Conversations with Death
By Paul Creasy

1968

 

Arthur Death, eminent poet and one of the great literary minds of our time, has been responsible for some truly staggering works, many of them readable. This interview appeared in a leading poetry periodical in 1968. It is reproduced here with great sadness.

 

 

Aeschylus Northampton, Critical Review Poetry Monthly Poetry: Good evening, Arthur.

 

Arthur Death, Poet: Yes.

 

AN: I'm going to start by discussing the very beginning of your career.

 

AD: (Sighs) Predictable. But go on.

 

AN: You were born...

 

AD: Yes, sadly. In retrospect it was a very trite move.

 

AN: But you were born.

 

AD: Very much so.

 

AN: What sort of statement were you trying to make?

 

AD: It's difficult to remember, really. You make a lot of inscrutable moves when you're young. I suppose it was, in its way, a sort of beginning.

 

AN: You wiped the slate clean.

 

AD: Oh yes. Which was ironic, because in the immediate aftermath I was streaked with blood and all kinds of vaginal discharge.

 

AN: Mm. I'm not sure if that actually is ironic.

 

AD: Well if it isn't, then my use of the word there is an act of even greater irony. I suppose I was...constrained by the womb. Lying there, absorbing those nutrients - I wanted something more creative, more freeing.

 

AN: Of course, you severed all ties with your mother shortly afterwards.

 

AD: Oh yes. I didn't see the need to keep her around, really. She was so...proud of everything I did. I felt like I needed a critical voice to protect my "edge", although I don't really believe things have edges.

 

AN: Do you think your lack of a mother -

 

AD: Actually, I should tell you now that I don't really believe in that term. "Mother".

 

AN: Oh?

 

AD: I mean, she didn't really give birth to me, did she? Other than when she did.

 

AN: ...Well, I think I'm going to keep calling her "mother", if it's the same to you. Do you think her absence affected your work? Made it more caustic, perhaps? Your first poem was called "Empty Womb Whore", after all.

 

AD: Well, I don't really think there's any evidence of such an influence. My work doesn't deal solely with personal experience.

 

AN: But some of these early poems..."Loose Fanny Skin"? "Bottle-Feeding Me Vomit Dreams"? "Empty Tits"?

 

AD: I don't see any connection there. And besides, I never explicitly allude to my mother in any of my work.

 

AN: "Stick It Up Your Twat, Mrs. Death"?

 

AD: Debatable. And anyway, I think you're obscuring the real message.

 

AN: And what would you say that was?

 

AD: Well, I was always spurred on by my fear of dentistry.

 

AN: That's interesting. 

 

AD: Of course it is, of course it is. From the very beginning you can see that was my greatest inspiration - I was always running from the drill, the gloves, the fillings.

 

AN: The dentist is another authority figure, of course.

 

AD: Well, that's very unimaginative. But I've always believed that if you defy the dentist, you experience life in its most exhilarating form. Who sustains the pointless tooth-jockeys? Why are they there? What gives them such unquestioned authority over our gums? Questions like those keep dragging me back to the pen.

 

AN: With how much success, do you think?

 

AD: Well, that's for history to decide. (Laughs)

 

AN: What will history decide, do you think?

 

AD: I couldn't possibly say. (More laughter)

 

AN: Right. But bearing in mind I've got a periodical interview to complete, if you could please stick your ruddy neck out a bit.

 

AD: I think the early poems were the closest I got to dealing with dentistry in its essence, though I always disguised my references to it very well. It's such a direct way of dealing with the human condition...I'm not sure I've ever come close to that since.

 

AN: What do you think moved you away?

 

AD: Oh, life. Love. My fourth bout of Chlamydia. Who's to say what affects you? All I know is when I sit down later today, I will cry for up to four hours. And that hasn't always been the case.

 

AN: Mm. Well I'd like to ask you more questions, but you seem to be loading a gun. A pleasure, Arthur.

 

AD: Of course. You may put me down now.

 

1970

 

In 1970, Aeschylus Northampton caught up with Arthur Death once again. To say the results were explosive would be to apply an unjustified level of hyperbole to what is, at best, a mildly interesting interview.

 

 

Aeschylus Northampton: Hello Arthur. You could say a lot’s happened since last we met.

Arthur Death: I could, yes. And it would certainly be more profound than if you said it.

 

AN: The start of a new decade, for one.

 

AD: Yes, predictable as ever. It would have been so much more exciting if we’d kept the last one going for a couple more years. Don’t you think?

 

AN: I don’t think, no.

 

AD: Quite right. A poet’s job is to do the thinking for the likes of you.

