Douglas Dunn


Dunn is unfortunately quite unknown outside of the UK. His first collection, Terry Street (1969), deals more or less exclusively with observations of his home and immediate surroundings. The poems are typical first collection stuff: an emerging voice, pointed observations and imagery, and a couple attempts at fixed form. The portraiture in his poems is striking and not without empathy, though not drowned out by irritating 'humane sensitivity' which seems to strike at the heart of quite a few (slightly obnoxious) starting poets. Also typical of first collections, however, is the lack of point behind many of the poems. They are very limited to observation, account, appraisal, dismissal and distate painted over various scenes. When Dunn does try to come to some grand conclusion, it comes off as rather overblown, such as in A Poem In Praise of the British. Nevertheless, it is a very good read.

As Dunn progresses his poems become increasingly supported by form, and his voice itself falls into an easy pattern of loose iambs. This strengthens the cogency and compression of his poetry considerably. In the middle of his career, he is most appealing, particularly in the collection Elegies (1985), a sensitive (but not syruppy or angsty) commemoration of his late wife. It is a superb collection. Following this, however, Dunn becomes a bit high brow, delving into politics and high art with increasing frequency and complexity. He remains very good, but undoubtedly loses some of the directness of his previous work.



Thirteen Steps and the Thirteenth of March


She sat up on her pillows, receiving guests.
I brought them tea or sherry like a butler,
Up and down the thirteen steps from my pantry.
I was running out of vases.

More than one visitor came down, and said,
'Her room's so cheerful. She isn’t afraid.'
Even the cyclamen and lilies were listening,
Their trusty tributes holding off the real.

Doorbells, shopping, laundry, post and callers,
And twenty-six steps up the stairs
From door to bed, two times thirteen's
Unlucky numeral in my high house.

And visitors, three, four, five times a day;
My wept exhaustions over plates and cups
Drained my self-pity in these days of grief
Before the grief. Flowers, and no vases left.

Tea, sherry, biscuits, cake and whisky for the weak...
She fought death with an understated mischief --
'I suppose I’ll have to make an effort' --
Turning down the painkillers for lucidity.

Some sat downstairs with a hankie
Nursing a little cry before going up to her.
They came back with their fears of dying amended.
‘Her room's so cheerful. She isn't afraid.'

Each day was duty round the clock.
Our kissing conversations kept me going,
Those times together with the phone switched off,
Remembering our lives by candlelight.

John and Stuart brought their pictures round,
A travelling exhibition. Dying,
She thumbed down some, nodded at others,
An artist and curator to the last,

Honesty at all costs. She drew up lists,
Bequests, gave things away. It tore my heart out.
Her friends assisted at this tidying
In a conspiracy of women.

At night, I lay beside her in the unique hours.
There were no mysteries in candle-shadows,
Birds, aeroplanes, the rabbits of our fingers,
The lovely, erotic flame of the candlelight.

Sad? Yes. But it was beautiful also.
There was a stillness in the world. Time was out
Walking his dog by the low walls and privet.
There was anonymity in words and music.

She wanted me to wear her wedding ring.
It wouldn’t fit even my little finger.
It jammed on the knuckle. I knew why.
Her fingers dwindled and her rings slipped off.

After the funeral, I had them to tea and sherry
At the Newland Park. They said it was thoughtful.
I thought it was ironic -- one last time --
A mad reprisal for their loyalty.

--Douglas Dunn, Elegies