Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín by Oisín Breen - A @WeeklyScribe Guest Interview

The Curator of our @WeeklyScribe account this week has been the fabulous Oisín Breen, who is celebrating the release of his newest book of poetry, Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems. He gave us this fantastic interview about his new book; his relationship with poetry; and words of wisdom for poets at the start of their journey.

Read on, poetry-lovers...

Please introduce yourself and your book.

Thank you. Well, in purely declarative terms, I’m an Irishman, the sound, meaning, history and myth of my country is in the bones, so when it comes to the poetic, I am precisely the opposite of what in my own brain I call the ‘English’ style, though to be fair it stretches over the oceans, too, namely a cool, crisp, reserved, dry, acerbic, minimalist approach to writing. I’m no minimalist whatsoever. Lord, I don’t even believe in it. A poem or a story without a journey, without arc (I mean if you think of the theorist Todorov and minimal narratives, how can you not think of waves?), without music, without that, yeah it can  be excellent, and for some it’s the correct way to write, especially based on a honed craft, but the idea that it is essential, or generally ‘right’, smacks of the same horrific attitude that seems to imply that people who sleep seven hours a day between 9pm and 4am are somehow superior to people who sleep seven hours a day between 2am and 9am… There’s a strange prudishness to the minimalist that is shared by the morning person. So, yes, one part of who I am is someone who believes that how one gets somewhere is just as important as the actual getting there (although, until planes, and society more generally revisits the whole build things for people between 5’3 and 5’7 thing, certain parts of ‘travel’ remain quite frustrating as a 6’3 man – odious architects! -- actually, so does even soup eating, default table size standards ensure to punish us with a far larger distance twixt spoon and mouth for our brains to navigate (pity more the giants, and I’m thinking of one in particular)) … 

Beyond the prattle on minimalism, I suppose there are other declarative things I ought to explain about myself. I’m 37, though I’ve been convinced all year I’m 38. I’m born, bred, raised in Dublin, although I live in Edinburgh at present, while completing a part time PhD (narratology), I’m a poet, I’m a financial journalist, I snuggle often with Hessell, a very sweet and gentle rabbit, with an air of mischief, I’m lucky to be known and liked, and to know and love, a beautiful lady... 

I’m, quite naturally, one for books, partial to long walks (just flat, no giant up-hill defeat nature attitudes, here, I have no urge to conquer nature whatsoever), endless chatting, jazz, classical…  a deep believer in the value of friendship … all that. 

More important, however, is the book, Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín, which is my second full collection, this time with Beir Bua Press, a small wee Irish press that’s getting an ever growing reputation for plucking excellent picks out of the air, so hat is always tipped to Michelle. 

My first collection, the very well received Flowers, All Sorts in Blossom, Figs, Berries, and Fruits Forgotten, was the first since the return of Hybrid Press, under the Dreich/HybridDreich moniker, thanks to Jack Caradoc, so again, hat tipped there. 

In literal terms, this new book, Lilies, is a collection of two long-form poems, and four medium-length works, all pulled together, as best I thought possible, to fit the ‘Beir Bua’ MO. 

But again, perhaps highlighting my belief that ‘literal terms’ aren’t always the most accurate way of thinking, all that really tells you is that there’s a lot of paper, a lot of ink, and a certain nod to the realities of publishing. It could be the synopsis to an art house interpretation of a Jimmy Stewart movie. 

More accurate is to say that Lilies is a collection of six works, two of which are long-form, through which I do my best to honour a combination of friendship, kinship, musicality, motherlove/fatherlove/love/kinlove, fear, doubt, loss, the myth and magic that still bubbles in all but the most prosaic of us … and ach …

But of the pieces themselves … one (the second) speaks, or at least I hope speaks, to the way in which we can be totally all encompassing swallowed as a spirit, soul, and flesh by love, how it can inch into every pore and swallow us up, beautifully, sadly, horrifically, and, also joyously. It’s certainly one of the most musical pieces I’ve ever written, and if you pick up the book, you’ll see why! 

