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Fred Johnston
was born in Belfast. He was educated there and in Canada and
now lives in Galway. In 1972 he received a Hennessy Award for
prose in 1981 and 1982 respectively the Sunday Independent awards
for poem and story of the month. In 1988 he received an Irish
Arts Council literary bursary and was appointed writer-in-residence
to Galway City and County Libraries. In 1986 he founded Cuirt,
Galway's annual poetry (now poetry and literature) festival.
A reviewer of new poetry and fiction, his reviews have appeared
in the Southern Humanities Review (USA), The Sunday Times, The
Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, The Irish University Review;
he is the regular poetry reviewer for Books Ireland and he has
also reviewed new fiction for Harpers & Queen. Occasionally
he reviews biography for The Cork Examiner, theatre for The
Sunday Press and exhibitions for The Sunday Times. He has published
one novel and five volumes of poetry. His prose and poetry have
appeared widely in Ireland, the US and Canada. In Great Britain
poems have appeared in The Spectator, Iron, Orbis, Poetry London,
Cencrastus, Oxford Poetry, Gairfish (Scotland), and stories
in The London Magazine, Panurge and Stand. True North
is Fred Johnston's sixth collection of poetry.
PRAISE FOR
TRUE NORTH
Review by
Patrick Chapman "True North, Fred Johnston's sixth
collection of poems, is a curious book. Curious not only in
its seeking out of strangeness in the ordinary -- a theme current
in the poetry of late twentieth century Ireland -- but in that
it has a beginning, a middle and an end not, as Godard might
have it, in that order. Close to the middle of the book is the
poem Requiem in which the poet marks with eloquence the death
of his father -- to whom the book is dedicated -- a man who
'died quietly, without fuss/In a room drenched with apocalyptic
light'. Towards the end of the poem is a description of the
'sleek polished machine' that 'Drew a line through his life'.
In this and other poems, Johnston stands small humanity against
a big universe and finds in that meeting a soulfulness and poignancy,
the recognition of our limits as biological creatures and the
necessity to celebrate the everyday things that set us apart
from each other. Overall, the tone is one of longing and wistfulness,
although there are flashes of joy. Here is My Love Asleep, in
its entirety: All the daft day's riot falters here The lake
of her silence is deep, motionless and clear Unlike my own small
well of wide-eyed spite Perturbed, unfathomable, black as a
winter's night. It's a cool example of the poet's envy of others'
contentment, which is not to say that this is a bad thing. It's
poetic detachment at work to good effect. Elsewhere, Johnston
celebrates Galway, where he lives, and 'unDublinised' midland
villages, reminding the literati of the capital that there is
life, and poetry, outside the Pale. As a counterpoint to this,
Acquiring Culture takes on a half-satirical, half-in-cahoots
look at a poet visiting one of those towns: 'a poet should at
least wear a tie/And some of his poems, well, a child could
write them.' Is it my imagination, or is a poet writing about
poetry like a heavy metal band singing about rock'n'roll (No
sleep till Hammersmith), or Truffaut making Day For Night? Such
a subject matter always seems to me to be too self-conscious
if handled badly but here, the poet does it well enough. The
subject matter throughout this book is, however, broad and wide
and the collection is all the better for it. Gathering speaks
of Love (note capital) as 'a maggot grown from the festering
of dead love in the bone.' The North Remembered recalls 'Dragging
a lumpen sack of smugness after me/Into exile.' Flood describes
'Local politicians' who 'like hooded birds/Sat up in rowing
boats and made themselves visible.' Johnston has an eye for
intriguing detail: 'Your hair over a pillow, slivers/of winter
sun on a frosted window' (from Breaking); chilling remembrance
- of a boy drowning: 'where everyone could see/What was happening,
but we never found him. (from Anticipation); and affectionate
memoir: 'I'd walk to visit cousins, shortbread fingers/On the
rim of a saucer, tea spilling over with dignity' (from The North
Remembered). There is little in this book to shock or disturb
but there are fine poems that grow better with age (This reviewer
had longer to consider the book than many journalistic deadlines
allow). Some of the earlier poems in the book seemed to be a
verse too long. The punctuation leaves either a lot to be desired,
or is intentional and, therefore, eccentric -- you have to read
some sentences twice to realise that they have finished. But
as the volume progresses, through the moving Requiem and on
to the elegant closing poem Parting In Winter: 'We eat and drowse
--/I feel closer/To what I will not, can not, know', the reader
is left with a faint sense that the poet longs for a more uncomplicated
age, while coming to terms with what the modern world demands
and offers. It's an enjoyable read, too. And certain of the
poems affected me, like a good movie or a haunting piece of
music can. Now, over to you, the reader."
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