Susan Utting
REVIEWS
Winchester Muse Reading
On 11th July, around 30 Winchester Musers gathered, in person and over Zoom on, what was then, one of the hottest days of the year so far.
Hosted by Hilary Hares, we welcomed the incomparable Susan Utting. As well as being a widely published poet, with collections including "Half the Human Race: New and Selected Poems" (pub. Two Rivers Press), Susan is also the originator of the Reading Poets Café.
Susan began with "Catechism", which she explained was about her mother, father and grandmother. True to its title, the poem begins with a quote from the Anglican Catechism but, make no mistake, this is not a religious poem. It is, however, about origins ("I come from…") and, more unsettlingly, about some of the many ways in which we – as a society – shut down young girls and reduce them to the sum of their appearance and their silence: "…taught her to lower her eyes…taught me the power of hush hush hush."
Susan interspersed her readings with biographical snippets about herself and her family. Her parents, for example, ran a pub and "lived for the moment". Poems such as "The Properties of Silk" left the audience pondering how much of that carpe diem philosophy might have been attributable to their experiences in the Second World War. As a member of the Parachute Regiment, Susan’s father was dropped into Arnhem. In Susan’s recollection, he was clearly very conscious of his good fortune in surviving Operation Market Garden – and this awareness feeds into the resulting poem. That silk can take "the weight of a man, well-built and ready…" is surely remarkable to anyone who thinks about it. However it’s not only the faith that Susan’s father places in its properties – [he] "believes in its billow", in its ability to give him a "safe landing, dream-time" – that’s the keystone of this mesmerising poem. It’s also his ability to look away from the lifesaving technical properties of silk and back to its traditional use "for traders or dressmakers". That the poem ends with the lines "gather its acre of cloud to a/ packet of love, fit for a slip of girl, for a bride" surely says that this is where this man’s ultimate focus lies.
Many of us will have heard stories from older relatives about living through the Blitz – and, indeed, a few of us may have hazy recollections of our own. And yet, even here, with such a seemingly well-worn narrative, Susan has a fresh perspective. In "Night Drill", she takes on the voice of her mother and tells us how, during air raids, she and her friend Connie would lie on the lawn instead of going to the shelter. The girls’ wholehearted embracing of the obvious risks during which they’d "promise God the impossible just for the stomach lurch" is redolent of modern-day thrill-seekers who tombstone off cliffs or play chicken on the motorway. To be young is, as Susan so eloquently reminds us, so often to seize risks that our older selves would recoil from.
At the other end of the age spectrum, in a desperately poignant poem that several listeners are sure to have identified with, Susan addresses dementia. In "Wanting the Moon", she draws on a quote from Edward Thomas ("I would give you back yourself") as she uses powerful imagery ("The sky is a wide as a sleepless night…") to try and reach an accommodation with her unfulfilled wish for one final conversation with her mother.
In a change of mood, Susan explained how a stint as poet in residence at a Swindon art gallery resulted in "My Sister’s Eyes". Prompted by a huge pair of china and glass eyes, designed and crafted by ceramicist Claire Loader, this ekphrastic poem explores Susan’s fascination with the artwork. More than this, in a fabulous extension of the "imaginary friend" enjoyed by so many young children, the poem conjures a sister into being. And, according to Susan, "I, an only child, adore my sister’s voice."
Another ekphrastic poem followed. A painting called "Snow and mist" by artist John Atkinson prompted Susan to write "Isolation". It was, she said, written before lockdown but gained new resonance for her over the ensuing months. Lines such as "…steady rhythm of her boots across the snow" are cleverly reflected in the put-your-head-down-and-keep-putting-one-foot-in-front-of-another tempo of the poem.
Doubtless many of Susan’s audience will have been surprised to learn how she was sent away to boarding school when only four years’ old. Conversely, it perhaps was not too surprising to hear that this "traumatic" (Susan’ own word) early experience manifested itself in a form of elective mutism. The words, Susan said, would not come out during the school day in the presence of teachers or other adults. Only in the dormitory, with the other children, did Susan feel safe enough to speak. In the amusingly-titled "Let us give thanks for our knees", Susan gave us another glimpse of life at her very religious boarding school. As the poem’s title might suggest, the children spent considerable time at prayer, kneeling on "skirted mountaintops". Ultimately, it’s the visceral nature of this poem that lingers: the feel of the rough fabric of the uniform against the knees, the grazes and the scabs, and that leaves one wondering what other childhood bruises and scars remain from the experience.
In her final poem of the evening, Susan read the delicious "Strawberries", which dates back to her 2001 Year of the Artist writer’s residency in Wokingham. As with her other poems, this one also links to family and, specifically, to her father. A keen strawberry grower, he would not allow Susan to pick and eat the fruit until his June birthday. And as the poem notes, strawberries are "Never so sweet as in June."
Our thanks to Susan for a wonderful reading and for allowing us such a fascination glimpse into her family history.