Winter Walk: a poem by Lydia Fulleylove

Lydia Fulleylove is a contemporary British poet who lives on the Isle of Wight, which lies just off the south coast of England. Her poetry is largely influenced by the natural world and she is never happier than when walking the cliff or inland paths of her largely unspoilt island home. The title of her first published collection, “Notes on Sea and Land” (HappenStance Press, 2011) reflects this influence.

“Winter Walk” is an exercise in minimalism inspired by, unsurprisingly enough, a walk during winter! The poet makes a deliberate attempt to get as close as possible to the place without the overlay of any feelings of her own, and to show without telling. This therefore involves the reader in completing the experience. It is impossible to judge how well she has succeeded without seeing the poem, so here it is in full:

 

Up  the thin path   the kick

of Corve Field   the unset

sun  the straight-drilled rows of wheat

the rabbit holes riddling

 

the ridge  the thrown

flints  the startled

hare  the twisted roots

the scuffed earth   the unshelter

 

of sloe  the sea-slip

the swerve of coast   the ship

on the horizon   the distant hail

of Durlston   the boomerang

of gaze  near

far  near   far

 

the wind  the salt

 

Apart from the first word, which immediately invites the reader to rise and accompany the writer as she climbs “the thin path” (not the expected “narrow”, which is a neat touch), the poem consists almost entirely of expressions of between two and five words introduced by “the”. Each is an impression, like a dab of paint added to a painting by Monet or Cezanne. The impression is made on the mind of the reader, who must translate it into their own perception of the scene and relate it to their experience of stepping outside on a winter’s day.

As printed on the page (which might not be so apparent in the version reproduced above, because computers can do strange things to text), each expression is separated from the next by three clear spaces, thus giving it independence from its neighbours. Each one therefore hits you on its own and must be absorbed before you move on to the next. The printed version is also striking for the use of carried-over expressions between the three stanzas, with the gaps producing an unsettling effect as the reader is surprised to find that “riddling” and “unshelter” do not complete their expressions. 

The first stanza sets the scene in fairly general terms, as if one has just stepped out to begin the walk. The setting is given both geographically and temporally, with “the unset sun” suggesting that this is the afternoon with the sun on its way towards setting. The eye takes in the large-scale features of the wheat field and the ridge with its rabbit holes.

Note how the expressions lengthen in the third stanza as opposed to the second. The three-word groupings of “the thrown flints”, “the startled hare”, etc, are replaced by the four words of “the swerve of coast” and the five words of both “the ship on the horizon” and “the distant hail of Durlston”.  The effect works best when the words are seen on the page as opposed to being read aloud, because in the latter case one would have to count syllables rather than words, but, even so, the effect is there due to the short second syllables of words like “startled” and “twisted”.

There is a pronounced change of view as one moves from the staccato second stanza to the slightly more legato third stanza. All the “self-contained” expressions in the second stanza are ground based, in that one has to look down to see flints, roots and earth, as well as the hare that has been startled by one’s approach. One can imagine the poet straining to walk up a steep slope and therefore focusing on the ground where she is placing her feet. The staccato diction matches her short paces.

However, with the split “the unshelter of sloe” the eye is moving upwards to look at a stunted tree that connects earth and sky, thus supplying a transition to what comes next.

In the third stanza one can picture the poet stopping at the top of the hill and looking at the view that takes the eye out over the sea. The more expansive phrases match the more expanded scene (Durlston is Durlston Head, on the mainland near Swanage, which is clearly visible from the downs of West Wight). 

At the end of the poem the expressions cease to be things that are seen, and the break comes with the startling “the boomerang of gaze” followed by “near far near far”. One wonders if it might have better to start a new stanza at this point, possibly breaking after “boomerang”, which would have emphasised the change from physical to conceptual, but that is just a personal preference. Even so, the reader is asked to focus on the contrast between the far view and the near view, and the indecision of which to look at, because each has its fascinations. 

There is also the well-worked suggestion in “near far near far” of the walker panting as she rests at the top of the hill, the alternating words being reminiscent of breathing “in out in out” after exertion on a cold winter’s day.

The poem ends with four words that introduce two completely new sensations, namely the feel of the wind and the taste of salt that the wind leaves on the lips. Just as the reader might feel that they have been drawn into the poet’s confidence and are of one mind with her on top of the hill, these new concepts are thrown into the mix and left there. It is up the reader to continue the experience in their own imagination, possibly by supplying sensations of the one major sense that is not touched on at all by this poem, namely sound. This winter walk has been entirely silent and the reader must supply the distant sound of the sea, or the calling of rooks, for the experience to be complete.

It is worth noting the way in which the poet uses language to surprising effect to convey new images. Some examples have already been noted, but what about “the kick of Corve Field”, which seems to imply straining calves on a steep incline, or “the unshelter of sloe”, with its image of a bare tree that offers no protection against wind or rain? These are highly effective, especially when they contrast with the more ordinary phrasing of “the scuffed earth” and “the ship on the horizon”.

This is a remarkable poem that draws the reader in but makes them paint their own picture. As mentioned earlier, it is an impressionist poem that works only when the reader supplies their imagination to join that of the poet. Poems are almost always somewhere on the spectrum between deduction and induction. With a purely deductive poem, the reader simply has to work out what the poet meant to say. This can be an interesting exercise in following clues, but such a poem can have about as much artistry as a crossword puzzle. Conversely, a wholly inductive poem, that leaves the reader to virtually write their own poem based on mere hints, can be too much like hard work to leave room for enjoyment. There are, however, places on the spectrum where the experience is a real partnership, and the result will be different depending on the reader, and may even differ as between readings at different times. “Winter Walk” falls into this latter category.