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Let Them Eat Chaos
Kae Tempest's powerful narrative poem--set to music on their album of the same title, shortlisted for the Mercury Music Prize--illuminates the lives of a single city street, creating an electric, humming human symphony.Let Them Eat Chaos, Kae Tempest's long poem written for live performance and heard on the album release of the same name, is both a powerful sermon and a moving play for voices. Seven neighbors inhabit the same London street, but are all unknown to each other. The clock freezes in the small hours, and one by one we see directly into their lives that are damaged, disenfranchised, lonely, broken, addicted, and all, apparently, without hope. Then a great storm breaks over London, and brings them out into the night to face each other, giving them one last chance to connect. Tempest argues that our alienation from one another has bred a terrible indifference to our own fate, but counters this with a plea to challenge the forces of greed which have conspired to divide us, and mend the broken home of our own planet while we still have time. Let Them Eat Chaos is a cri de cœur, a call to action, and a powerful poetic statement.
72 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 6, 2016
54 people are currently reading
3390 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 289 reviews
March 11, 2017
I received this in exchange for an honest review from NetGalley. Thank you to the author, Kate Tempest, and the publisher, Picador, for this opportunity.
There is a raw power in this piece that drew me in from the very first line. The focus is on a freeze-frame of time. Our omniscient and omnipresent protagonist in a nameless and faceless entity swooping into London, from above. Seven individuals are chosen, seemingly at random, and their innermost thoughts, desires and fears are laid bare for the reader to dissect. We grow to see that these individuals are linked by more than their geographic situation. They are linked by their dissatisfaction with life. And so are we all.
From Brexit, to consumerism, to the divided opinions over the stay of illegal immigrants in Britain, Tempest does not shy away from the current political problems plaguing our contemporary times. And she does so by using these seven individuals as the figureheads for divided opinion. The discourse may be difficult to read, on times, with its brutal honesty and obliteration of political correctness, but it is a powerful and original depiction of the 21st Century.
These words might be inspired from the city, but they speak on a global scale. Much can be gathered and learned from this piece, no matter of the reader's culture, society or viewpoint on the topics discussed. This acts as a wake-up call for more than the seven unhappy individuals. The reader, too, is invited to shake themselves free from the drudgery and montony of modern living and to see it, and themselves, for what and who they truly are.
Gripping, powerful, and poignant; Tempest has undoubtedly found a new fan in me!
There is a raw power in this piece that drew me in from the very first line. The focus is on a freeze-frame of time. Our omniscient and omnipresent protagonist in a nameless and faceless entity swooping into London, from above. Seven individuals are chosen, seemingly at random, and their innermost thoughts, desires and fears are laid bare for the reader to dissect. We grow to see that these individuals are linked by more than their geographic situation. They are linked by their dissatisfaction with life. And so are we all.
From Brexit, to consumerism, to the divided opinions over the stay of illegal immigrants in Britain, Tempest does not shy away from the current political problems plaguing our contemporary times. And she does so by using these seven individuals as the figureheads for divided opinion. The discourse may be difficult to read, on times, with its brutal honesty and obliteration of political correctness, but it is a powerful and original depiction of the 21st Century.
These words might be inspired from the city, but they speak on a global scale. Much can be gathered and learned from this piece, no matter of the reader's culture, society or viewpoint on the topics discussed. This acts as a wake-up call for more than the seven unhappy individuals. The reader, too, is invited to shake themselves free from the drudgery and montony of modern living and to see it, and themselves, for what and who they truly are.
Gripping, powerful, and poignant; Tempest has undoubtedly found a new fan in me!
March 6, 2018
The great fuffa (Italian version below ↓ )
A purely narrative poem which is having a great success in the UK (and across Europe): it focuses on seven characters, at times in the form of a monologue, at times in third person. The narrative pretext is actually quite fascinating: it's 4.18a.m., we are in a street in South London and in that street, at that time of the day, there are seven people who, for one reason or another, are still awake, each in their own flat. The spark which lights the fire, then, is in understanding why those people are not sleeping, but the aim of the poem is that of turning their existence inside out. Nonetheless, it's impossible not to remark how the whole thing is heavily unbalanced, sliding towards two aspects:
1) performative aspect: the text is meant to be declaimed, Tempest herself tells us at the beginning of the book: nice try, but if you don't want a solitary reading, you simply don't print it in book form; I mean, the performative aspect is not an unavoidable flaw, but when it is not controlled and overshadows the poetic dimension, what you are reading may be literature, but it's not good literature for sure. In this case the poetic dimension is weak to say the least: repetitive wording (clearly poorly polished), plain syntax (always!) and minimized figures of speech. The poet is that figure everlastingly working on his/her language: here, if any work has been made, it has been quite superficial.
2) sentimental aspect: namely, characters' feelings always come first, blackmailing the reader: there is no escaping the identification with those characters, not thanks to the qualities of the text, but because of a surplus of exhibited sentiments.
