http://gorse.ie/introducing-sj-fowler/ a far too generous portrait from the remarkable people at Gorse magazine, one of the publications I'm most looking forward to in 2014, coming soon, in the inaugural issue, six of my poems from a future collection {Enthusiasm}
Editors’ note: As we head towards publication, we thought we would introduce our contributors.
SJ Fowler has been exploring the boundaries of European poetry in his Maintenant series, a project that takes its name from pugilist, poet, hoaxer and nephew of Oscar Wilde, Arthur Cravan. It’s an astonishing project, one that has profiled the work of almost 100 contemporary poets, placing the likes of Frédéric Forte, Tadeusz Różewicz and George Szirtesalongside Ann Cotten, Luna Miguel, Holly Pester and Ragnhildur Jóhanns. Says Fowler,
“For years I was completely isolated in my reading too…and as such I was in a bubble, didn’t have the chance to develop any sense of prejudice against poetry in translation, or avant garde work, as somehow otherly. That’s perhaps why I read this kind of work alongside poetry that might be better known in this country in equal measure.”
Steven delivered a series of lectures at the Southbank’s Rest is Noise festival late last year, released a collaborative multi-disciplinary collection Enemies, and performed ‘Electric Dada’ as part of Electronic Voice Phenomena.
‘I think there’s a territorial, self-defeating dualism that seems to permeate through people’s perception of the experimental, that it requires a philosophical or political praxis to be part of their writing. That it is against something, more than it is for something. This isn’t true, fundamentally. Experimentation is about finding the authentic way to express a very certain content.’
He is one of the most exciting young poets at work today and we delighted to include poems from his new collection,{Enthusiasm}. From ‘Burn museum’
the gypsy wound
fighting man of a fighting family
bitterly pain full is a broken jaw, a bruised
kidney
it’ll make you think twice, modern Paul
it doesn’t just hurt, it’s worse
it drifts its bookish suitcase
like a river of shirt toward work