Independent Review

Leaning on a lampoon as the wit shines on

By Bill Greenwell
Friday, 31 October 2003

This edition of Clive James's verse supersedes his 1985 collection, Other Passports. It adds 30 more recent poems, five verse letters, song lyrics written for Pete Atkin's guitar, and the whole of Peregrine Prykke's Pilgrimage, his cod epic about the 1970s literary scene. The original collection is included in its entirety.

This edition of Clive James's verse supersedes his 1985 collection, Other Passports. It adds 30 more recent poems, five verse letters, song lyrics written for Pete Atkin's guitar, and the whole of Peregrine Prykke's Pilgrimage, his cod epic about the 1970s literary scene. The original collection is included in its entirety.

Reading these poems is like listening to a talking book. James is one of the very few writers whose voice is well-known enough to ring in your ears when you're scanning the page. This helps not just in recognising (for instance) that slant/cant is a perfect rhyme. It infests the poems with personality, with that familiar braggadocio, that strictly upbeat delivery. He loves the smell of long and recondite words, almost as much as he loathes Eliot and Pound.

James has already skewered Eliot more successfully than anyone with his stage-Indian piss-take The Wasted Land, originally published under the pseudonym Edward Pygge. I've laughed myself under the table with it 50 times. There is a brilliant addition here which nails Eliot and Pound ("One was the head, the other the hindquarters... such a well-connected horse's arse.").

Of the other "recent poems", there are some particular treats, including "The Eternity Man", about Arthur Stace, who relentlessly chalked the single word "Eternity" on Sydney's walls, and whose story is much cherished in Australia. (It probably needs a note: James is a polysaturated writer, an agreeable know-all, but we need some assistance.) Another instant hit - and his hit is frequently instant - is a spaced-out take on jet lag.

All the same, I'd have preferred a Selection, not a Collection. Perry Prykke was of the moment; so too was his "Poem of the Year" (1983), despite his sterling defence of it. The long verse letters are highly skilful, but bang on and on. Even some shorter poems make a banquet out of what should have been a snack. "The Light Well", a poem about visiting the Bay of Pigs about 100 lines long, should really read: "Blow the tuba/ For Cuba." His 1985 introduction, reprinted here, ends with the well-timed paradox, "At any length, the aim is brevity."

James can control rhyme like Fangio managed bends; he can be witty at the collapse of several hat-stands. Jonathan Raban once lashed out at his writing as "boisterously smartyboots in tone and fake-Augustan in its grammar". But when it works, when his cylinders are firing for a sprint, he is endless good fun: 40 of the poems here have skip, insight, timing and agreeable passion.

It isn't just a matter, either, of his leaning on a lampoon. His poem about paedophiles ("Stolen Children") is intense, bringing together Botticelli's images of children, his own observation of children in Covent Garden, and a newspaper piece about an abductor. Any collection with 40 winners is worth it. For the rest, you can always avert your gaze.