However, those are not the main flaws: teenage nihilism is. Everything is black, but this is explained to the reader with a slew of platitudes, clichés and stereotyped characters. All of them invariably bummed out, junkie, disappointed by life and society: a good deal of wannabe Kurt Cobain and wannabe Sarah Kane, endlessly; no one, in that residential street in London, who woke up just to piss, or to fuck, or whatever one could be awake for in his lousy petty bourgeois life without hating it.
Examples of platitudes:
---1st EXAMPLE---
Traffic keeps moving,
proving
there's nothing to do.
Coz it's a big business, baby,
and its smile is hideous.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
How is this something to cherish?
When the tribesmen are dead in their deserts
to make room for alien structures?
---3rd EXAMPLE---
It was our boats that sailed,
killed, stole and made frail
it was our boots that stamped it was our courts that jailed
and it was our fucking banks that got bailed.
Examples of clichés:
---1st EXAMPLE---
All that is meaningless rules
And we have learned nothing from history.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
No trace of love
in the hunt
for the
bigger buck.
Here
in the land
where nobody
gives a fuck.
---3rd EXAMPLE---
We die.
So others can be born.
We age
so others can be young.
The point of life is live.
Love if you can. Then pass it on.
---4th EXAMPLE---
I've walked these streets for all my life
they know me like no other.
But the streets have changed.
I no longer feel them
shudder.
---5th EXAMPLE---
Thinking we're engaged
when we're pacified
Staring at the screen so
we don't have to see the planet die.
Examples of stereotyped characters:
---1st EXAMPLE---
Before I was an adult, I was a
little wreck,
pedding whatever I could get
my grubby mitts on.
Ketamine for breakfast,
bad girls for drinking with.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
Across the street, above the green
in the flat with colorful curtains
Alicia's wrapped in her blankets
Had leant back on the wall
She's gripping her knees.
Looking for purpose.
Shaking and nervous.
---3rd EXAMPLE---
Woops.
I'm lying in my bed
and my brain is eating my head.
I got these demons that I can't shake
My past is a vast place.
Can't get away.
---4th EXAMPLE---
Bradley is awake.
He's watching notches on his clock face
Just lying there thinking.
Limbs like fallen buildings.
Feeling like every day he's ever lived
is out to kill him.
---5th EXAMPLE---
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially
seventy-five,
And realize I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days
regretting,
wishing I could be
forgetting.
It will be noted that the platitudes/clichés elements awfully reminds of Fight Club's narrative manner (and I do not mean that as a compliment). A randomly selected well-known sentence:
We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.
Updated to a couple of decades later, with very little variation, and there you have it: a touch of predictable environmentalism, a touch of ready-to-wear socialism, a touch of criticism towards nowadays lifestyles (what's more banal, today, than taking the piss out of the selfie-mania?), a touch of no-sweat feminism so to make departments of gender studies happy (slightly less happy those who read poetry beyond publishing phenomena like this). In Italian we have a word, “fuffa”, to describe those products, persons, works presented as intriguing but then turning out to be nothing interesting. This poem is fuffa.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
La grande fuffa
Poema puramente narrativo, che sta avendo grande successo nel Regno Unito (e in tutta Europa); l'azione si concentra su sette personaggi, a volte sotto forma di monologo degli stessi a volte in terza persona. Il pretesto narrativo è in effetti interessante: sono le 4:18 del mattino, siamo in una strada nella zona sud di Londra e in quella strada, a quell'ora, ci sono sette persone che, per un motivo o per l'altro, sono ancora sveglie, ognuna nella propria abitazione. La scintilla che accende il poema, dunque, consisterebbe nel capire il motivo per cui quelle persone sono sveglie, ma il suo obiettivo è quello di sviscerare la loro esistenza. Non si può tuttavia non rimarcare come tutto sia pesantemente squilibrato su due fronti, o meglio due versanti:
1) versante performativo: il testo sarebbe pensato per la recitazione, ci informa anche la Tempest stessa a inizio libro, ma è un trucco, se non si vuole la lettura solitaria non si stampa un libro; non che la dimensione performativa sia necessariamente un difetto, ma quando non viene controllata e sovrasta la dimensione poetica, quello che si ha di fronte forse è letteratura, di sicuro non è buona letteratura. In questo caso la dimensione poetica è inconsistente, con un lessico ripetitivo su cui si è evidentemente poco lavorato, sintassi piana (sempre!) e figure retoriche ridotte al minimo. Il poeta è colui che lavora sempre, costantemente, sul suo linguaggio. Qui, se lavoro c'è stato, è stato approssimativo.
2) versante sentimentale: ovvero i sentimenti dei personaggi sono sempre in primo piano, ricattando così il lettore che è costretto giocoforza all'immedesimazione non per qualità del testo, ma per surplus di sentimenti esplicitati.
