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Peter Redgrove’s ‘Tapestry Moths’
by
Jo
Furber
Peter
Redgrove has acquired a formidable reputation as being a poet who wrote too
much; the implication being that quantity must necessarily be at the expense of
quality. In a career spanning nearly sixty years he produced over seventy
collections of poetry, prose, drama and non-fiction, a small number of which
were written in collaboration with his partner, the poet Penelope Shuttle. As I
hope to demonstrate, far from indicating that he merely churned out poem after
poem, Redgrove’s remarkable output is a reflection of his fascination with the
processes of the natural world and his conviction that these constant
transformations are analogous with the creation of the written word. By focusing
on just one poem - 'Tapestry
Moths'from his 1977
collection From Every Chink of the Ark
it
will become apparent just how painstakingly he crafts his poems, illustrating
the wonder and delight with which he approaches his subject matter. ‘Tapsetry
Moths’ articulates a number of Redgrove’s chief preoccupations and offers an
insight into his view of the world as an ongoing process. For the reader
unfamiliar with Redgrove’s poetry it offers an exciting introduction to his
work and also begs the question of his critical neglect, which I shall address
briefly before turning to the poem; for as Philip Hobsbaum states, ‘Tapestry
Moths’ is “a masterpiece that no one should have overlooked” 2.
As a white, middle class male poet, albeit one writing from the margins –
Redgrove spent much of his life in Cornwall and published widely with smaller
presses such as Stride as well as with larger, London-based companies –
Redgrove is unfashionable. Although highly regarded by his peers, there is, for
example, only one full-length academic study of his work, Neil Roberts’
perceptive The Lover, The Dreamer and The World: The Poetry of Peter Redgrove
(Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994). Other factors in the comparatively
little critical attention given to Redgrove seem to include his prolificness,
which could appear off-putting (though the three fine selected editions of his
work preclude this argument 3
) and his aforementioned decision to publish with smaller presses. He is also
perceived to be a ‘difficult’ poet who demands of the reader that they be
active, though this is surely something that should be approached as a challenge
rather than an obstacle, not least as it places him within the tradition of
writers such as Dylan Thomas, whose complex and syntactically dense early work
was until recently frequently passed over in favour of later, and seemingly more
accessible, poems such as ‘Fern Hill’ and ‘Do not go gentle into that good
night’. Although
less formally adventurous than his later work, such as 2002’s The Virgil
Caverns,4 where
he successfully employs the technique of stepped verse, ‘Tapestry Moths’
draws together a number of the strands of thought, belief and methods that are
woven throughout Redgrove’s poetry. Redgrove uses a number of key symbols and
motifs throughout his oeuvre to articulate his world view, from doors, mirrors
and stairs to those taken directly from the natural world, principally the sun
and moon, apples, mud, water, bees and wasps, spiders, flies and moths. As a
result of his education as a natural scientist, Redgrove has a particular way of
observing the world, focusing on it both as a writer and as a scientist, and in
so doing melding terminology informed by both areas and refusing to keep them
separate. Broadly speaking, the central tenet of his belief system is that
everything is connected in life and in death, as all entities
consist of molecules and waves of energy. Furthermore, everything has a purpose
– a corpse fertilises new growth, for example - and nothing is static. This
philosophy of constant movement, change and flux sets up a creative tension
between itself and any assumptions of a poem being a closed and completed
object: Redgrove responds to the world and therefore literature as an endless
process, so texts (his own and those written by others) like matter can be
recycled and reinterpreted. These beliefs underpin his entire output and his
attitude that literature is in flux is demonstrated when the subjects of early
poems are revisited in later pieces, and when separate poems may be read as a
continuation of other works. In
‘Tapestry Moths’ the moths are the enablers of this process of movement and
change, as they eat the cloth pictures, thereby “[c]arry[ing] the conceptions
of artists away” and disseminating the vision of these artists far beyond the
confines of Hardwick Hall. The poem opens: I
know a curious moth, that haunts old buildings, A
tapestry moth, I saw it at Hardwick Hall, ‘More
glass than wall’ full of great tapestries laddering And
bleaching in the white light from long windows. Redgrove’s
choice of words and phrases for their multiple meanings is a feature of this
poem, exemplified in the use of “curious” in the first line of the poem. The
moths are both inquisitive, and also worthy of investigation and examination
themselves: they are at once actively exploring their surroundings and being
observed as singular and slightly peculiar insects by the speaker, whose bold
claim that he “know[s]” them is thrown into doubt further into the poem. The
layering of different dictions that is also typical of the poem is evident in
the insertion of the popular assonantal jingle “Hardwick Hall, more glass than
wall”. Furthermore, this acts to highlight the significance of the location of
the tapestries and the processes of change that are constantly at work on them
from the “bleaching” light. Considered revolutionary in its time for the
eccentric, showy and costly size of its numerous windows, the Elizabethan
stately home Hardwick Hall was important architecturally as it marked a
transitional point between medieval fortified houses and more open, exposed
homes. The transparency of the windows is used by Redgrove throughout the poem
to make the point that the windows let the inside out, as well as the outside
in. The glass thus acts as a filter between indoors and outdoors, and whilst
suggesting clarity it can also distort, and forms a boundary which can be
traversed and transcended by the moth and by the poem. Furthermore, with its
reputation for spectacular displays of vividly detailed tapestries, Hardwick
Hall is an atmospheric site for the opening of the poem. These
four intital lines highlight the apparently destructive qualities of the light
with the use of “bleaching” which is then compounded by the connotations of
“laddering”, which convey not only the size of the tapestries and of the
high-ceilinged rooms in which they are displayed, but also indicates the damage
caused by the light and the moths: to ladder a pair of tights is to ruin them.
