The Polite Poet: Andrew Motion

POETRY READING REVIEW: ANDREW MOTION at Ipswich New Wolsey Theatre

The most polite poet reads from his recent works, intricately threading the eternal themes of war, love and loss onto his elegant strands of prose.

To hear Motion in person is to be struck by the contrast between the man and the poetry. His poems are confident, elegant and moving, possessed of real depth and strength. They speak out, open and direct; an unabashed challenge to our preconceptions and inner thoughts. In person, in conversation with an audience, outside the small cramped pages of the published poetry book, he is quite different. In a word he is polite. Infuriatingly so after sustained exposure. Each interaction with his audience is laced with gratitude and appeals; the careful appreciation of the asker of each question ("very kind of you to ask") and a wandering overly-long apology for the swearing in "The Politician" (unintentionally offensive). So self-depreciating, in fact, that he almost comes across as lacking in confidence.

Any such notions are, though, immediately dispelled upon hearing the poet speak. It is in reading his work that Motion seems to really live. I suppose this is the mark of a true poet, much more at home within his art than without. So many of the poets I have come across have been much younger, edgier, more blunt, and this made the contrast to Motion so stark. He is a nice guy, this really shines out. But Motion only becomes his real self when in the role of the poet. Strange how someone could be so different in character to the poems he writes when the Muse choses to depart.

The nice Mr. Motion had some very interesting comments to make, though, as a poet and artist. A huge fan of Dylan, he concluded that some poets sing and some do not. Lyrics and poetry can be one and the same. He also indulged us in his love for Keats, the almost "Christ-like" person whom he had reverred since school. Not a bad poet to adore.

And the effect of his reading was most moving. Particular images leapt out; the whistle of the First World War captain wandering over No Man's Land, the sound of flip flops as they make peace with the earth, the woman speaking to her husband, who would be killed the next day in a roadside bomb, on the phone from "the Garden of Gethsemane". This is the true beauty of poetry, and the only way the art can truly be appreciated. Poetry can only take life when it breathes, when it is given life from the voice of its author.

On reflection Motion reading poetry is a most enjoyable experience, but Motion in conversation is tediously polite. Restraining the urge to rush down to the stage and shake him, goad him into dropping that facade, was not easy. Stick to poetry, Motion.