Ma il difetto principale è un altro: il nichilismo adolescenziale, quello per cui tutto è nero sì, ma ci viene spiegato con una sfilza di ovvietà, frasi fatte e personaggi stereotipati. Tutti immancabilmente depressi, drogati, delusi dalla vita e dalla società: tanti piccoli Kurt Cobain, tante piccole Sarah Kane, all'infinito, manco uno, in quella strada residenziale di Londra, che si sia svegliato semplicemente per pisciare, o che stia scopando, o viva una medissima mediocre vita piccolo-borghese senza odiare la vita stessa.
Esempi di ovvietà:
---ESEMPIO 1---
Traffic keeps moving,
proving
there's nothing to do.
Coz it's a big business, baby,
and its smile is hideous.
---ESEMPIO 2---
How is this something to cherish?
When the tribesmen are dead in their deserts
to make room for alien structures?
---ESEMPIO 3---
It was our boats that sailed,
killed, stole and made frail
it was our boots that stamped it was our courts that jailed
and it was our fucking banks that got bailed.
Esempi di frasi fatte:
---ESEMPIO 1---
All that is meaningless rules
And we have learned nothing from history.
---ESEMPIO 2---
No trace of love
in the hunt
for the
bigger buck.
Here
in the land
where nobody
gives a fuck.
---ESEMPIO 3---
We die.
So others can be born.
We age
so others can be young.
The point of life is live.
Love if you can. Then pass it on.
---ESEMPIO 4---
I've walked these streets for all my life
they know me like no other.
But the streets have changed.
I no longer feel them
shudder.
---ESEMPIO 5---
Thinking we're engaged
when we're pacified
Staring at the screen so
we don't have to see the planet die.
Esempi di personaggi stereotipati:
---ESEMPIO 1---
Before I was an adult, I was a
little wreck,
pedding whatever I could get
my grubby mitts on.
Ketamine for breakfast,
bad girls for drinking with.
---ESEMPIO 2---
Across the street, above the green
in the flat with colorful curtains
Alicia's wrapped in her blankets
Had leant back on the wall
She's gripping her knees.
Looking for purpose.
Shaking and nervous.
---ESEMPIO 3---
Woops.
I'm lying in my bed
and my brain is eating my head.
I got these demons that I can't shake
My past is a vast place.
Can't get away.
---ESEMPIO 4---
Bradley is awake.
He's watching notches on his clock face
Just lying there thinking.
Limbs like fallen buildings.
Feeling like every day he's ever lived
is out to kill him.
---ESEMPIO 5---
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially
seventy-five,
And realize I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days
regretting,
wishing I could be
forgetting.
Il versante ovvietà/frasi fatte, si noterà, ricorda terribilmente la modalità narrativa di Fight Club (e non è un complimento). Una frase famosa a caso:
We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.
Aggiornamento a una ventina di anni dopo ma con pochissime variazioni e il gioco è fatto: un po' di ecologismo scontato, un po' di socialismo prêt-à-porter, un po' di critica ai costumi (cosa c'è di più ovvio, oggi, del prendere per il culo chi si fa i selfie?), un po' di femminismo facilotto così da far contenti i dipartimenti di gender studies (un po' meno chi legge poesia al di là di fenomeni editoriali come questo). Fuffa, insomma.
A purely narrative poem which is having a great success in the UK (and across Europe): it focuses on seven characters, at times in the form of a monologue, at times in third person. The narrative pretext is actually quite fascinating: it's 4.18a.m., we are in a street in South London and in that street, at that time of the day, there are seven people who, for one reason or another, are still awake, each in their own flat. The spark which lights the fire, then, is in understanding why those people are not sleeping, but the aim of the poem is that of turning their existence inside out. Nonetheless, it's impossible not to remark how the whole thing is heavily unbalanced, sliding towards two aspects:
1) performative aspect: the text is meant to be declaimed, Tempest herself tells us at the beginning of the book: nice try, but if you don't want a solitary reading, you simply don't print it in book form; I mean, the performative aspect is not an unavoidable flaw, but when it is not controlled and overshadows the poetic dimension, what you are reading may be literature, but it's not good literature for sure. In this case the poetic dimension is weak to say the least: repetitive wording (clearly poorly polished), plain syntax (always!) and minimized figures of speech. The poet is that figure everlastingly working on his/her language: here, if any work has been made, it has been quite superficial.
2) sentimental aspect: namely, characters' feelings always come first, blackmailing the reader: there is no escaping the identification with those characters, not thanks to the qualities of the text, but because of a surplus of exhibited sentiments.
However, those are not the main flaws: teenage nihilism is. Everything is black, but this is explained to the reader with a slew of platitudes, clichés and stereotyped characters. All of them invariably bummed out, junkie, disappointed by life and society: a good deal of wannabe Kurt Cobain and wannabe Sarah Kane, endlessly; no one, in that residential street in London, who woke up just to piss, or to fuck, or whatever one could be awake for in his lousy petty bourgeois life without hating it.