 

AN: How do you think poetry will evolve in the period critics have already labelled the “1970s”?

 

AD: Well, in poetry there have always been two fundamental rules : you grow ‘em young, you keep ‘em sharp.

 

AN: Really? I’ve never heard that before. Perhaps you're a cretin?

 

AD: I doubt it. I just think a poet has the responsibility to look around him, then make a wife of the nearest verb he meets.

 

AN: I see.

 

AD: The intriguing thing is that the 70s will be a decade – I don’t think there’s any escaping that. Having said that, the pattern of the poetic carpet is yet to be embroidered. I always remember my mentor, Aldous Huxley…

 

AN: You were mentored by Aldous Huxley?

 

AD: Did I say Aldous Huxley? I meant Bob Stapleford.

 

AN: Ah.

 

AD: He always told me, “The lines don’t move, it’s the words you have to look out for”. And you know, in a way I think he was right.

 

AN: Was he?

 

AD: No. A tremendously senile man, unfortunately. Though he did know a thing or two about how to win on the horses.

 

AN: Mm. Have you started work on anything recently?

 

AD: (Sighs) I did try writing a little while ago, but nothing came out. After a few minutes I realised I didn’t have a pen in my hand. By the time I'd retrieved one I was overcome by a powerful melancholy and had to lie down for a couple of weeks.

 

AN: You've another collection due for release this week, though.

 

AD: Ah yes, there is that. I’ve called it “Bitch”, after my ex-wife.

 

AN: Putting aside for a second the fact that you've never married, isn't that slightly misogynist?

 

AD: I disagree completely. I think it would have been more unfair to women not to call it “Bitch”.

 

AN: Please explain.

 

AD: No. Anyway, the poems don’t have anything to do with her. They mainly concern a week I spent with the Beatles while they were recording "Let It Be".

 

AN: Ah yes, I wanted to ask you about that. Is there any truth in the rumour that you persuaded John Lennon to let Phil Spector piss all over the songs?

 

AD: I can neither confirm nor deny that.

 

AN: If you could only do one of the two, which one would you do?

 

AD: Confirm.

 

AN: You’re a big friend of Lennon’s now, of course.

 

AD: I wouldn’t say “big”.

 

AN: Very well, small then. Insignificant.

 

AD: Well you’ve said “big” now, so you can’t take it back.

 

AN: It’s not a problem, I can…

 

AD: Please don't.

 

AN: ...OK.

 

 

(Arthur weeps for five minutes.)

AN: If you’re ready again…

 

AD: Yes, yes. Always ready.

 

AN: How did the Beatles first become aware of your work?

 

AD: It was John, of course. He’s always appreciated it on account of those glasses he wears. People who wear those glasses tend to enjoy my work.

 

AN: What’s his favourite poem of yours?

 

AD: He er…well, he never really said. We were too busy discussing the creative process and why all songs needed massively overbearing string sections.

 

AN: I see. Now Arthur, I’m not sure how to put this…

 

AD: Quite gently, down there to my right.

 

AN: We're both reasonable men.

 

AD: That's what we said in court, yes.

 

AN: OK. Have you ever actually met the Beatles?

 

AD: Honestly?

 

AN: If you please.

 

AD: No.

 

AN: Ah.

 

AD: We were once in the same room, but I got drunk and threw some carrot at Jane Asher. It seemed rude to stay.

 

AN: I quite understand. So would you say your work has been influenced at all by not meeting the Beatles?

 

AD: Unquestionably. In a way, by not meeting the Beatles I know them much better than if I’d actually met them. I’m purely engaged with their art.

 

AN: A valid point. And which song of theirs has inspired your poetry the most, would you say?

 

AD: Actually, I’ve never really heard any of their music. I feel that listening to it would just cheapen their art.

 

AN: In any case, people have started to refer to you as “The Seventh Beatle”.

 

AD: That’s very flattering.

 

AN: They haven’t really; I’ve just made that up.

 

AD: Oh. Seventh? I was under the impression that there were four, at most.

 

AN: George Martin’s the fifth, Arthur. I can only assume you’d be a little further down the queue.

 

AD: Mm. I think, Aeschylus, that we may be straying from the important subject of my poetry. Perhaps we should return to it.

 

AN: Of course. But first, did you break up the Beatles?

 

AD: No. I accidentally killed Paul McCartney once, though.

 

AN: Sorry, but that seems to be all we’ve got time for.

 

AD: Oh dear, there was much left to discuss.

 

AN: Perhaps next time. In the meantime, perhaps you might offer a line to sum up the next decade?

