GOLDEN SATELLITE DEBRIS IBD

Sinopse

'Golden Satellite Debrisáis my 13thábook. I donâÇÖt feel particularly superstitious about that. I do still feel as if a book of mine coming into the world is still an unprecedented surprise. I feel a mix of hope and failure.áThe title points towards a sense of the wonder and glory of life on this planet, theáGoldená(with a hint of the sun setting no doubt), but also a sense of life as an aftermath, Debris, a sort of arbitrary and accidental outcome of equations and collisions only some of which we are aware of. I see the earth as aáSatellite, a contingent object moving in space, but on a smaller scale also the human and the poem, spinning around some unknown centre, whether we call that truth, being, love or death.âÇï' (Martin Corless-Smith)'William Blake is the phosphorescent angel illuminating the leaves of Corless-SmithâÇÖs Golden Satellite Debris. His cadences and questions rustle through these rhymes both melancholic and playful. Corless-SmithâÇÖs Orphic muse mixes up the show with walk-ons by the pagan gods. They question their obsolescence as living metaphors of the natural world in images you wonâÇÖt soon forget. Meanwhile, back in civilization, the fires and rising flood waters impassively erase our human past: âÇÖAll that we hurt and bear / makes nothing that will last more than an hour.âÇÖ As for genius, see how Corless-Smith turns apocalyptic topics into poetic pleasures. A beautiful book.'á-Jennifer Moxley'Martin Corless-Smith asks the reader, âÇÖWhat is a book of poems doing in this day and age?âÇÖ Golden Satellite Debris sets out to offer some possible answers, whilst also perhaps inverting the question - What is this day and age doing to a book of poems? Golden Satellite Debris is what poetry can do with âÇÖjoy and excess and possibilityâÇÖ. By such means the scenes of youth are recalled, dances with disputatious deities undertaken in epigrammatic fragments, the âÇÖforeignâÇÖ country America explored and the familiar regions of melancholy, its pastoral, lyrical landscapes, evoked. Here is the debris of our normal lives, âÇÖunveiling new realitiesâÇÖ where âÇÖthe oasis is a desert nowâÇÖ and there is âÇÖpure gold from the commingling of thighsâÇÖ. Essential to this is the poetâÇÖs gentle dissembling with its characteristic, almost courtly timbre and measure.áWe begin to appreciate that there is nothing that poetry canâÇÖt say here, and that a book of poems can breathe and walk around in the world and face what is, after all, not the first âÇÖlow dishonest decade.âÇÖáâÇÖWe must head backTo try and put this all togetherInto one sustaining thoughtA world continuing beyondThe limit of our lonely view.âÇÖ'¡-Kelvin Corcoran