Examples of platitudes:
---1st EXAMPLE---
Traffic keeps moving,
proving
there's nothing to do.
Coz it's a big business, baby,
and its smile is hideous.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
How is this something to cherish?
When the tribesmen are dead in their deserts
to make room for alien structures?
---3rd EXAMPLE---
It was our boats that sailed,
killed, stole and made frail
it was our boots that stamped it was our courts that jailed
and it was our fucking banks that got bailed.
Examples of clichés:
---1st EXAMPLE---
All that is meaningless rules
And we have learned nothing from history.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
No trace of love
in the hunt
for the
bigger buck.
Here
in the land
where nobody
gives a fuck.
---3rd EXAMPLE---
We die.
So others can be born.
We age
so others can be young.
The point of life is live.
Love if you can. Then pass it on.
---4th EXAMPLE---
I've walked these streets for all my life
they know me like no other.
But the streets have changed.
I no longer feel them
shudder.
---5th EXAMPLE---
Thinking we're engaged
when we're pacified
Staring at the screen so
we don't have to see the planet die.
Examples of stereotyped characters:
---1st EXAMPLE---
Before I was an adult, I was a
little wreck,
pedding whatever I could get
my grubby mitts on.
Ketamine for breakfast,
bad girls for drinking with.
---2nd EXAMPLE---
Across the street, above the green
in the flat with colorful curtains
Alicia's wrapped in her blankets
Had leant back on the wall
She's gripping her knees.
Looking for purpose.
Shaking and nervous.
---3rd EXAMPLE---
Woops.
I'm lying in my bed
and my brain is eating my head.
I got these demons that I can't shake
My past is a vast place.
Can't get away.
---4th EXAMPLE---
Bradley is awake.
He's watching notches on his clock face
Just lying there thinking.
Limbs like fallen buildings.
Feeling like every day he's ever lived
is out to kill him.
---5th EXAMPLE---
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially
seventy-five,
And realize I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days
regretting,
wishing I could be
forgetting.
It will be noted that the platitudes/clichés elements awfully reminds of Fight Club's narrative manner (and I do not mean that as a compliment). A randomly selected well-known sentence:
We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.
Updated to a couple of decades later, with very little variation, and there you have it: a touch of predictable environmentalism, a touch of ready-to-wear socialism, a touch of criticism towards nowadays lifestyles (what's more banal, today, than taking the piss out of the selfie-mania?), a touch of no-sweat feminism so to make departments of gender studies happy (slightly less happy those who read poetry beyond publishing phenomena like this). In Italian we have a word, “fuffa”, to describe those products, persons, works presented as intriguing but then turning out to be nothing interesting. This poem is fuffa.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
La grande fuffa
Poema puramente narrativo, che sta avendo grande successo nel Regno Unito (e in tutta Europa); l'azione si concentra su sette personaggi, a volte sotto forma di monologo degli stessi a volte in terza persona. Il pretesto narrativo è in effetti interessante: sono le 4:18 del mattino, siamo in una strada nella zona sud di Londra e in quella strada, a quell'ora, ci sono sette persone che, per un motivo o per l'altro, sono ancora sveglie, ognuna nella propria abitazione. La scintilla che accende il poema, dunque, consisterebbe nel capire il motivo per cui quelle persone sono sveglie, ma il suo obiettivo è quello di sviscerare la loro esistenza. Non si può tuttavia non rimarcare come tutto sia pesantemente squilibrato su due fronti, o meglio due versanti:
1) versante performativo: il testo sarebbe pensato per la recitazione, ci informa anche la Tempest stessa a inizio libro, ma è un trucco, se non si vuole la lettura solitaria non si stampa un libro; non che la dimensione performativa sia necessariamente un difetto, ma quando non viene controllata e sovrasta la dimensione poetica, quello che si ha di fronte forse è letteratura, di sicuro non è buona letteratura. In questo caso la dimensione poetica è inconsistente, con un lessico ripetitivo su cui si è evidentemente poco lavorato, sintassi piana (sempre!) e figure retoriche ridotte al minimo. Il poeta è colui che lavora sempre, costantemente, sul suo linguaggio. Qui, se lavoro c'è stato, è stato approssimativo.
2) versante sentimentale: ovvero i sentimenti dei personaggi sono sempre in primo piano, ricattando così il lettore che è costretto giocoforza all'immedesimazione non per qualità del testo, ma per surplus di sentimenti esplicitati.
Ma il difetto principale è un altro: il nichilismo adolescenziale, quello per cui tutto è nero sì, ma ci viene spiegato con una sfilza di ovvietà, frasi fatte e personaggi stereotipati. Tutti immancabilmente depressi, drogati, delusi dalla vita e dalla società: tanti piccoli Kurt Cobain, tante piccole Sarah Kane, all'infinito, manco uno, in quella strada residenziale di Londra, che si sia svegliato semplicemente per pisciare, o che stia scopando, o viva una medissima mediocre vita piccolo-borghese senza odiare la vita stessa.
