Beyond the sadness of losing Anselm Hollo as a human being and a poet, his death has grown into something that continues to have significance for me because in his work I find an intense feeling that he lived how I live, through his writing, but 50 years ahead of me. Obviously there are enormous differences, none more so than he was a finer poet than I'm ever likely to be. Yet his work possesses a sense of place and a sense of humour, and trickery, and darkness, that I seek to possess. I've read so many poems of his in the last week that have made me feel a little overwhelmed that I have been to these places and hope to do these things, in life and in poetry. The people around me whom I love seem to be echoed by those he loves. He seems to have walked London as though it would not be his for long, as I often do. He dedicates poems as I have done. He has energy for new relationships, for endless writing, as I do. Now he is dead, 40 years on from writing these poems that have moved me so. It doesn't make me very sad, just makes me feel the inevitability of life and makes me appreciate how much my life is full of warmth and health and lovely humans, and lovely things, like poem below. For my friends!
And How It Goes
by Anselm Hollo (1967)
Zoo-day, today
with the 2 young
"What animal
did you like best?"
"That man"
She's three, more perfect
than any future
I or any man
will lead her to
but now, to the gates
and wait for the boat
by the Regent's canal
we stand in a queue
all tired, speechless
A line from Villon
sings into my head:
"Paradis paint"
"A painted paradise
where there are harps and lutes"
Yes and no children
but who say such pretty things
for me to inscribe
in one of my notebooks
with the many blank pages
marking the days
when I feel as forsaken as
balding Francois
who also found
in himself
the need to adore
as different as my stance is
here, in a queue of mums & dads
down the green slope
to the canal
- when he wrote to the Virgin
hypocrite, setting his words
to the quavers
of his mother's voice
le bon Dieu
knows where he'd left her
At least
I'm holding her hand
she's here, my daughter
he is here
"my son
the lives of poets
even the greatest, are dull
and serve as warnings"
To say this, suddenly
here, in the queue
would no doubt be brave
He's half asleep,
clutching a plastic lion
"The thing is, they could not
get out of themselves
any better than these
who also wait
for a boat
- o that it were drunken
on what wild seas -
they didn't
even try, just griped about it
or made little idols
for brighter moments ... "
The boat has arrived
and there,
the elephant's trumpet
farewell
Her weight on my knees
His head on my shoulder
here
we
go
We, best-loved animals
one, two, three
and as illuminated
as we'll ever be