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- Herausgeber: Carcanet Poetry
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Oli Hazzard's third collection emerges from the daily disarray of care and work, nature and technology. Its ambitious, formally various poems extract 'the ore / from boredom', as memory—personal, familial, social, historical—and the collective memory of poetry itself are wrenched out of shape by dramatic disruptions in rhythm, space and scale. The sadness and pain of forgetting is here too, alongside its unexpected forms of potential. The title, borrowed from the Lutheran hymn that inspired a Bach cantata, catches the book's dreamy, kaleidoscopic, cross-temporal dialogues. Through satirical, allusive, tender, hopeful poems, Sleepers Awake makes spaces for intimacy with the reader, arguing 'through an off-key melody / for the jovial texture of batshit relations, for the pleasure of live-drawing in sceptical company'.
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SLEEPERS AWAKE
Oli Hazzard is the author of two books of poems, Between Two Windows (Carcanet, 2012) and Blotter (Carcanet, 2018), a book of literary criticism, John Ashbery and Anglo-American Exchange: The Minor Eras (Oxford University Press, 2018), and a novel, Lorem Ipsum (Prototype Publishing, 2021). He lives in Glasgow, and teaches at the University of St Andrews.
also by oli hazzard from carcanet
Blotter (2018)Between Two Windows (2012)
First published in Great Britain in 2024 byCarcanetAlliance House, 30 Cross StreetManchester, M2 7AQwww.carcanet.co.uk
Text copyright © Oli Hazzard 2024
The right of Oli Hazzard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988; all rights reserved.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN: 978 1 80017 300 2
The publisher acknowledges financial assistance from Arts Council England.
CONTENTS
Progress: Real and Imagined
Postpositivity in Spring
Living, etc.
Dingdingdinggedicht
Earth From
Wanting Another
Earth IV
Sleepers Awake
Not Ley Lines
Theory of the Lyric
Henohenomoheji
Buttery Whataboutery
Rosemary in Time
The Opera Buffa Buff, Biff, Sounded Dead
Love Hack
May Face
On Not Being Able to Write
Composed at Erdberg
Not Yet
Incunabulum
Acknowledgments
for Ned and Frank and Tess
SLEEPERS AWAKE
PROGRESS: REAL AND IMAGINED
Why, stand under and understand is all one.The Two Gentlemen of Verona
For a long time
I wondered
what’s all this juice for?
to bring us closer?
to touch or meet
you here
in this
small downed
“room”
take
the sensation
of eyes
moving
as a totem
alive and googling
the anonymous green blossom
humming in the air
out of frame.
O, Johannes
there you are
a little word
for the prose
are we to piece
together a spillage
on the
“still page”
so
an ache
still may take
place
in public?
§
location, plate
just
happy to live
from work
in the “milky
circle”
the light is matte
on my hand
on my crook
My clap is
how many
motets
nuanced
by
the gross
interiors of
freshly transparent
minsters
to bump eyes
on, take
dictation
from
the lordliest
pace of
field activity
from which
senile
snailshell
an irritating
if melismatic
churning noise
emerges
§
Go back a bit
to hover-read
the sharpened block
for rain to be “tomentose”.
The day is itchy
with desire not
to show how much
I wants to show
it said to myself,
hoping to be
overthrow
“Morning plaza”
wet grass
glass
recycling
overflow.
I seemed to wander
in a specious field,
the canal as clear
as +1,
the bus late.
The medieval poet remains
a leisure deity
bizarre, I accept.
I fancied
“Britishness”
evenly
distributed
among arrow keys
space bar
drizzling lightly
inside
a pause in
applause.
Reading Peppa Pig
upside down
difficulty bludgeons
me as memorable
my own performance
of exhaustion
memorable.