Esempi di ovvietà:
---ESEMPIO 1---
Traffic keeps moving,
proving
there's nothing to do.
Coz it's a big business, baby,
and its smile is hideous.
---ESEMPIO 2---
How is this something to cherish?
When the tribesmen are dead in their deserts
to make room for alien structures?
---ESEMPIO 3---
It was our boats that sailed,
killed, stole and made frail
it was our boots that stamped it was our courts that jailed
and it was our fucking banks that got bailed.
Esempi di frasi fatte:
---ESEMPIO 1---
All that is meaningless rules
And we have learned nothing from history.
---ESEMPIO 2---
No trace of love
in the hunt
for the
bigger buck.
Here
in the land
where nobody
gives a fuck.
---ESEMPIO 3---
We die.
So others can be born.
We age
so others can be young.
The point of life is live.
Love if you can. Then pass it on.
---ESEMPIO 4---
I've walked these streets for all my life
they know me like no other.
But the streets have changed.
I no longer feel them
shudder.
---ESEMPIO 5---
Thinking we're engaged
when we're pacified
Staring at the screen so
we don't have to see the planet die.
Esempi di personaggi stereotipati:
---ESEMPIO 1---
Before I was an adult, I was a
little wreck,
pedding whatever I could get
my grubby mitts on.
Ketamine for breakfast,
bad girls for drinking with.
---ESEMPIO 2---
Across the street, above the green
in the flat with colorful curtains
Alicia's wrapped in her blankets
Had leant back on the wall
She's gripping her knees.
Looking for purpose.
Shaking and nervous.
---ESEMPIO 3---
Woops.
I'm lying in my bed
and my brain is eating my head.
I got these demons that I can't shake
My past is a vast place.
Can't get away.
---ESEMPIO 4---
Bradley is awake.
He's watching notches on his clock face
Just lying there thinking.
Limbs like fallen buildings.
Feeling like every day he's ever lived
is out to kill him.
---ESEMPIO 5---
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially
seventy-five,
And realize I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days
regretting,
wishing I could be
forgetting.
Il versante ovvietà/frasi fatte, si noterà, ricorda terribilmente la modalità narrativa di Fight Club (e non è un complimento). Una frase famosa a caso:
We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.
Aggiornamento a una ventina di anni dopo ma con pochissime variazioni e il gioco è fatto: un po' di ecologismo scontato, un po' di socialismo prêt-à-porter, un po' di critica ai costumi (cosa c'è di più ovvio, oggi, del prendere per il culo chi si fa i selfie?), un po' di femminismo facilotto così da far contenti i dipartimenti di gender studies (un po' meno chi legge poesia al di là di fenomeni editoriali come questo). Fuffa, insomma.
February 8, 2017
The new Waste Land. Kate Tempest puts into words feelings I've never been able to articulate. I thought it was just me, but it isn't. An unsettling, yet strangely reassuring read.
March 3, 2017
(3.5) This is meant to be read aloud, but I think you can still hear the slam poetry rhythms in your head when reading to yourself. The poet imagines seven disparate people in one London neighborhood, all of whom happen to be awake at 4:18 a.m. as a huge storm (a Tempest?) hits. Moving between their lives and the state of the nation, the poem shows the mess we’ve made of our society and our planet and posits love as the way back to wholeness.
Favorite lines:
Favorite lines:
“Rich flats, broke flats. / New flats. / Old flats. / Luxury bespoke flats. / And this-has-got-to-be-a-joke flats.”
“We clothe the corpse of our culture / parade it as Great Britain, / hark back to dead times and dead thinking / Call on the pillars of dead men / stifled and unloving. / No isle is an island / unsure and divided / just one little clod off the mainland, sinking.”
“Life is much broader / than borders / but who can afford / to think over the walls of this fortress. / Of course it’s important / to provide roof and floorboards / for you and yours / and be secure in your fortunes. / But you’re more / than the three or four / you’d go to war for.”
August 13, 2017
Very lovely and inspiring and soulful read, reads like a more light-hearted contemporary Bukowski, soaked in wine not whisky.
May 3, 2024
I first read Tempest last year, with her amazing collection "Hold Your Own", which dealt with sexuality and gender, and I quickly followed it by reading her less brilliant, "Brand New Ancients", a single poem about generations. This one follows the same principle, a long story of the people of today, tired, hopeless, living the best way they can. We follow the struggles of seven people who live in the same building, but don’t know each other, until a storm wedges them together, and their last hopes of being understood are presented.
