Richard Warren

"Clearly I tap to you clearly along the plumbing of the world" (W S Graham)

Category Archives: Gordon Wharton

“Unkind things”: the letters of Kingsley Amis

In a letter to me not long before his death, touching on the role played in the publication of his 1957 collection by poet and novelist John Wain, the poet Gordon Wharton came up with some harsh words for Kingsley Amis, who at that time had moved in the same circles:

“What else? Oh yes, John Wain was lecturing in English at Reading Uni when he was supervising/editing the series in which Errors of Observation appeared … Incidentally, Kingsley Amis absolutely loathed JW, and when John’s sight began to go, he wrote all manner of filthy things to Larkin and/or Conquest. If you can get hold of Amis’s collected letters, you’ll find he has some pretty unkind things to say about me, too. Never retracted, even though I was instrumental in earning him quite a lot of money on the Third Programme. I have postcards and letters from him nagging about money: how much, how soon and how often. Despite all his amusing ways and books, he was a pig!”

amis lettersSo just how unkind was Amis? Picking through The Letters of Kingsley Amis (a volume the size of a small breezeblock), we find that he would probably have been in the same room as Wharton at the January 1953 launch of G S Fraser’s Springtime anthology, in which they were both represented, but didn’t make contact for 18 months, until they met to discuss George Hartley’s Listen magazine, with which Wharton had been involved. In July 1954 Amis wrote to Philip Larkin:

“Had a good jaunt in London the other week. I met Gordon Wharton, a funny little chap with a cockney accent like mine … who looked about 14 and nice but has a wife and kid. When he wasn’t taking TWENTY MINUTES to tell me that ‘it’s a long way to tip a raree’ story in a bad Irish accent, or NEARLY STARTING FIGHTS at Leicester Sq Underground by ‘pretending to be drunk’ and lurching into negroes shouting , etc., he was telling me that LISTEN should have been out, was coming out, on 14th June, but he HASN’T HEARD ANYTHING ABOUT IT FOR WEEKS fuck and burgher. It seems that he’s turned it all over to Geo H[artley].”

Gordon (unlike Amis) didn’t have a racist bone in his body, so the suggestion that he deliberately provoked black people is unfortunate. His grandmother was Irish, and he collaborated poetically with Patrick Galvin, so the Irish accent may have been better than suggested. Amis (lower middle class) had some sensitivities with regard to social status, so for “cockney accent” read “self-educated working class intellectual”. At least they seem to have parted friends. But six months later Amis put the knife in well and truly, in his advice of January 1955 to Robert Conquest on the latter’s choice for his “Movement” anthology, New Lines:

“Your provisional list seems unexceptionable to me. About the 4 fresh people you name, my judgements (for what they’re worth) are:

Gordon Wharton: Snap judgement on what I’ve seen (not much):

P.P.P. (pretty pisspoor)

Though amiable and far from spineless”

On that casual basis Wharton was excluded from New Lines. By April 1956 this “amiable” man had become “that idiot Gordon Wharton.” In October of the same year Amis and Wharton appeared together, alongside Bernard Bergonzi and Geoffrey Warnock, on a Third Programme poetry discussion, The Moral Element. Amis was worried that he “sounded rather a ponce, but … less of a South Kensington coffee-party ponce than Wharton …”

How much of this abuse was also to the face? Or was it saved up for letters to chum Larkin? Much later, in October 1985, Amis commented to Larkin on John Wain:

“What was all that about him going blind a few years ago? Result of meths-drinking to save on drink bills? Or an excuse for his difficulties with the printed word, inability to find his way to the bar, trouble seeing what’s staring him in the face, etc. Takes me back over the years to the afternoon he read me bits of HoD [Hurry on Down] and I was filled with despair because I thought it sounded exactly like crap, which of course it couldn’t be.”

Twenty two years before he had written to Wain himself:

“I thoroughly enjoyed Hurry on Down and read it whenever I had a free moment till I’d finished it. It is very funny in parts and does succeed above all in getting across a grotesque and twisted view of life … I think a few parts are over-written: my only complaint.”

Similar treatment is dealt out to countless others in Amis’s 1200 pages of accumulating vituperation. The reader quickly grows tired of the mannered abuse, the fixed adolescent tone, the relentless “urine”, “bum”, “turdy” and so on, the sad efforts at pornography featuring 14 year old lesbians, the nudie pics enclosed to Larkin, the casual put-downs of women, blacks, Jews.

No doubt it’s been said many times before, but however much of a soft spot one retains for Lucky Jim,  it’s still immensely sad and sobering to follow the steady collapse of this overblown schoolboy with radical inclinations into the ageing, boorish (and boring) reactionary, his gratuitous offensiveness the only remaining echo of an original and authentic dissent. Sad, but somehow oh-so-British.

Or is this an instance of the problem of a particular type of literary personality, one who finds it possible to be humane only in a fictional setting? What kind of dislocated soul is it that mistakes the habit of insult for the discipline of right judgement? And what might this tell us about the urge to write and the yearning for compensation?

