By my so potent Art. But this rough Magicke
I heere abjure: and when I have requir'd
Some heavenly Musicke (which even now I do)
To worke mine end upon their Sences, that
This Ayrie charme is for, I'le breake my staffe,
Bury it certaine fadomes in the earth,
And deeper then did ever Plummet sound
Ile drowne my booke.
(William Shakespeare, ‘The Tempest’).
Here is a distinct voice, away from the sloppy gibberish and maddening gobbledegook that is contemporary poetry. There is no comparison between Hurley’s poetry and the slinking nihilism that Auden predicted we would end up in. This poetry is Pan’s pipe-music that brings us back to the joys of life and its possessions, reuniting with the earth truths we choose to deny ourselves. Be in no doubt that your illusions would be broken when Rumi’s reed flute replaces Pan’s pipe and tells of the grounded realities of existence and then as in the Sylvia Plath poem ‘The Rabbit Catcher’ there is ‘only one place to get to. / Simmering, perfumed, / The paths narrowed into the hollow’. A body, as tongue, a body as earth in ‘Between Your Lovely Valley’:
Sometimes,
(too often) I name flowers
after your other men,
and cut their stems.
(’Jerusalem’).
man is always at a window
- a witness to beauty
I know why a poem
is never finished
It wants to move like
this – it wants in
(‘A Poem Tries to Imitate’).
Am I sometimes strange to touch?
Am I sometimes difficult to love?
I think I am.
(‘Upon a Gutter Staring’).
There aren’t many books of poetry that would go so deep as to cause their reader to break down (and not just the once). Proof that poetry can hurt as a well as heal and make stones cry and the very poems that hurt will heal too and heel better if one gets the allusions to other poets of the past:
There’s a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.
(Leonard Cohen, ‘Anthem’).