“…The people are dead in their lifetimes
Dazed in the shine of the streets
But look how the traffic’s still moving
System’s too slick to stop working…”
The truest part of Tempest’s writing comes from her short analysis of the individuals’ own voice. That is where she excels when it comes to her poetry/rap, digging into the mind of the people she presents as characters. Oftentimes I read poetry for the beautiful descriptions of everyday life and issues, but when I read Kate Tempest’s works, as well as other slam poetry, I read them to see how simple everyday people can be brought forth as great examples of the human condition.
But I would be lying if I did not say I was disappointed when I read this, it was sub-par when compared to her other poetry collections. I had read many reviews highlighting how fantastic this was, and everyone was saying it was her best work yet, instead, it simply was an okay narrative. I suggest you read her "Hold Your Own" first, which is miles ahead of this, and then if enjoyed, go on and read her other works.
“…The people are dead in their lifetimes
Dazed in the shine of the streets
But look how the traffic’s still moving
System’s too slick to stop working…”
The truest part of Tempest’s writing comes from her short analysis of the individuals’ own voice. That is where she excels when it comes to her poetry/rap, digging into the mind of the people she presents as characters. Oftentimes I read poetry for the beautiful descriptions of everyday life and issues, but when I read Kate Tempest’s works, as well as other slam poetry, I read them to see how simple everyday people can be brought forth as great examples of the human condition.
But I would be lying if I did not say I was disappointed when I read this, it was sub-par when compared to her other poetry collections. I had read many reviews highlighting how fantastic this was, and everyone was saying it was her best work yet, instead, it simply was an okay narrative. I suggest you read her "Hold Your Own" first, which is miles ahead of this, and then if enjoyed, go on and read her other works.
December 31, 2022
"Picture the world.
Older than she ever thought she'd get.
She looks at herself as she spins.
Arms loaded with the trophies
of her most successful child.
The pylons and mines,
The power-plants shimmer in her still, cool breath.
Is that a smile playing across her lips?
Or is it a tremor of dread?"
This was amazing. Beautiful and perfect. I read it out loud -how this poem was meant- and found Let Them Eat Chaos breathtaking. It is one long poem about seven people living in the same street in London, up at night contemplating their lives. A beautiful monologue about individualism and our inability to look further than our own little bubble. I need to read more Tempest.
Older than she ever thought she'd get.
She looks at herself as she spins.
Arms loaded with the trophies
of her most successful child.
The pylons and mines,
The power-plants shimmer in her still, cool breath.
Is that a smile playing across her lips?
Or is it a tremor of dread?"
This was amazing. Beautiful and perfect. I read it out loud -how this poem was meant- and found Let Them Eat Chaos breathtaking. It is one long poem about seven people living in the same street in London, up at night contemplating their lives. A beautiful monologue about individualism and our inability to look further than our own little bubble. I need to read more Tempest.
September 6, 2018
Let Them Eat Chaos è un poema vulcanico ed eclettico, ti colpisce frontalmente, ti stordisce e ti lascia lì, a domandarti se sia ancora lecito sperare nell’umanità.
Nel dettaglio, è un ritratto di sette persone che alle 4.18 di mattina sono sveglie nei loro appartamenti di Londra (ma potrebbe benissimo essere qualsiasi altra metropoli, qualsiasi città caotica, affollata, dove le vite dei singoli si mischiano con le disgrazie di tutti gli altri, siano essi immigrati, pensionati, disoccupati, single o fidanzati…), a contare «le pecore dei loro stupidi sbagli», incapaci di prendere sonno o di svegliarsi del tutto. Non sono poveri o ricchi, ma sono immersi nel caos delle loro esistenze. E, ovviamente, il caos interno a loro altro non è che lo specchio di qualcosa di più grande fuori da loro: un caos più generale che è là fuori, nel mondo della politica e della società. Le storie personali di queste sette persone diventano un escamotage per parlare di una società malata, fin nelle sue più profonde fondamenta. In Let Them Eat Chaos si raccontano le ansie, gli affanni, le frustrazioni e i disagi di una generazione che arriva a rendersi conto che la propria vita non sta andando da nessuna parte, ma rimane lì, ferma, a macerare in una routine fatta di egoismo, alienazione e apatia.
Kate Tempest compie questa sorta di “chiamata alle armi” ibridando i generi (Let Them Eat Chaos è anche un album musicale…) e dando forma fisica al testo, che risulta ritmato, capace di creare immagini vividissime di quello di cui scrive (per curiosità ho ascoltato anche l'album, e devo ammettere che è leggermente più d'impatto rispetto al libro, che probabilmente perde un po' di forza senza la sua voce...).