The first long poem in the work was inspired by my oldest friend’s sad sad loss of his mother several years ago. He stood so proudly and strongly at the funeral. Rock solid, fun, sweet, laughing, joking, being wise, being attentive… ach, he truly did a superb job, and she would have been hugely proud looking on… but, at the committal, when the curtain fell, I saw him split into two. One word leapt to my face: ‘godstruck’, and in the end that look, that knowing, that soulfulness prove the spark that drove ‘Lilies’ the poem. Thankfully he loves the work, or I’d have been in hot water. The piece itself then blends that concept, and motherloss, and the sexuality of a young woman and her courtier – something we often forget of mothers and fathers – and then it all seemed to naturally weave into the Irish myth cycle of Todchmarc Etine. 

The latter four works, I’ll leave as a surprise, though I have spoken on them a tad before. 

To return to a summation… The book is its own thing. I tried to put all the craft I could, at the time of writing it, into it. I don’t believe in the idea that a book should be ‘authentic’, hell, I mainly believe we’re a host of multiplicities all convening to create temporal composites of interactive ‘identities’ that coalesce and diverge, so I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as authentic at all. But I find the strange obsession in modern writing to believe authenticity is key, to be utterly daft. That which is real is, also, ironically, also far better expressed through magic, exaggeration, play, music… than it is in recapitulation and the banality of our own singularity when put up against the universe. 

The book, narrated (in one interpretation) by Ailil Angubae, but with a superpower (I’m reckoning no one will figure that bit out), is, ultimately, if you’re on the side of Frege (‘Über Sinn und Bedeutung’), an opera. 

The book, if you’re more on the Russell side of the whole connotation/denotation shift, then Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín is 52 pages (plus covers), paperback bound -- weighing extra, due to indentations of ink -- which contains words that mean things, depending on context, that, if you appreciate the musical in poetry, you will enjoy.

 From where do you draw your inspiration? Does it vary for different poems?

Woof… right, this is one of those simple, not simple, simple questions isn’t it?

So the first part of this question is the implicit, do I believe in the ‘inspired poet’, who writes like a flight of fancy, the whole Victorian myth of association, or Plato and the ‘light and winged thing’ (albeit with no voting), the Coleridge infinite ‘IAM’; or, conversely, do I come down on the Stephen King (all aspiring writers should read his On writing though) hammer, hammer, hammer out those words way of things… 

The inspired poet? Nah, the very idea that a person can only write when they have the ‘moment’ shows a distinct unwillingness on behalf of that person to cultivate craft, and I’d bet money they don’t like editing, editors, collaboration, and have a thinnish skin (so they hit an early break if they’re actually publishing). That said, do poets get inspired, Christ yes. There’s a million times you can just go oh, and there it is, and hopefully you have enough autonomy in the day in question to grab that poem by the horns and wrestle it/caress it into fruition. Poets should, I think, also work to allow themselves to develop a way of thinking, and living, and doing, that suits giving themselves opportunity to be inspired. Indeed, part of my attitude on ‘the inspired poet’ is just that. Without work, the inspiration will falter, it’s just thermodynamics… There’s only so much that you can create without connection.

But, equally, the whole hammer and tongs, hell for leather, go go go go… yeah I don’t believe in that either. Mainly because quality suffers. Some people find it helpful, some don’t, but half of what you’ll do is waste time on busywork. Like with most things, it comes down to mentality. Personally, I much prefer spending more time traipsing, pottering, thinking, musing, mulling, then getting my hands dirty. 

So, perhaps, on this, I’m a bonafide fence sitter. 

I think I’m okay with that. 

As for more general inspiration, hmmm… probably a simple mixture of observation (both internal and external), and research. If you don’t find inspiration in what you see, smell, touch, hear, remember, feel, think over, rethink, rethink twice, re-experience and experience… Well, you’re not a poet, you’re also probably living in some kind of sensory deprivation nightmare. But, I think a lot of writers also miss a trick in research. One poem in this new book deals with the tragedy of mass puffin die-offs, another with the difficulty ducks face in rearing their young… I’d thought of the two things, and felt for the two things, but then, equally, I dug in, did my research, learned a lot about these things, and then wrote, an informed, and I think developed, piece; whereas, say, 15 years ago I’d have found that something I just couldn’t fathom doing. So yeah, research and thoroughness to detail is a wonder, but that has to blend with observation and experience. Hell, in my current WIP, I went as far as finding out the exact closest bar to a location I needed, the exact physical distance between the location of the poem’s protagonist and the bar, the bar’s founding date, what type of wood its actual bar is made of, and what’s typically kept behind the bar. Why? It felt right. 