Burns Singer, forgotten bad boy of British poetry

I’ve been meaning to do something on Burns Singer, aka Jimmy Singer, blond boy wonder / bad boy of the ‘fifties poetry scene, ever since the late Gordon Wharton confessed to me that he’d hit Singer with a bottle of wine at a literary party in 1955. Singer’s attack in Encounter on the poetry of William Empson is now on my Empson page, and I had thought of putting Singer on the W S Graham page, given that he was very much an acolyte of Graham’s. But Singer seems significant and interesting enough to deserve a page of his own, so here it is (or use the final tab above). So far, I’ve focused on his life, death and larger-than-life persona. For someone so universally and fiercely unpopular, he seems to have inspired an equally fierce affection in some. A look at the poetry will come later – it’s well worth looking at.

Remarkable that Singer links so many personalities peppered across this blog: Empson, Graham, Wharton, Dylan Thomas, the Roberts Colquhoun and MacBryde, Benjamin Creme, and George Barker … Though I guess the ‘fifties bohemian scene was something of a small world.

This is the world’s starvation centre.
I sit with Robert Colquhoun and Robert MacBryde
Listening to letters Sydney Graham once sent or
Barker shook down when words stuck in his side.

Brief encounters with the Two Roberts

I have a definite childhood memory of watching a black and white TV programme about two painters at work, occasionally talking to camera, punctuated, I think, by snatches of Erik Satie – maybe Gymnopédies or Gnossiennes, though I would hardly have been able to identify the music at the time. I must have been ten, and this must have been Ken Russell’s first short TV film for the BBC Monitor series, Scottish Painters, broadcast in October 1959.  And the two Scottish artists were “the Two Roberts”, Colquhoun and MacBryde, exiles in Fitzrovia and beyond, the matter of legend, and both fine painters. My parents were not art lovers. (Dad was one of the very first to buy a print of Tretchikoff’s Chinese Girl.) But I was deemed to have talent in that direction, so the film might well have been switched on for my edification. A false memory? I don’t think so. Though I don’t recall any details clearly. I’ve trawled around online for clips of the film, but it seems inaccessible. Did a copy even survive?

Neglected for many years, the Roberts have undergone a bit of a boost recently with Roger Bristow’s essential 2010 biography, The Last Bohemians. Though for a quick start, but with some fascinating new information and images, try the excellent 2010 catalogue from The Scottish Gallery, downloadable as a pdf.

Anyway, it’s high time I devoted a page to some brief encounters with the Roberts. I’ve made a start here, reproducing the short feature on them in a 1949 Picture Post, followed by Wyndham Lewis’ 1951 account. As yet, no images of their work, but that can be remedied at a later date.

Marilyn Monroe by Gordon Wharton

Marilyn tucks into ‘Ulysses’

Caught up recently with My Week with Marilyn. (Michelle Williams excellent as Monroe, with Branagh hamming it up expertly as Olivier; all nicely evocative, but a thin script, and one doesn’t quite believe Colin Clark’s account anyway.) And then yesterday Marilyn, the Last Sessions in Channel 4’s True Stories slot, a pop-documentary focused on her relationship with analyst Ralph Greenson, based on the supposed John Miner transcriptions of Greenson’s tapes, and presumably related to the novel by Michel Schneider. Over long and predictable in some ways, but still horribly fascinating.

One is inclined to forget that Monroe, who had no college education, was a self-taught intellectual who read Milton, Flaubert, Freud, Joyce, Beckett and a whole ruck of modern poetry. She also jotted out her own poems – mostly amateurishly cathartic, but they sometimes hit the spot:

The smart one says the eye
is not truly round. His are,
though, fat with looking.

*   *   *

Help help
Help I feel life coming closer
When all I want to do is die.

All of which reminds me that in the late (and lamented) Gordon Wharton‘s 1957 collection Errors of Observation sits a rather fine (and surely anthologisable?) poem about Monroe that deserves to be better known. This is entirely about Marilyn as image, but none the worse for that. The notion of her as a landscape or continent is a nice conceit, and for me the last seven lines really do the business:


Not the geologist’s but geographer’s art
Would do you justice. The bland surveyor sees
Your landscape indolent upon his chart

And notes from hair to modelled Alpine knees,
No easy reference to the deciduous year,
Finds no Alaska where his glance might freeze.

A transcribed, ideal country meets him here
(Pink marks his most imperial possessions):
All exploration done, he need not fear

Barbarian hordes and frontier’s recessions.
In this art-paper’s even redolence
Contours lie captive to his moods’ accessions.

Whatever injury you do to sense
You are not subject to the real, appalling,
Seismic calamities; from the immense

Spaces dividing islands and their calling
In distant ears, you are rescued and dispose
Hygienic vistas. A gull’s feather falling
Arrested in nature’s most efficient pose.

“When Death arrives, he’ll not come shuffling in black felt slippers”

i.m. Gordon Wharton 1929-2011

A kind man and a fine poet

“Elephants we know about, but poets,
in their treasure ground of broken nibs,
blue twilight and garlic scented graves,
and iron bells clanging all the while –

poets dressed in Sunday black
rubbing their trapshut eyes –
who knows where they lie dead and dying,
or coldly raving the moon long?”

Back from oblivion: tracking the poetry of Gordon Wharton

Back from oblivion: tracking the poetry of Gordon Wharton

New page added (tab up the top, or go here), devoted to an attempt at a proper appreciation of the poetry of Gordon Wharton, whose first three small collections were published from 1954 to 1957, but who has recently made a startling comeback, fifty four years on, with an excellent new collection, Towards Oblivion. A British poet who certainly deserves to be read and recognised.