers tend to have a bit more originality about their
work.
Perhaps
this is all bullshit; a weird kind of projectile self-loathing. Maybe. Maybe
not. Either way I think that the essence of poetry is emotional and I have
experienced a wider spectrum of emotion with women than I have with men.”
Apart
from his penetrating and sometimes acerbic observations about relationships,
Hall also creates a diverse range of credible character portraits. Notable in
the collection are “sometimes you meet someone”, “dead hope”, “portrait”,
“crueler than kids”, “an old song” and “in her letters.” Characteristically,
the portrait poems feature people who have done it tough and who have struggled
to meet the unreachable expectations and demands of society.
Perhaps
the best portrait is of the unnamed girl in “patti’s still got it.” The writing
is unjudgmental and creates a clear and evocative sense of setting. It is an
outstanding whimsical distillation of atmosphere and character:
patti’s still got it
the water under pero’s bridge
was still, as was the city
during its best hour on a sunday morning
she was playing a tin whistle
you couldn’t get away with calling it
music
but the sounds were far from unpleasant
from my side of the river
I could see the market traders
setting up their fare, on their side
the crisp air tasted fresh
as it will when so few of us
are sucking it in and blowing it out
soon enough the crowds would arrive
and the air would become heavy
and the tongue would become numbed
by a mouthful of death
from my bench, a metal affair
cold and reassuring
I could see she’d been eying up my
cigarette
she slid the whistle into her breast
pocket
stood and walked with purpose
can I have a cigarette, she said
sure, I said, offering her the pouch and
papers
can you roll it for me, she said
sure, I said
can you roll me five, she said
sure, I said and took to rolling
she retrieved her whistle and played
covering and uncovering the holes with
her fingers
watching me roll with her eyes
her hair was the colour of wet straw
she was pale and very thin
but she carried a heavy weight
like someone who’s held the truth about
people
at the fifth cigarette’s completion
she showed me the soft side of her hand
I lined them up on there
and she counted them out loud
one
two
three
four
five
instead of thanking me, she said
I saw patti smith in concert
oh yeah, I said, has she still got it?
she tucked her whistle and cigarettes
away
put her hand all the way down the front
of her jeans
held herself like that
gyrated and confirmed
patti’s still got it
with that said
she returned to her original position
on pero’s bridge
where she played her whistle
across the harbor
the market traders were chatting up
their first customers
I could hear a siren from somewhere
distant
I stood from my bench
waved a quiet goodbye to the whistler
she lit one of her five cigarettes
and waved back
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
(reprinted with the permission of the poet)
Matthew J. Hall’s book The Human Condition is a Terminal Illness
is largely a confessional representation of his foibles, written in a direct,
searing-belly style. He provides numerous reflections and anecdotes but
provides us with few clues as to how we can be better people or how we can
treat each other more decently. According to Hall, relationships are
emotionally and mentally messy and there are no neatly packaged happy endings. As
he notes in the blurb on the back of the book, “More often than not, in the
midst of a confused, selfish, self-hating populace, THE ANSWERS ARE WANTING.”
Bio: Matthew J. Hall is a UK writer based in the city of Bristol. His poetry and short fiction has been published online and in print. His poetry chapbook, Pigeons and Peace Doves is available through Blood Pudding Press. His poetry collection, The Human Condition is a Terminal Illness is available through Bareback Press.
Buy the book here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926449118/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1486311086&sr=8-1&keywords=matthew+j+hall
Find more about BareBackPress: http://www.barebackpress.com
INTERVIEW
WITH MATTHEW J. HALL 11 MARCH 2017
Where
do your poems come from? Do you write every day? Do you have a set routine?
I used to write every day and I wrote a lot
of shit. I go through phases now. Sometimes I'll write every day for a week,
other times I might go a week without writing, but rarely do my quiet periods
go on much longer than that. I try not to romanticize output. I don't have a
routine. I've learned I'm most productive in the morning. The best lines I've
written have been in drunkenness, but they don't work on their own, it takes
sobriety to bring a piece to completion. My best poems have come from
conversation and the exchange of ideas.
When
did you first develop an interest in poetry and whom have been some of your
more recent influences?
I wrote a poem for a girl. I'm married to
her now, so make of that what you will. Other than that, I wrote a few poems to
fill in the time spent waiting to hear back from my first batch of short story
submissions. One of the poems was accepted, while all the shorts were rejected.
I carried on with poetry after that. I still write fiction from time to time,
but poetry is what comes naturally.
In terms of recent influence, Karina Bush
is the poet of note. I'm never going to be able to write like her, I would be a
fool to try; she is a phenomenal poet. I reviewed her debut collection of
poetry, Maiden; I wish I could write like that. Seriously, fuck this
interview, go and check out Karina Bush.
As
you know, I reviewed her book as well. Getting back you your shit, how long was
the book in the making?
