The defeat of time

Paul Stubbs reviews Mark Wilson’s “QUARTET FOR THE END OF TIME” (Editions du Zaporogue, 2011)

“Wilson’s Cross is, today, infested with eschatological woodworm. His church constructed of matchsticks and unable to withstand the weight of the papyrus that first created it. It is the guilt of sin squeezed from what Janos Pilinszky depicted as the “disaster-centre” of the modern world that this poet feels compelled to confront, the tragedies which have ruined nature and constructed an arch in time which man has called History, under which the unforgiven and the damned are unable to ever walk free of. Wilson writes of the death camps and of those who crawl still uselessly through the mud of man’s misinterpretations, of the crazed dictators (“Herod Hitler Pol Pot whoever/ working the damned crowd” — Massacre of the Innocents), those who in the end are still attempting to plug Hell’s blood-geysers with their thumbs, and failing. Wilson’s poetry is clearing the path for a better understanding and rationalizing of the aperçus and metaphysical puzzles of theology, especially when he questions how his ‘Messiah’ fits into it all. He writes of religion not as any kind of an intellectual impasse, but as a basis for both an ancient and modern reformulation of Christ in piety, for either we see an ‘idol’ as an inspired prejudice to overcome, or merely, like Wilson, we shape that idol from the clay of our own intuitive understanding of theology.”


Quartet for the End of Time

Thus spoke Zarathustra

Thus spoke Zarathustra’ : a review of Paul Stubbs’s Ex Nihilo by Mark Wilson in 3:AM magazine.

“The poetry of Paul Stubbs is like a severe volcanic eruption within the landscape of British poetry. In fact, to say that this small corpus of work (as to date, three books) is part of ‘British poetry’ seems a massive perversion of terminology. His radical syntax, on more careful inspection, reveals closer ties to European and World masters (Rimbaud, Jozsef, Benn, Trakl, Pilinszky, Vallejo). This volcanic simile holds true as Stubbs’ work is both ‘visionary’ (in its sheer verbal/metaphorical pyrotechnics) and a searing critique scalding the jaundiced pastures of a British poetic terrain that Stubbs has long since viewed as insular and infertile.”

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