I hadn’t noticed what has happened to “so”. I thought it was so last year to diss “so”. I’d been encouraged by Heaney’s Beowulf, where he translates the initial, throat-clearing utterance “Hwæt” as the Irish idiomatic, yarn-commencing “So.” which obliterates all previous narrative and commands attention.
But here’s Iain Sinclair, in the LRB (link here), who’s always sharp in spotting the petty indignities suffered by language, describing the initial “So” as the “entry code” to a gentrified, socially-cleansed London.
And in Sinclair’s article I discover that Tom Raworth has died. He didn’t make the news in the way that Derek Walcott did, and it had passed me by. I have fond memories of Raworth’s readings at Essex in recent years. Poetry readings are often poorly-attended affairs, but for one, Raworth’s audience was swelled by a keen email sent to all in the department of Literature at the university. It was a simple instruction not to miss “the great (-est?) modernist poet, Tom Raworth”. The email was sent by the late Joe Allard, an infectious enthusiast for Icelandic literature, among other things, and a fixture in the literary and drinking life of the town of Wivenhoe. The entire email — a plug in under 30 words, including time and place — was arresting and compelling: as if to say, here is Modernism, returning to revivify the Brutalist architecture of the Essex campus. It lives today.
This is my first post on here in a while. I have been writing more formal pieces, and the free time I’ve had when I could be writing blogs has been spent reading instead. Reading for pleasure, I mean. No-one can argue with that excuse.