A Mouthful of Air: Poetry with Mark McGuinness

Episode 88 Occupied by Tim Rich   Tim Rich reads ‘Occupied’ and discusses the poem with Mark McGuinness. https://media.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/media.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/content.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/88_Occupied_by_Tim_Rich.mp3 This poem is from: Dark Angels: Three Contemporary Poets Available from: Dark Angels is available from: The publisher: Paekakariki Press Amazon: UK   Occupied by Tim Rich We buttered the cat’s pawsand baked bread in borrowed tinsto make the unfamiliar speak of pleasureand our intentions to remain All that first daythe house talked to itselfabout us Later than I expected, light withdrew across our table, unopened cratesback through thin glasstowards tomorrow So the room released its formand we sat among one anothergiving our ears to the conversation:inner doorways muttering behind flat hands; oak floors—masonic in their black treacle gloss—deciding whether to settleunder our presence Later still, in bed, I stared sideways into an unlit universe, absentlymindwalking the bounds,relocking iron door-bolts like an old rifle, drawingdrawn curtains a little closer,charting the evaporating pathbehind that plane’s descent In time, each stray thought went to its home, leaving this accommodation to take place: the air held here sighing gently,like contented tortoise breaths; the softening percussion of bodies sleeping; the punctuating crack and hiss as fresh eggs are brokeninto a smoking pan; someoneopening a window   Interview transcript Mark: Tim, where did this poem come from? Tim: So, almost always for me, poems just emerge out of some sort of inner dusk. I’m not someone that can go to their desk with a plan to write about a particular message or topic or piece of content. The poem just presents itself to me. And actually I don’t really have any choice in the matter. I’m sort of just forced to be a transcriber in that moment. And I was looking at the sea the other day, and I had this moment when I just thought my poems are a bit like strange sea creatures that live on the seabed. And at a particular point in their life, they decide that they just want to go to the light and they start floating up through the murky water and explode in bubbles on the surface. And, you know, hopefully I’m there sitting in the poet’s boat ready to haul them on board. So, that’s almost always how poems start for me. And this poem very much began that way. I was at home on a winter’s evening, and it just began to come through me, as it were. And the context for that was that after many years of living in the same house, my wife and I were starting to think about the possibility of moving. And, you know, it was a really exciting prospect but also it definitely was stirring up the sediment of my unconscious. I’m someone that really feels the need for a settled home, a settled place, and this unsettled me. So, I think that that was what was giving the raw energy to the content. And there was something else, which is what informed the scenery of the poem, if you like, which is this idea of light withdrawing from a space and what that does within the space. And when I was 11, I was living just with my dad, and he would come home from work later than I would get home from school. So, for the first year or so, he arranged for me to go to some elderly neighbours on the way home from school. So I was, sort of, watched, and we would sit in their front room, and they would load up their coal fire. And through the windows, the sun would set slowly, and they were so calm. They would hardly speak. When they did speak, it was about these, kind of, wonderful domestic details like, you know, what needs to be chopped for dinner, or are there any windfalls in the garden that we can harvest tomorrow? It was very, very calm. And, you know, the coals in the fire were glowing red, but the rest of the room just lost its light. And I remember the shape of their very heavy old furniture, and the picture frames, and the curtains all began to disappear. And that must have just lodged somewhere deep within me, because that’s very much, as the poem came out, where I was also taken to in my mind. Mark: So, I like this. So, I mean, to put it bluntly, it’s not like you moved into a house and then you wrote this. You were thinking about moving and then a house emerged from your unconscious, from memories of other houses and so on. Tim: Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. Mark: And I think that’s kind of a salutary thing to hear because… And this is a poem that really you read it and you totally believe it. It feels like a first-hand account of, well, we did this and this is what happened. And yet you’re, kind of, pulling the rug from under our feet here, which is a nice thing in poetry. I think that you can’t necessarily take it literally or face value. Tim: Well, we moved house… Yeah, we moved house about six months after I wrote the poem. So, I went through the experience of living the poem, which seems to be quite a good way around. Mark: Did you conjure the house, Tim? Tim: Actually, it was wonderful because it confirmed to me part of what motivated the poem, which is that I think we can all become a little bit… I don’t know. Complacent seems to be too loaded a term, but we get so used to how our houses speak that we stop hearing them. And actually, there’s this kind of wonderful symphony going on the whole time, you know, radiators making those strange percussive noises, and the way that the door squeaks, or suddenly, you know, how your staircase gets to a particular temperature in the middle of the night and decides to squeak. And they’re constantly making these noises. And when you’re living there, you stop hearing them. But when you move to somewhere for the first time, or sometimes if you go and stay in a haunted Airbnb in the woods, that first night particularly, everything’s coming to you fresh. So, I think there’s a strong sense of what’s it like when a person moves into a space for the first time and that space has a character, and an energy, and a being of its own. Mark: So, really it’s that state of heightened awareness, isn’t it? You know, apparently this is how the mind works. If you’ve got a constant stimulus, the mind will tune it out. It’s that Heaney line, you know, ‘The refrigerator whinnied into silence,’ which is just that moment of… You only hear the fridge when it stops. Tim: Yeah. Mark: And what you’re describing is the reverse of that. When you’re in the house for the first time and everything is new and you’re on hyperalert for the voices of the house. Tim: Yeah. And we’re listening to our houses right now because there’s a 1066 Line train from Hastings that’s just gone into the tunnel over there. But we probably can’t quite hear it on the microphones, but it’s in the air and it’s just touching elements of the house. And we’re surrounded by this the whole time. And I think it’s important to say, as soon as the poem had laid itself out on the page for the first time, it was clear to me that this poem was about people moving into a home for the first time, but it is also quite a vivid description, I think, of what was going through me at the time in terms of that unsettled nature. You know, I was quite surprised by the nature of the metaphors that my unconscious had presented me with. I mean, it’s quite a portrait of anxiety to double-check the curtains, to lock a bolt as if it’s an old rifle. You know, this is partly a portrait of an unsettled, anxious mind, which is, I think, something that I was going through at the time. Mark: And you’ve got some great similes, you know, the iron door bolts like an old rifle. And there’s this lovely bit where you talk about ‘drawing drawn curtains’. And if you look on the website, then you can see that there’s a line break after drawing, so it’s drawing, line break, drawn curtains, which really just emphasises it’s already drawn. You don’t need to do it. This is the OCD kicking in, which really speaks to that anxiety you’re describing. And I really love the second section where you say, ‘All that first day, the house talked to itself about us,’ which is just a wonderfully unsettling idea that we are the intruders and the house has an opinion. Tim: Yeah, I definitely wasn’t being sort of whimsically mystical about infrastructure and materials. It was definitely the feeling that there is an exchange when animals, human and other, come into a space. There’s a change in energies and temperatures and sound and smells. And, you know, the dynamism of creatures come into a space that has been unoccupied, which is what generally most houses are, you know, sometimes for days, sometimes for months, and years before the new occupants come in. And I was just really taken with that idea that the house also needs to find its way of settling under these new occupants. And that seemed like a moment of 24 hours of the two parties eyeing each other and listening to each other and wondering about, ‘Who is this that I need to live with for these next years?’ Mark: And it’s quite a humbling poem, isn’t it? Because, you know, when you think of owning the house or occupying the house, it’s like you’re the one in charge. But this poem just kind of subverts that idea that it’s the house that’s weighing us up, as in the people in the poem. It made me think of that TV series David Olusoga does, A House Through Time, where he gets an old house, and he goes through the records, and he looks at all the people who lived in the house and tells their story. And there’s quite a lot of them, like, mu