 

AD: Very well. “I leap quietly toward Saturn as my face collapses…”

 

AN: That’ll have to do.

 

AD: “…Disco”.

 

 

 

(Editor's note: "Bitch" was never released, as Arthur hadn't written it. In a last minute panic he sent his publisher his latest shopping list; he was punished with a written warning and a minor literary prize.)

1971

 

 

Aeschylus Northampton was disappointed with his 1970 encounter with Death, especially his inability to expose more of his subject's genius and latent Stalinism. His 1971 interview with the celebrated word-jockey was his chance to rectify this. It would also be his last.

 

 

Aeschylus Northampton: Arthur. Arthur, wake up.

 

Arthur Death: Sorry.

 

AN: Mmh. In this interview I’d like to solidify some of my ideas about your poetry, if I may.

 

AD: You can certainly try. (Laughs)

 

AN: I'm afraid I'll also have to ask you not to be such a massive sack of toss.

 

AD: Fine.

 

AN: Excellent. Firstly, I was wondering how much your work is a product of your surroundings. You were born in Woking, of course.

 

AD: No I wasn’t.

 

AN: Well, your birth certificate says you were.

 

AD: Oh, those things aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.

 

AN: Even so.

 

AD: Well, I suppose what you’re really asking is, “Can you remember your first encounter with poetry?”

 

AN: No it isn’t.

 

AD: I was three, perhaps twelve. I saw a verb wandering in a field – I think it was “elucidate”. Soon several of its friends joined it and they began to frolic. My face contorted into a joyous bundle and at once my trousers were exhausted. When you’re surrounded by such things during your childhood, it’s only natural that you want to pick them up and give them cadences to play in.

 

AN: Goodness. That’s…that’s actually rather moving.

 

AD: Thank you. Would you like a tissue?

 

AN: Oh no, I couldn’t eat a whole one.

 

AD: Well they’re always here if you’re peckish.

 

AN: Thank you. Did your mother –

 

AD: Oh come on.

 

AN: I know. But did she ever read to you?

 

AD: Read? Sadly no. She was illiterate. She could read words, and sentences, and books, but she could never really read. Do you see what I mean?

 

AN: No. I promise.

 

AD: Good. My work has always been utterly without influence though, as you know. I’m not really sure why you’re persisting with this line of questioning.

 

AN: Well, that actually brings me on to my second point. At the very beginning of your career you suffered allegations of plagiarism…

 

AD: Ludicrous allegations.

 

AN: …So you’ve always said. You were accused by an Albanian woman of copying verbatim a poem of hers –

 

AD: Completely ridiculous. I don’t know how she cooked up that idea.

 

AN: The poem was in Albanian, of course.

 

AD: A coincidence. At most.

 

AN: As was the incident in which the entirety of her work, home and husband was mysteriously destroyed, presumably.

 

AD: Of course. Look, I’ve never trusted Albanian women – they can’t sing, they have insufficient ovaries and they’re always going around making baseless accusations about poetry theft. And before you go spouting off, remember that I’m an Albanian woman so I’m allowed to say that.

 

AN: I see. Arthur, I’m not accusing you of anything, as you know –

 

AD: Good.

 

AN: – I’m afraid, though, that I’m going to have to ask you to stop your lawyer from beating me.

 

AD: Duncan.

 

AN: Thank you. (Straightens tie and hair) Heh, I suppose being a poet’s a bit like being a lawyer, isn’t it?

 

AD: Please explain.

 

AN: Well, it’s…

 

AD: Actually, no. Just no.

 

AN: Right-o. Do you mind if we move on to some close analysis of your work?

 

AD: Go ahead. Duncan’s always on hand if you overstep the mark.

 

AN: Well, you’ve included a poem called “Glittering Meat” in your latest collection. The second stanza…

 

AD: Stanza. Poets pronounce it stanza.

 

AN: In the second stanza…

 

AD: No, stanza. Stan-za.

 

AN: Stanza.

 

AD: Stanza.

 

AN: Stanza.

 

AD: Stanza.

 

AN: Stanz–

 

AD: Stanza.

 

AN: Mm. I’m not sure that this area of discussion will translate well to print, so perhaps we should move on.

 

AD: As you wish.

 

AN: In the second…bit of “Glittering Meat” you include an interesting couplet which I’d like us to explore. I’m going to read it now – “Look, Jennifer, it’s just not working out between us/Quite frankly, I’m finding myself increasingly attracted to your mother”.

 

AD: Oh.

 

AN: Oh?

 

AD: I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just…I thought you were going to read it.

 

AN: I just did.

