Last Saturday saw the Poetry Book Fair in London’s Conway Hall. The Fair brought a veritable menagerie of independent publishing talent together under one off, from the big beasts to the small and curious creatures. One such publisher was Sidekick Books – I picked up Riotous, a collection of sonnets by founder-editors Jon Stone and Kirsten Irving, themed around the animals in a Tropical Zoo at Hounslow Urban Farm, whose website currently leads with the delightful headline ‘THE WAIT IS OVER, OUR DONKEY MAGGIE HAS FINALLY GIVEN BIRTH TO A BEAUTIFUL FOAL‘. Irving’s poem ‘Military Macaw’ is one of many highlights in a bright and beautiful hand-bound modern bestiary which playfully tests the limits of anthropomorphism.
by Kirsten Irving
Oh Tickle. Horn claws shackled to my flesh,
your grass and fuchsia uniform worn fine
around your middle, in a greying sash,
you’re part-lieutenant, part-sad Valentine.
For 15 years you’ve nursed her memory;
her small-skulled nuzzle, posture like a prow,
you two pressed close in cameraderie;
bright skittles, or two apples on a bough.
Her name was never LouLou; that was theirs,
and yours was different too, though ‘Tickle’ does,
and we’re not her, not one of us who offers
our limb to you, yet still you come to us.
At leaving time, you scratch and peck so fierce
and squawk her name, and hope somehow she hears.
Most poetry about animals is zoopsychological guesswork. Macaws might mimic human speech, but they don’t know what they’re saying, and this tantalising suggestion of kinship aside, they share in the opacity of their fellow subjects in the animal kingdom. Being like us and not like us, the impenetrable mystery of the inner lives of other species is a fruitful source of human creativity. Riotous features multiple mentions of its chosen creatures’ eyes, the windows to that shuttered inner world, but there’s no soul-gazing here. Instead we start with a name: the cutesy ‘Tickle’, apostrophised by Irving with what reads half as tenderness, half as commiseration.
Though it’s another, pulling in a different direction, which determines our initial filters – the species name, ‘Military Macaw’, frames Irving’s visual presentation of the bird – the ‘uniform’ and ‘sash’ of a lovelorn ‘part-lieutenant’, whose late partner evokes the ‘prow’ of a naval vessel and who together shared the ‘cameraderie’ of a close-knit unit. Until the very end of the poem, Tickle is only spoken to and spoken about, his loss vicariously mourned. This version of the macaw is created by and bound to its observer – ‘shackled to my flesh’ – who parcels her interpretation into ‘part’s.
The missing LouLou is a further flight of fancy from the perch of empirical bird-fact: dead fifteen years before the speaker enters the scene, her lovingly-recreated ‘posture’ can only be an imaginative construct. It might be due to this necessary invention that Irving’s sound devices are most concentrated in the description of the couple side-by-side: three lines full of doubled letters – ts, ls, zs, the alliterative cs and ps – conjure up this inseparable pair, and the l-sound flutters all the way through ‘small-skulled nuzzle’, ‘skittles’, ‘apples’, ‘like’ and ‘close’, preparing us for our introduction to ‘LouLou’ herself.
Irving’s paean to this avian affection sets things up for the poem’s volta; giving these lovers their due requires honesty, so in three plain and paralleled phrases (‘her name was never LouLou […] yours was different too […] and we’re not her’) the speaker sweeps away all traces of rose-tinted sentiment to admit the mere fact of absence, and our own inability to understand how it might be processed by beings whose experience of the world remains utterly beyond our grasp. Shut out from their presumed internal forms of communication, what each empathising visitor ‘offers’ must be as tentative as that word itself held out over a line-break; Tickle’s continued willingness to engage (‘yet still you come to us’) under these circumstances elicits a quiet, puzzled wonder.
‘Leaving time’, at which the poem ends, is another wholly human construction; it’s a fair bet that Tickle will be staying put, and the prospect of a new abandonment produces such agitation that for the first time in the sonnet, the macaw finds his own voice, an eruption of sound which is here indissociable from violence. We can’t know, of course, if it’s ‘her name’ he’s squawking, or if macaws have a concept of ‘hope’ – but compared to the impossibility of LouLou’s hearing, these practicalities seem like mere quibbles.
Using animal comparisons to help us understand our own behaviour has a long tradition: the medieval art historian Michael Camille, in Image on the Edge, seems convinced that cartoon monkeys appear so frequently in manuscript illuminations because ‘the ape came to signify the dubious status of representation itself, le singe being an anagram for le signe – the sign.’ But we don’t need to go that far to realise that Irving’s reading of Tickle the macaw’s response to loss has a lot to show us about our own.