06 July 2017
Hanging On In
Clive James lives on
by J.R.Thomas
Soon after the launch of the Shaw Sheet on an unsuspecting world, we carried a review of Clive Jame’s “Sentenced to Life”, a slender but powerful book of the great Australia polymath’s poetry. James was apparently not long for this world, and in what were expected to be his last poetic musings he touched upon his approaching exit, his troubled old age and teetering marriage, and the undignified but vital nature of the techno-nursing which was keeping him alive and easing his departure. We joined the multitude of critics who praised this book as his best work, a very fitting signing off from a magnificent career that stretched from the most populist of TV work (the chat show Saturday Night Clive) to learned translations (most notably, Dante’s Divine Comedy). And rather rudely, like many others, we took the opportunity to pay tribute to a man who had greatly enlivened late twentieth century life, forming a fixed point of good writing and humour in almost every area of the media, hoping that if he came across those words he might appreciate the sentiment or at least make a joke of being able to read his obituaries before he departed.
But as he says, the game is still not over; he is indeed in injury time. James agreed to an experimental course of drug treatment on the cancer from which he was suffering, and to his surprise and almost embarrassment, not only is he still alive, he is actually in better health than he was two years ago. And thank goodness for that; it has inspired further poetry in another volume, Injury Time. If Sentenced to Life was his best, we can only say that this is even better. It contains a selection of superb recent works, mostly short, but wonderfully crafted. They are intensely personal and not unnaturally dwell on the frailty of the human body, and the uncertainties of existence, with rueful dartings into the muddy creeks of the soul, or at least the male version thereof. They are perhaps not the obvious thing to read out at a jolly party, and yet they are, because they are full of that slightly sardonic humour which is the James trademark. Read “Head Wound” over dinner and send home any guest not chuckling into the quinoa salad by the end.
That James humour kicks in right from the Foreword. Clive (surely he should be Sir Clive by now; but maybe his wife Prue Shaw would not allow such establishment baubles to clutter up her husband’s populist standing) says that after publishing Sentenced to Life he thought to begin work on a new long poem, with the intention of leaving it unfinished, a poignant reminder of what the world had lost. But it would not come; instead the short ones now published here poured forth. Now he plans a funeral oratorio which will dwell in particular on his confidence in his imminent demise turning out to be so misplaced. (He points out that he used to have the advantage of being able to plan his time left, knowing when he was going to die – only he turns out to be the like the rest of us – certain that we will die but unable to properly plan things because we don’t know when.)
You will be pleased to know that Mr James has been reconciled with his wife and daughters; his last (last) book was published at a time when the poet was caught up in a publicly vented marital row because of an earlier affair which came to light; several of his works in that book were by way of apology to Prue and in hope of some forgiveness. That seems to have happened and Clive is living in an adapted home in the Cambridgeshire countryside with his family around him. “Sweet Disaster” appears to be an allusion to that very affair, in rueful tones. Many more refer to the restoration of harmony with Prue, so those who find death an unsuitable subject for poetry, and indeed levity, may at least welcome a story with a happy matrimonial ending. Those who admire or are annoyed by the old James’ targets such as global warming will be delighted or irritated to find the old trooper continues unmoderated:
The imminent catastrophe goes on
Not showing many signs of happening.
The ice at the North Pole that should be gone
By now, is awkwardly still lingering,
(from Imminent Catastrophe)
He, the great fan of Formula One, even manages a poem on Ayrton Senna, or at least his death at Imola.
Poetry should not be read as a novel, or indeed as non-fiction. It should, unless instructed to the contrary, be browsed and read in whatever order pleases the reader, though hopping about can lead, at least for your reviewer, to confusion and omission. But to those rewarding themselves and Mr James (and indeed your local bookseller if you will) by investing £14.99, do start, at least the first time, at the beginning. The “Return of the Kogarah Kid” sets the tone and establishes an understanding of recent events. “Injury Time”, though not the last poem in the book, is an elegant signing off, even more so if it were read by the poet himself in those slightly gruff, always amused, Australian tones. Other than that, dodge about and please yourself, or go through a piece or two at a time. Perfect for the bedside table, for that shelf of carefully filtered handbacks for the loo, for reading on trains when it can be alternated with glances out of the window at the absurdities of modern life, or just for those half dozing, half pondering, afternoons in the garden.
It’s getting late. The garden has gone quiet.
The conference of the finches is dismissed.
Time to go in and rest from too much watching
How time, like fame, flees on such fleeting wings.
No birds were hurt in the making of this poem
(from Finch Conference)
“Injury Time”, by Clive James, is published by Picador; in good bookshops now, £14.99
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