 

AD: So you say, but I didn’t hear anything. Perhaps you might try again?

 

AN: Right. “Look, Jennifer –”

 

AD: You’re moving your lips, but nothing is passing them.

 

AN: Listen Arthur, you f–

 

AD: No matter, I know which couplet you must be talking about. I heard it caused quite a stir in the poetry press.

 

AN: That would be an understatement.

 

AD: How dare you.

 

AN: Sorry. But do you agree with critics like Chlamydia Fitzgerald who found it a little out of place?

 

AD: Why would she think that?

 

AN: Well, the rest of the poem is a hard-hitting critique of industrial capitalism.

 

AD: Look, I don’t have to defend my work to anyone, least of all you. But least of all her. The line stands on its own, it doesn’t need us to prop it up.

 

AN: But surely –

 

AD: Uh-uh-uh. You’re propping.

 

AN: But I mean –

 

AD: Let it wobble.

 

AN: Very well. I’m going to put it like this, then – is it at all possible that you accidentally inserted that couplet while you were in the middle of a telephone conversation? Transcribing, in the process, what seems like quite an awkward termination of a previous romance?

 

AD: Is it possible? Well I mean, it's possible, in the sense that anything’s possible. But did it happen? No.

 

AN: But you admit it’s possible.

 

AD: Yes.

 

AN: And did it happen?

 

AD: Yes.

 

AN: Thank you.

 

AD: I'm not going to lie to you, Aeschylus. The thing is, it doesn’t diminish my artistic accomplishment at all. It would have been a far less daring move to correct my error just because it completely ruined the poem.

 

AN: I see.

 

AD: You agree, don’t you?

 

AN: It’s difficult to say. Without consulting four or five leading opinion-formers, anyway.

 

AD: Oh.

 

AN: However, nobody can deny that such daring prompted The Enjambment Times to label you “Britain’s most dangerous poet”.

 

AD: Really? I ignore the rhyme-rags, so I didn't see that.

 

AN: Then why have you sellotaped the article to your face?

 

AD: I’m not…I'm not entirely sure how that got there.

 

AN: Mm. I can’t help but notice, though, that you’re not in a hurry to take it off.

 

AD: I’m far too busy at present.

 

AN: Does such a label put you under pressure to break down boundaries?

 

AD: Well, yes and no.

 

AN: If you could only pick one, which would it be?

 

AD: Ah, you’re not getting me with that again.

 

AN: Bah.

 

AD: I don’t even think about that sort of thing, Aeschylus, because I have no boundaries. Poetry isn’t like cricket, you know. If it was, I’d be hitting sixes and making runs and doing all the things that allude to success within that simile. But you see, it isn’t like cricket, no matter how elitist and dull we’d all like to think it is. If I ever felt my work was heading for a boundary I’d probably just write “fuck” or “piss” and do a few lines that don’t rhyme. That would maintain my edge.

 

AN: Fascinating. And what sort of edge would you say you have?

 

AD: Quite a smooth one, with a couple of corners at each end. The sort you’d get on a well-polished desk.

 

AN: And I’ll bet your desk is very well polished indeed. (Laughs)

 

AD: Yes. (Laughs)

 

AN: (Continues laughing)

 

AD: (More laughter)

 

AN: (Wipes eye) Aah. But we must be serious, Arthur. If the Establishment can handle your innovative approach, you must feel confident that you’ll soon be in the running for Poet Laureate.

 

AD: Well, let's not forget that Day-Lewis hasn’t carked it yet.

 

AN: Be that as it may, would you be interested?

 

AD: It’s hard to say, really. My poetry has always gone against the Establishment – dentistry, women and so on – so I’m not sure if being Laureate would be good for my creativity. On the other hand, of course, if I was Laureate lots of people might think I was really good at poetry. Overall, I’m relaxed about the whole issue.

 

AN: So the rumours of a pre-emptive smear campaign against Sir John Betjeman are unfounded?

 

AD: Completely so. Betjikins and I are good friends. We had dinner together last night, in fact.

 

AN: Well, that’s…

 

AD: Terrible poet though. No vowel resonance whatsoever.

 

AN: …that’s that cleared up, then. I’m afraid our conversation has almost twatted its last barkeep, Arthur – as a final question, is there any message you’d like to give to tomorrow’s aspiring poets?

 

AD: Yes. Write down everything you say until you’re twenty-five – that should give you enough material for two or three good lines. Then fill the gaps with tedious sentiment and illogical politics.

 

AN: Thank you, Arthur. I...well, I think I love you.

 

AD: (Sighs) If only you meant it.

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