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Irish Times

Collected Poems by Gerard Fanning: Elliptical, at times cryptic works built on mood and atmosphere

Collected Poems Author : Gerard Fanning ISBN-13 : 978-1943667154 Publisher : Wake Forest University Press Guideline Price : £19.99 I hadn't come across the late Gerard Fanning's work before encountering it whole, as it were, in the shape of this Collected Poems. It comes with helpful apparatus – a foreword by Gerald Dawe, an afterword by Colm Tóibín – a contemporary and friend of Fanning's at UCD – and an interview with Fanning and Conor O'Callaghan. All of these angles are helpful, perhaps even essential, to the new reader of his writing. These poems are elliptical, at times cryptic; they mostly don't so much perform as talk quietly into their shirt sleeves, operating in an air of manila envelopes and uncompromisingly referential Europhilia; they're lit by a sort of coastal glare, and often feel as if they're squinting under exposed scrutiny. Tóibín rightly says that poetry wasn't – for Fanning – Auden's 'memorable speech', and these are poems built on mood, atmospheres – his avowed Derek Mahon and Paul Muldoon admiration hint at his wide range of references, from film and literature to something more playfully esoteric, more guardedly private and coded. He was a government man, a life of 'benign Glengarry Glen Ross', in his own words; on the road, and on the right side of intrusion. On the page, too. If the early work from the 1990s has an abiding flavour it's one of withdrawal and departure, a sort of whistling chilliness, looking for – as per one of the best of his early poems An Evening in Booterstown – 'a pale permanence'. READ MORE He has something of Tom Waits to his titles – often proper names, recognisable or otherwise, are thrown around; we're located but we're left out a little too – this is a poetry of overhearing, eschewing careless talk, or the loose lip. [ From the archive: Poet and Rooney Prize winner Gerard Fanning dies Opens in new window ] At times in the first books he can exclude us entirely – one feels the need to ask for a primer, or Rosetta Stone, for some of his piled-up enigmas, but later he seems to relax into a more open, approachable clarity. Rhyme comes in, but by Slip Road his language as a whole is, largely, more open, more parseable – poems like These Days allying a new clarity to an encroaching sense of creeping dread, spotlighting a melancholy undertow that was always there, tidal like so many of his landscapes – 'I will be sent for, soon, at night'.