Lastly, on that sort of thing, I should say, however, that once one has that level of depth, none of it is sacrosanct. I believe poetry, and art in general, has no duty to (or benefit from) plain truth. That’s not to say that it can’t be true, but that truth is not a prerequisite to art. There is absolutely no need for authenticity to impact quality. If the bar, say, is mahogany, but that doesn’t fit the vision, or the word-flow, it changes… If the reality is that at one time I leaned in and… or that I didn’t. It’s irrelevant. The master of a poet, for me, is the poem, not the truth, and the soul of the piece in progress is the biggest inspiration.

Do you work with music? Have you every considered your poems leaving the page and becoming song lyrics?

Oh, lord, hmm… generally no. I  do like the sound of people talking in cafés, and I do a lot of my writing out and about in cafés and bars… But no, when I was more of a dilettante, yes I did, but now, no, I focus on the singularity ahead ;). 

For prose, I often put on a bit of minimalist classical, so your Einaudis, Glasses and so on and so forth (there’s some great newer stuff in this genre, from Obel to Christl, and loads more, and some great well known stuff obviously that I didn’t mention)… but only for editing. 

For poetry, and for journalism, I honestly can’t/couldn’t listen to music. For the journalism because the beats are sharp, fast, and different to song, and because it’s about clarity. For poetry, well that would make no sense, then my own music would be harder to hear. Poetry is music.

As to leaving the page and becoming song lyric? No, not at all. 

I do love, as my lady, and many of my friends also do, freestyling and singing songs around the kitchen table. We set each other hard challenges… Most recently I had to sing a five minute piece about the emotional journey of an expensive bottle of sambuca bought 40 years ago but opened in late December, just before Christmas, perhaps on the 21st or 22nd… 

I also really respect great songwriters, though I see a lot less of them in society today (I have zero respect for pop music, or pop culture or pop poetry (Rupi Kaur’s work should live only as a what not to do lesson)), but I do, perhaps vaguely controversially, but perhaps not, find it impossible to consider song lyrics to be poetry. Nor do I consider poetry to be tantamount to lyric. 

They’re different forms. Sure, they communicate, and sure, at times there’s a deeper dialogue, but they’re different. Take Dylan, he’s one of the best (also entirely unwedded to authenticity) lyricists in history … Do I think Dylan is a poet? Absolutely not. I don’t think he deserved the Nobel at all, ‘as a poet’, as many seemed to argue he did. I have a sneaking suspicion, neither does he. That said, he’s sure worth his money as a Nobel-level songwriter. I just think he’s working in a different field, with a different approach. Still a sodding genius though. Love the man’s early/mid work.

I certainly couldn’t hack it writing doo-wop songs, or your general tearjerker indie/rock songs, I’d lose my mind in minutes.

Who (excluding yourself 😉), in your opinion, is the greatest poet of all time?

Impossible question to answer. Too many superb poets, take your pick from any of the ‘greats’, and we all know those lists, we might put them in different orders… there might be one or two I leave out and you don’t… I mean I don’t particularly rate ‘simple’ poetry, I’m also not actually a big fan of Plath, Bishop, or Dickinson, but would put Akhmatova, and, say Montale higher, for instance. Equally, my list would probably put Yeats, Heaney, Pound, Elliot, Ginsberg higher than many contemporary writers, and I’d probably push folk like O’Hara down (though he is great fun). I’d rate Coleridge above Wordsworth, Blake above Donne et al… But, more bluntly, I don’t believe there are ‘greatest’ X’s of all time, there are people who touch greatness, who achieve it, and they do it in their own indomitable way, with their own style, their own flair, and we’re just lucky to have the chance to appreciate all of them :) 

What is the hardest thing about writing poetry?

Ensuring you have the time to write it, given the collapse in readership meaning you can’t actually make a living off being, say, a writer of short stories, poetry and the odd novel, unless you’re very very lucky, or very willing to be very very poor. 

Also marketing, it’s not hard per sé, but it’s yet another example of how the mechanics of ‘democratization’ thanks to the web, well, how they actually suck. Lordy, to be a writer in the 50s… (yes I know really what I mean is to be a ‘male’ writer in the 50s, and I do really mean to be a ‘male’ writer in a wealthy nation from at least a lower middle class upbringing) … but a little bit of fantasy doesn’t go amiss … I’d love, as I’m sure we all would, to be simply expected to write things, then occasionally wheeled out here and there to say things while holding whiskey.