The oldest poem is about five years old,
the youngest is a matter of months.
Did
you actually work in a gas station for four years? Was it as bad as you make
out in ’petrol station’?
I worked in a petrol station for four
years. It was worse than I made it out to be in "petrol station." In
hindsight I realise that my hatred for that job was largely due to a
long-lasting and severe bout of anxiety. Having said that, I do believe the
extremity of my anxiety was triggered by working in a petrol station. It was
miserable. The poem is an honest account. The people I mention in the poem were
all real people. The only one mentioned by name is Cathy. And of course, that
isn't her real name. She was one of the most remarkable people I have ever met.
Just a mess of contradictions. Hopelessly addicted to drugs yet so pure of
personality. Physically speaking, she was fucked; malnourished, broken teeth,
offensive scent, caked in grime. But she was so kind. She was known locally as
an addict, an arsonist and a prostitute. I don't think she was a prostitute,
but she was an addict and she did have a fascination with fire. Of all the
thousands of interactions in that job, Cathy's were the only ones I would care
to repeat.
Can
you explain your association with BareBack Press from the original conception
of the book to the various processes involved in eventually getting your book
published?
Some time ago I was searching for places to
submit poetry to and I happened upon Bareback Press. At that time they were
offering a free download of Peter Jelen's flash novel, The Cure For
Consciousness. I read the book, loved it and reviewed it accordingly at www.screamingwithbrevity.com.
Now, either I write shit reviews or small press publishers don't believe in
networking because most of the time, when I review a small press book - and I
only review the ones I love or feel strongly about commenting on - the
publishers seldom send me a review request upon publication of their next book.
The exceptions are Wolfgang Carstens of Epic Rites Press and Peter Jelen of
Bareback Press. And so, a relationship of sorts was established with Jelen. He
started sending me review copies of the books he was publishing and Bareback
very quickly became my favourite press. After The Cure For Consciousness,
I reviewed Damon Marbut's Human Crutches. Marbut is an extraordinary
writer and a sweet and honest man. Not long after that I reviewed Wayne F.
Burke's, Words That Burn. Wayne is the best at what he does; straight
forward, old-school narrative poetry. He's the best. I have reviewed three of
his collections and hope to review many more.
Anyway, some books later, Pete asked me if
I had any books to my name and I sent him a copy of my chapbook, Pigeons and
Peace Doves, published by Blood Pudding Press. He seemed to like the book
and told me to submit a manuscript if I had anything of length. I sent him a
draft of what turned out to be, The Human Condition is a Terminal Illness.
It was about three quarters of the length of the final draft. Pete suggested
some changes to the order of poems, namely putting "petrol station"
as the first poem. I thought this a ballsy move, on account of the poem's
length; a fifty-one stanza poem is quite an opening statement for a collection.
I didn't need much persuasion and the manuscript started to take shape from
there. Pete wanted more poems and I had plenty to offer. The collection is
basically an assortment of what I have written over the last five or six years.
What’s
the story behind Peter Jelen’s layout and design of the front cover?
Pete will most likely cringe at this, but
he is a very talented visual artist. He is responsible for the cover design and
I'm happy to say that he did a really nice job. For further detail you would
have to ask him, and I recommend that you do; Jelen's work, visually and
literary, is conducive to Bold Monkey's tone.
I
will ask Jelen about the cover. What did you learn in writing the book?
That is a hard question to break down, some
of these poems were written years ago, so I have learnt loads in the making of
this book. To be honest, I learn more from reading than I do from writing.
Reviewing my contemporaries has been, and continues to be my education.
As
you mentioned, you are the editor of the site Screaming with Brevity. Can you tell us how the site originated and
its purpose? What’s the best stuff for the uninitiated to begin with?
SWB started as a home for my writing; a
personal blog, but I quickly discovered a love for sharing about authors,
publishers and artists I enjoyed. I found my writing improved as I spent time
mulling over other people's writing and so I began writing reviews. Visitors to
the site will find reviews of poetry and fiction, my own poetry and art and
hopefully soon other small press authors' poetry and art as well. Truth is, I'm
no editor. My online presence wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for Esther Hall,
who is a talented creative in her own right. I write the content, she makes it
look good, and over the years it's become a project we enjoy working on
together. The purpose of SWB is to promote small press publishers and writers.
The coolest books can't be found in your high street book shop; Screaming with Brevity is a signpost to
the best I've read in modern literature.
What
advice would you give to talented young writers of poetry?
I have only been doing this for five or six
years, and as such, I'm just a boy in the writing world; I would be a fool to
hand out advice.
What’s
next for you?
Aside from continuing to write poetry, I'd
like to develop my criticism. Maybe write some small press writer profile
pieces. I don't know if I have what it takes to pull that off. This type of
writing needs to be exceptionally good, otherwise it's just fluff.
I totally agree! Thanks Matthew for your time.
Thanks George!
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