This also introduces a different kind of material into the fabric of the poem.
Different ways of seeing and observing are evoked in the next section: I
saw this moth when inspecting one of the cloth pictures Of
a man offering a basket of fresh fruit through a portal To
a ghost with other baskets of lobsters and pheasants nearby When
I was amazed to see some plumage of one of the birds Suddenly
quiver and fly out of the basket Leaving
a bald patch on the tapestry, breaking up as it flew away. A
claw shifted. The ghost’s nose escaped. I realised It
was the tapestry moths that ate the colours like the light Limping
over the hangings, voracious cameras, And
reproduced across their wings the great scenes they consumed Or
carried off never to be joined again or packed into microscopic eggs Or
to flutter like fragments of old arguments through the unused kitchens Settling
on pans and wishing they could eat the glowing copper The
moving pictures on the wings of the moth give this section of the poem a
cinematic effect, amd contribute to the endless potential reincarnations of the
original “conceptions of artists”. These fragments of tapestry can be hung
in the woods instead of within a building, form the basis for a new generation
of insects or become animated with their desire to eat the “glowing copper”
pans in “the unused kitchens” of an old building. Again, the lines are
tightly bound by assonantal patterning, here in the use of “Carrying”,
“hang”, “carried”, “packed”, “fragments” and “pans”. The
focus of the following extract of the poem remains with the moths and their own
miraculous process of transformation, and the assonance is continued with
“lamb-faced”, “pane”, “flaming” and “braid”: The
lamb-faced moth with shining amber wool dust-dabbing the pane Flocks
of them shirted with tiny fleece and picture wings The
same humble mask flaming in the candle or on the glass bulb Scorched
unwinking, dust-puff, disassembled; a sudden flash among the hangings Like
a window catching the sun, it is a flock of moths golden from eating The
gold braid of the dress uniforms, it is the rank of the family’s admirals Taking
wing, they rise Out
of horny amphorae… In
a device used frequently elsewhere in his work, Redgrove invests the moths with
the characteristics of, or associations with, other animals. Here, the
“flocks” of the “lamb-faced moth[s]” coated in the “wool” of their
“tiny fleece[s]” are bound even more closely with the woven fabric of the
tapestry, and thus of the poem. The use of light imagery that runs throughout
the poem is particularly prominent here, as the unsuspecting moths are drawn to
a variety of light sources that inadvertently – and without undue sentiment
expressed on the part of the speaker - cause their death. They become “a
sudden flash among the hangings” in life and in death as the old, candle-lit
world of Hardwick Hall is joined with the modern era of electricity. The warm
and evocative “glowing copper” of the pans that illuminated the previous
excerpt becomes the bright “gold braid” of the dress uniforms depicted in
the tapestry, and the moths themselves become “the rank of the family’s
admirals / Taking wing”. The actions of the moths are bound closely with that
of their pupae in this section with the use of “they rise”, which relates to
both the caterpillars and the mature moths of the previous section: Taking
wing, they rise Out
of horny amphorae, pliable maggots, wingless they champ The
meadows of fresh salad, the green glowing pilasters Set
with flowing pipes and lines like circuits in green jelly Later
they set in blind moulds all whelked and horny While
the moth-soup inside makes itself lamb-faced in The
inner theatre with its fringed curtains, the long-dressed Moth
with new blank wings struggling over tapestry, drenched with its own
birth-juices The
immature moths are connected with the vibrant pastoral scene depicted in the
tapestry; here the “fresh salad” echoes the “fresh fruit” of the
beginning of the poem, as the caterpillars eat the real greenery before
discovering the representations of food in the tapestry. The use of food
continues with “green jelly” and “moth-soup”, the former of which is
shot through with the imagery of electricity in the powerful, transforming
“pipes and lines like circuits”. The preponderance of /l/ sounds –
“wingless”, “salad”, “glowing”, “pilasters”, “flowing”,
“lines like” “jelly”, “later”, “blind moulds” “whelked”,
“lamb”, “long-dressed”, “blank” – continues the patterning used
throughout the opening stanzas, weaving closely together the processes
undertaken by the moth at the beginning and nearer the end of its life. Before
gaining the freedom offered by flight, the immature moths must leave the
confines of their “horny amphorae” and “blind moulds all whelked and
horny”. The drama of this story of transformation is played out in the
“inner theatre” of the pupae; its “fringed curtains” and the creation of
“long-dressed” moths introduce other kinds of fabric whilst recalling the
“lamb-faced” moths previously described. The moth literally becomes a
container in which to hold itself as it grows and transforms. Similarly to the
“[l]imping” light/moths previously described they are delicate and fragile,
“struggling over tapestry” before they suddenly “quiver and fly off”.