News of
knives
and forks
neuter of contrafactus
I remember the shadow
of the bank headquarters
as an enormous
see-through parfait
5pm “unfolding”
a moot song
§
mute the time
and something in
creases inside me
unfolds
a clear aesthetic goal:
secure what
the historical pet
felt like
here we are
at capacity
the slump between
clarity and
unhappiness
trivial reprieve
if you’re happy
and you know it
is it worth it
son
plugged into
song
“Nothing more real
Than boredom—”Oppen
a feeling
of ob
long:
dreamlessness
lessness
ness
§
gardener father
teacher mother
shapes of
non-human
exactness
put this down
pick this up
a fresh
I can barely put
the dishes away
kind of aesthetic
tiny brown, black,
white and beige dots
the nail of my index finger
an injury pitched
just below the threshold
of interest
voice breaking
in ten-minute previews
my own sexual “style”
is to encourage
and complain
at the same time
a flickering, momentary
hallucination
I have no idea why
light changes
pavement
swallows
last leaf bits
capsize in
eczemary air
nothing is so beautiful
as when you say
ok, reluctantly
you can tell me
your funded dream
about daylight
§
Thursday’s
daily buffering
of quondam form
beleagurable sense
last night
one or the other
stirred, coughed, or wept
in his sleep
this morning
the ample shadow
of the maple
gums the pavement
staring at people
longingly or sadly
from a distance
of eight inches
an almost
physically painful task
like suddenly yourself
brushed you
and shushed
still waiting
for something
to cling
to the latticework
of the feeling
§
Blue light
Green leaf
A whole useless
Sensory life
IP: 31.81.239.234
Timestamp: 2020-06-04 11:
11:30 UTC
For a long time
exhaustion
and its ostentatious display
were a big part
of the work. For a long time
§
the labour
was thinking about
the fictional workplace
the “thinking”
doesn’t happen in
True, by that point
the object is
swallowed by language
though by that point
language has itself
become an object, so
There is a way
to be exact
and at the same time stupid
A commonplace
Where I am
Strange like the
ballooning
nimbus
Where you have
just a few memories
A special rejection
of the recently discovered
Ears of Earth
Where
Is it worth it
here I appear to pause
§
Here in pose
a pear appears
I put that in
to make it
more hummy
is it worth it
the daily catastrophe
of the camouflage
bigger than the head
what is being done and
only just in plain sight
an historic address
in anachronistic dress
True, childhood
was a weak creation
Avoiding work, however
Book 1 previews
in late August.
Fold the pages, cut them
and stuff into the mouth and eyes.
Thus
accidents and poetry
descend directly from the sky
fluting my phone
yodelling in the bean-flower
Trying to remember
the basics
Trying to remember
“spring is
a bourgeois
climate”
Boris
fucking
Becker
§
Once again
only one form:
theft, or
dramatization
of a dogmatic theory
or
wait
for light
to detail
Tuesday air.
Ah ok. So it’s
picket donutFebruary
and death is
“a medium of exemplary blandness”
which represents an opportunity
for “new forms of expressiveness”
so said the designated driver.
So I said
something so familiar like
with staying up
to date
am I even able
to close my eyes??
But someone looked at me
today through the window
and my insides capsized
O Johannes
reflect
on that. White glove
flouting the form
twatting a thrush
straight out the sky
poetry without any ideas in it
brimming with a real stupidity
Little dots of brownish white
flicked against the pane and dried.
Paddled
Mottled
Lake—sweet
§
Extracting the ore
from boredom . . .
Listening to the language
talking to itself
To alter what it says
I write myself to sleep
Where I am moved slightly
by analogue
Music, by analogy
with scratches, striations
In the four
seasons, the only music
I’ve ever heard . . .
It’s like there was actually no information
to be had
except what you doodle
while on the landline.
What kind of child
was anyone?
I don’t really hear him
except when
I confuse
with myself
you. Does it really
feel like this
where we are
nose to nose
in an aluminium
drum. A transparent sphere
living coloured
in. Feels tight
in the aluminium drum
of the memory
of the things I liked.
“Confusion is painful—
spacious.” What if
every time you laughed
you were sick . . . ?
I was writing this in bed
the children thrown to sleepMayer
and thought I heard rain
and then out the window
though it took a while
the trees started to nod.
For a long time
I was trying to visualise
a long and tangled root system
a signature in the soil
when you asked
if I was listening.
Days pass . . .
It has something to do
with this
this glitch
upon which
this has come
to depend
§
