Significant Other published by Carcanet (2019)
Isabel Galleymore’s debut collection for Carcanet, Significant Other, also visits the Amazon, although not the wreckage of a plane. In 2016 Galleymore was poet-in-residence at a research centre in the rainforest and her work is said to have a David Attenborough-ish feel. The comparison is not as pat as it seems – the best of Attenborough’s programmes capture the charming kookiness of the natural world and Galleymore too has an eye for the eccentricity and good-natured egocentrism of the creatures she writes about. In ‘The Starfish’, a “pentamerously-legged” fellow creeps “like expired meat” on the sea bed. While the starfish may seem bumbling – it is no more than a fat paw lumbering “fizzy-skinned” in search of a snack – appearances are not what they seem. The creature finds a mussel, cranks it open and turns it mercilessly to broth, leaving behind “a vacant cubicle, a prayer come apart”.
Galleymore sees the natural world through spectacles that seem sharper than those the rest of us use. So a riverbank is a “wig shop of moss” and bees are “bright / as liquorice all sorts”. A robin is “a house built / for coming weather / on stilts”. Cockles “wear their ribs inside out”. Barnacles are a “swamping thatch / of teeth”. A mollusc (Galleymore, it’s safe to say, loves molluscs) is a “tiny fracking rig / clocking in with its drill-tongue”. And in ‘Crab’ the writer helps us see this most ubiquitous of shellfish anew. It sits “like the lid of a pie”, crimped edges resting upon pincers and legs. Soon the creature outgrows its “bone clothes” and escapes its infrastructure. Newly nude, a lidless pie, it searches “for a hiding place / for the time it will take to scab over”.
Let it not be imagined, however, that Significant Other merely offers trips to the zoo or aquarium. Many of Galleymore’s best poems force moments of vertiginous inversion. In ‘The Scrotum Frog’, the speaker aspires to kiss her lover in the hope “he’ll turn into a frog”. She dreams of the “stranger with a wordless mouth,” installed wetly “among the reeds and crisp packets”. The lovely poem ‘Nuptials’ returns to the subject of amphibian love, depicting a frog that marries a drain, seduced by its “steely gills, / its shaggy walls and mind of flies”. The poem ‘Worm’, too, is joyfully topsy-turvy. The poet grants the “professional, silk-suited” being of its title long-denied power and agency. So a worm pushes “quietly and cleanly” from the soil, stands en pointe and attacks a bird’s yellow beak, jabbing the winged animal so aggressively the predator is “lifted from his feet”. A tussle ensues that the worm easily wins, hoisting its enemy into the sky.
A few poems plant their feet more squarely in the human world and I wish there had been more of these. ‘Choosing’ begins conventionally as paean to the wonders of nature; the speaker could never pick a favourite from the “eight million differently constructed hearts” that inhabit the planet so instead she chooses “to love them all”. Yet the poem veers into an intensely moving exploration of human loss – “sometimes I’d forget to touch you / and you, and you”, Galleymore writes. A different sort of “natural phenomenon” comes under the microscope: a dwindling, a forgetting, a quiet slinking away of love, until “it seemed you’d just popped out / for a pint of milk and now / nothing’s conjured hearing your name”.
Throughout the collection, a celebration of nature’s variety and strangeness chafes with an awareness of its precariousness. Man sets nature against nature, as in the gorgeous little poem, ‘The Ash’, worth quoting in full:
Like a single branch of ash
hones to the handle of an axe
and make to take the hand
of a woodsman as he throws
his body weight to fell
all the ash has sown,
I turn your words although
the line you spoke was simple.
The poem ‘Together’ similarly shows how an understanding of nature can translate and make sense of human behaviour. The writer depicts the extinguishing of a bond between two lovers who are together so often “it’s hard to see them apart / like the blade in the blade of grass”. They have lost their singular forms, become too “fluently familiar”.
Significant Other can be read as both a love-letter to non-human life and as a eulogy for it, for in many of the poems, the human is caught shouldering the non-human out. In ‘A Stranger’ the speaker finds herself in an unfamiliar town and asks where to catch a bus. She is told it leaves “from where the elms / once stood before the road was paved” and finds herself hunting for “some past felling”, an “old yawn in the earth”. It’s stirring, not only because the poem captures the relentless dismantling of the natural world to make way for the man-made – a bus stop – but because it suggests there is a human cost to all this replacement and destruction, too. For the stranger, the loss of the elms is a live one: she knows the spot where the elms once stood.
The poem ‘Harvest’, coming towards the end of the collection, offers at least some consolation and redress. A robin is shown carrying a tree in her stomach as a “handful of seeds”. She wordlessly sows a forest that men turn into “bows and arrows and shields”. Thus the bird helps to plant a battle. Meanwhile men blame one another for the bloodshed and attribute their fate to the “planets moving overhead”, forgetting the debt they owe to the natural world that fashioned their tools. But after the hubbub dies down, the birds get their due. A blackbird picks at the fruit the “armies had left”. The poem recalls the excerpt from Donna Haraway’s Companion Species Manifesto that kicks off the collection, which argues that we are “constitutively companion species”. Flesh to flesh, animal to animal, we “make each other up”.
Leaf Arbuthnot is a freelance journalist who writes for the Times, the Spectator and the Guardian. Her poetry criticism has also appeared in the Sunday Times and the Times Literary Supplement. Her first novel, Looking for Eliza, is out in May 2020.