Incontriamo Jemma, sveglia a riflettere sul suo passato fatto di pasti a base di ketamina e pessime compagnie; troviamo Esther, chre crede che l’Occidente sia ormai perduto; ci imbattiamo in Bradley, che non riesce a liberarsi dalla sensazione che la vita non sia ancora cominciata per lui, che non può essere semplicemente tutto qui, un susseguirsi di lavoro, soldi, casa e divertimento saltuario; Alicia, che sente la voce del suo compagno assassinato; Pete, ubriacone di ritorno dal pub, che affoga nell’alcol il pensiero di non vivere la vita che vorrebbe; Zoe, che sta preparando gli scatoloni perché il quartiere è diventato trendy e le hanno triplicato l’affitto; e Pia, che dorme con una donna, ma pensa ad un’altra.
La vita per tutti loro (e non solo loro, ma un’intera generazione, allevata all’ombra del mito del progresso tecnologico, ma ritrovatasi nella realtà ad affogare in un mare di disperazione culturale, senza punti di riferimento o ideali tangibili) è solo qualcosa che accade, una vicenda come un’altra, un evento dopo l’altro, al punto da domandarsi «Lo so che sta succedendo, / ma sta succedendo a me?».
Ogni cosa pare essere in dissoluzione, perché siamo tutti individui sempre più persi e sempre più soli, spinti a tal punto al solipsismo che l’unica vittoria possibile, l’unica nostra possibilità di successo, è la sconfitta del prossimo. Può reggersi in piedi un mondo tanto individualista? Quanto può durare? La speranza è che duri poco, che ci si svegli presto da questo torpore disperato, dentro il quale tutti noi ci sentiamo un’isola, persi in un mondo fatto di singole individualità anziché umanità accomunata dalle stesse paure.
Queste sette persone prese ad esempio da Kate Tempest si stanno svegliano; si interrogano sulla loro vita e comprendono che qualcosa si è rotto, che non tutto è giusto così come lo stanno vivendo. Manca però il passo successivo, quello che davvero potrebbe trasformare la scintilla in un falò: la condivisione.
Nel dettaglio, è un ritratto di sette persone che alle 4.18 di mattina sono sveglie nei loro appartamenti di Londra (ma potrebbe benissimo essere qualsiasi altra metropoli, qualsiasi città caotica, affollata, dove le vite dei singoli si mischiano con le disgrazie di tutti gli altri, siano essi immigrati, pensionati, disoccupati, single o fidanzati…), a contare «le pecore dei loro stupidi sbagli», incapaci di prendere sonno o di svegliarsi del tutto. Non sono poveri o ricchi, ma sono immersi nel caos delle loro esistenze. E, ovviamente, il caos interno a loro altro non è che lo specchio di qualcosa di più grande fuori da loro: un caos più generale che è là fuori, nel mondo della politica e della società. Le storie personali di queste sette persone diventano un escamotage per parlare di una società malata, fin nelle sue più profonde fondamenta. In Let Them Eat Chaos si raccontano le ansie, gli affanni, le frustrazioni e i disagi di una generazione che arriva a rendersi conto che la propria vita non sta andando da nessuna parte, ma rimane lì, ferma, a macerare in una routine fatta di egoismo, alienazione e apatia.
Kate Tempest compie questa sorta di “chiamata alle armi” ibridando i generi (Let Them Eat Chaos è anche un album musicale…) e dando forma fisica al testo, che risulta ritmato, capace di creare immagini vividissime di quello di cui scrive (per curiosità ho ascoltato anche l'album, e devo ammettere che è leggermente più d'impatto rispetto al libro, che probabilmente perde un po' di forza senza la sua voce...).
Incontriamo Jemma, sveglia a riflettere sul suo passato fatto di pasti a base di ketamina e pessime compagnie; troviamo Esther, chre crede che l’Occidente sia ormai perduto; ci imbattiamo in Bradley, che non riesce a liberarsi dalla sensazione che la vita non sia ancora cominciata per lui, che non può essere semplicemente tutto qui, un susseguirsi di lavoro, soldi, casa e divertimento saltuario; Alicia, che sente la voce del suo compagno assassinato; Pete, ubriacone di ritorno dal pub, che affoga nell’alcol il pensiero di non vivere la vita che vorrebbe; Zoe, che sta preparando gli scatoloni perché il quartiere è diventato trendy e le hanno triplicato l’affitto; e Pia, che dorme con una donna, ma pensa ad un’altra.
La vita per tutti loro (e non solo loro, ma un’intera generazione, allevata all’ombra del mito del progresso tecnologico, ma ritrovatasi nella realtà ad affogare in un mare di disperazione culturale, senza punti di riferimento o ideali tangibili) è solo qualcosa che accade, una vicenda come un’altra, un evento dopo l’altro, al punto da domandarsi «Lo so che sta succedendo, / ma sta succedendo a me?».
Ogni cosa pare essere in dissoluzione, perché siamo tutti individui sempre più persi e sempre più soli, spinti a tal punto al solipsismo che l’unica vittoria possibile, l’unica nostra possibilità di successo, è la sconfitta del prossimo. Può reggersi in piedi un mondo tanto individualista? Quanto può durare? La speranza è che duri poco, che ci si svegli presto da questo torpore disperato, dentro il quale tutti noi ci sentiamo un’isola, persi in un mondo fatto di singole individualità anziché umanità accomunata dalle stesse paure.