Furthermore, like a sheet of paper waiting to be written upon, the wings of the
moths are “new” and “blank”, waiting to be immersed in art, or to become
part of the food chain: Tapestry
enters the owls, the pipistrelles, winged tapestry That
flies from the hall in the night to the street lamps, The
great unpicturing wings of the nightfeeders on moths Mute
their white cinders … and a man, Selecting
a melon from his mellow garden under a far hill, eats, Wakes
in the night to a dream of one offering fresh fruit, Lobsters
and pheasants through a green fluted portal to a ghost. It
is ironic, though central to the poem and to Redgrove’s philosophy, that the
moth’s attraction to light frequently causes its death, whether directly or
via the “nightfeeders”. This process is vividly described as their “great
unpicturing wings” “[m]ute their white cinders”. The use of “mute” –
foregrounded by its position at the start of the line - is crucial, as it
implies that the moth/tapestry/art is not snuffed out, rather altered and
continued in a different form. As always with Redgrove, nothing is static and
everything is constantly renewing itself and the world around it. In
this final section, the rich colours of the tapestry, and of the poem, are drawn
together here, from the brightness of the lobsters and the plumage of the
pheasants to the vivid green of the fruit – the melon from the garden and the
fresh fruit of the tapestry. All are viewed through the “green fluted
portal” woven into the tapestry which also becomes, in a sense, the poem, the
portal through which the reader sees. The moths become more than themselves as
they are described as “tapestry” and then as “winged tapestry”. The
circularity at the end of the poem is emphasised by the repetition of the scene
depicted on the tapestry through the dream of a man “under a far hill”. The
moths have broken down the boundaries of time and distance. This endless cycle
is not only suggested by the repetition at the end of the poem but by the lack
of full stops throughout the main body of the text. The processes of recycling
and renewal are indicated by the succession of images that flow through the poem
unchecked; the artful use of commas relates each clause to its predecessor and
even the end of one stanza and start of the next are intended to be read as a
continuation of each other rather than as more contained units. Like
the owls and pipistrelles, the man at the close of the poem is a nightfeeder, as
the moths, the tapestry and their joint story become his dream and the story is
mediated again. His dream becomes the poem: he dreams art. This links him, of
course, with the speaker at the opening of the poem who observes and introduces
the moths. A further connection is made with the use of the word “haunts” in
the first line and the last word of the poem, “ghost”. The moths and the
ghost both haunt in the day and at night, transcending boundaries and
disseminating art. For
Redgrove, then, there is no essential distinction to be made between the
destructive and creative capacities of the moth: they are all part of the same
process. The moths are facilitators, rather than the creators of something new,
and this is indicated by the circlur structure of the poem, 5 and
as Pawling comments, “[t]he circularity is beautifully achieved so that the
ghost seems to be a presence belonging to both past and future, a being who has
faded in order to re-emerge” 6.
The tapestries are kept alive by the moths and the conceptions of artists are
carried far away from Hardwick Hall and from the originating imagination of the
artists to re-emerge “in a dream of one offering fresh fruit, / Lobsters and
pheasants through a green fluted portal to a ghost.” copyright
© Jo Furber
Jo
Furber completed an MPhil on the poetry of Peter Redgrove in 2003. She is the
Dylan Thomas Project Officer at Swansea's Dylan Thomas Centre. 1
Hobsbaum, ‘After Barbarism – the later poetry of Peter Redgrove’. Poetry
Review (71: 2-3, September 1981, 54- 2
Sons of My Skin: Selected Poems. Edited by Marie Peel. (London: Routledge
& Kegan Paul, 1975); Poems, 1954-1987. (London: Penguin, 1989); and Selected
Poems. (London: Cape, 1999). 3
The Virgil Caverns (London: Cape, 2002) 4
This is in contrast to Redgrove’s depiction of spiders and bees, who are
creators of webs/poems and honey/words respectively – please see, for example,
his poems ‘My Father’s Spider’ (Poems 1954 – 1987) 147, ‘Or was that
when I was grass’ (Poems 1954 – 1987) 117, and ‘Enýpnion’ (Assembling a
Ghost, London, Cape, 1996), 15 for good examples of this.
5
Geoffrey Pawling :‘Towards Eleusis – the Vision of Death in Peter
Redgrove’s Poetry’ (Poetry Review (71:2-3) September 1981), 41-44,
page 44. Pawling is here quoting what he wrote on first reading ‘Tapestry
Moths’. His other remarks on the poem are also pertinent: “[it is a] finely
achieved … vision of past and future entwining …. The tapestries, products
of the long dead, are fading; in age they gain a new profundity – an idea the
poem offers without ever deserting its succession of images”. |