I should say, here, that I know how hard the above, too, is for small presses, for publishers in general nowadays… I’m sure, say, Michelle, or Jack, would absolutely love to have been able to spend six weeks focusing majoritively on a campaign to help their authors sell books, to include talks here and there, and presentations, and… but, like the rest of us, they have to hustle to do multiple things, earn bread, and then speak poetics, so hats tipped, hats off to the indies … One writes because one must, but the indie presses, they get a lot of grief, and not enough love, what they do is tough as nails (as it is for the journals like yourselves, too), and the only reward is in knowing one has helped something hopefully beautiful survive a little longer in the world.

What is the best thing about writing poetry?

Sorry to be glib, but enjoying words that succeed one and other in the best possible way.

What words of wisdom would you share with young poets who are just at the start of their journey?

Yikes. Uhm. Probably don’t do it. Don’t write the poem. 

Because then, if they do, you know they’ve been warned.

It’s a love. It’s the artistic equivalent of deciding to live in an 11th C hovel in terms of remuneration, readership, and support. You do it because not doing it makes you feel crap and doing it makes you feel good.

But, beyond that, I’d say the earlier you can screw your sensibilities the better. Throw literal truth out the window, then a. focus on just making words that go after the previous words in the best way your demesne, and b. do not have any ‘counterculture’ attitudes to getting stuck in on marketing, talking, meeting, chatting, and recognizing the wonder in people’s difference. You don’t own your work, you do own how you inculcate it.

And finally: why is poetry (specifically your new collection) important in today’s world?

Hah, it probably isn’t.

I mean, naturally, I believe it is. I think poetry is essential. It does something no other media can do, and hence it exists. 

Columns exist as one of the best ways to hold up a building. 

Poems exist as the best way to express the ephemeral of the visitation of meaning beyond the literal, but rooted both in language and in sound.

Poems are music. 

Poems are the only way words can do what music, partly, does, and they are the only medium where true equivocal sense, where connotation, meaning, play, all have literal foundations in a built world, but also have the interplay and connective power of song… 

There is no more truthful medium than poetry, particularly because it eschews direct representation. 

I can go on like this for hours. 

Poetry matters, because it is itself, and it is a unique means of us, being humans, being human together,  sharing together, interpreting reality together, finding and creating meaning, and, after all, meaning making is one of the things in the universe that matters most… We are storytellers, all, even if the sense is a bit flat in certain eras of the world. 

Poetry matters, because it is fire, and it is important for fire to burn…

But again, I return to my first point, it also doesn’t matter. 

Poetry matters if you choose to let it. If you choose to ascribe meaning, if you choose to let it do so, if you choose to believe that other humans matter, that connection matters… If you don’t, then … while we can get into an objectivist argument (and I probably ‘do’ believe poetry matters objectively … there’s little point to it.

As to my collection, why do I think it matters?

I think it matters in the sense that it’s a stonkingly fun read, that it is at times beautiful, that it is playful, musical, full of joy and love, and yeah, all the good stuff… 

But I also think it matters because it is unusual. It is different.

I have very little respect for certain styles of contemporary work, which I find soulless, empty, artless, and derivative, and more often than not, tantamount (as I’ve said before) to stand-up without the jokes, mixed together with a 12-year olds diary still being peddled by a thirty year old who never let old wounds heal… This sort of stuff, I feel, is best left on the therapist’s couch, or on the rain-wet ground outside a comedy venue.

So art that engages in form, style, play, music, meaning, and fights against the strange obsession with ‘self’ that dominates many areas of poetry, or the strange obsession, equally frustrating, among other writers to witter in endless ‘poet voice’ … egads. 

So, I’m not saying my work specifically matters alone in this, but I think the work of artists who refuse the strange swallowing consensus (a failed one if you look at sales/interest) of accessibility, simplicity… That work matters. 

Poetry is supposed to fly… too often at the moment it lingers in the utterly banal and overly personal. 

Does my work matter? As a real answer? No, of course it doesn’t. It matters to me, I believe it to be of high quality, and I think if you read it, that the work stands up to scrutiny, and creates beauty in your mind and body… But whether it matters or not is up for others to decide.

You can find Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems here!