Queste sette persone prese ad esempio da Kate Tempest si stanno svegliano; si interrogano sulla loro vita e comprendono che qualcosa si è rotto, che non tutto è giusto così come lo stanno vivendo. Manca però il passo successivo, quello che davvero potrebbe trasformare la scintilla in un falò: la condivisione.
July 10, 2020
Tempest's work bears the same resemblance to poetry as sawdust does to a living tree. Overblown and dull.
February 10, 2019
Zur Lage der Nation:
Was eigentlich eine politische Führung ansprechen sollte, das wir bei "Let Them Eat Chaos" von der Slampoetin und Schriftstellerin Kate Tempest laut angegriffen. Ihr langes Gedicht ist nicht nur ein Blick in das moderne London und dessen Bewohnerinnen und Bewohner, sondern eine Aussprache und ein wütendes Statement zum politischen Geschehen. Mit vielen furiosen Abschnitten, Leerstellen und eigenwilligem Rhythmus spürt man die Wut, welche besonders in den Zeiten des Brexit nicht nur in Kate lauert. Da spürt man die Kraft der Worte mehr als gut.
Die Edition vom Suhrkamp Verlag bietet sowohl das englische Original, wie auch die deutsche Übersetzung. Ich hielt mich an ersteres, da besonders in der Lyrik viele Wortspiele und Formulierungen verloren gehen.
Was eigentlich eine politische Führung ansprechen sollte, das wir bei "Let Them Eat Chaos" von der Slampoetin und Schriftstellerin Kate Tempest laut angegriffen. Ihr langes Gedicht ist nicht nur ein Blick in das moderne London und dessen Bewohnerinnen und Bewohner, sondern eine Aussprache und ein wütendes Statement zum politischen Geschehen. Mit vielen furiosen Abschnitten, Leerstellen und eigenwilligem Rhythmus spürt man die Wut, welche besonders in den Zeiten des Brexit nicht nur in Kate lauert. Da spürt man die Kraft der Worte mehr als gut.
Die Edition vom Suhrkamp Verlag bietet sowohl das englische Original, wie auch die deutsche Übersetzung. Ich hielt mich an ersteres, da besonders in der Lyrik viele Wortspiele und Formulierungen verloren gehen.
November 10, 2016
* I was sent this free in exchange for a review from the publisher *
This book is definitely designed to be read aloud and that really enhanced my experience of it as I could say the words as they were written and pace it to be dramatic or intense at all the right moments. I don't often read poetry and this is the first poem of this style I've ever read. I was very pleasantly surprised by how very much I enjoyed this and the way that I related to some of the characters, emotions and the isolation. It's a sad and yet excited poem because it shows us some of the problems of today and then calls for action. Kate Tempest can definitely write and she's a star at forming current, interesting lines that really relate to this time and to the worries and wonders of our world. I was very very pleased at how much I enjoyed this. 4*s and I'd really recommend it to any poetry novices like me!
This book is definitely designed to be read aloud and that really enhanced my experience of it as I could say the words as they were written and pace it to be dramatic or intense at all the right moments. I don't often read poetry and this is the first poem of this style I've ever read. I was very pleasantly surprised by how very much I enjoyed this and the way that I related to some of the characters, emotions and the isolation. It's a sad and yet excited poem because it shows us some of the problems of today and then calls for action. Kate Tempest can definitely write and she's a star at forming current, interesting lines that really relate to this time and to the worries and wonders of our world. I was very very pleased at how much I enjoyed this. 4*s and I'd really recommend it to any poetry novices like me!
December 22, 2016
Let Them Eat Chaos is one of those books, one of those poems, that everyone should somehow run into, meet, and end up reading at some point, for one reason or another. It should be destined.
Condensed in these words resides a truth that could swallow the world into wholeness.
As you pronounce each and every word, as you taste them, as you feel them, they become real in you, they become you.
The fact that Kate Tempest wrote this, that a fellow human being wrote this, is hopeful, is hope. Let it be contagious, let it be contagion itself.
Condensed in these words resides a truth that could swallow the world into wholeness.
”This poem was written to be read aloud.”
As you pronounce each and every word, as you taste them, as you feel them, they become real in you, they become you.
The fact that Kate Tempest wrote this, that a fellow human being wrote this, is hopeful, is hope. Let it be contagious, let it be contagion itself.
“wake up and love more”.
October 2, 2016
Kate's epic live performance of this on BBC2 was absolutely blinding. She's a much needed poetic voice in contemporary Britain and I can't wait to read this in order to spend more time with the words - but Tempest is as much a performer as she is a poet, so I recommend you watch her perform this first.
Puts my own poetry to shame!! :)
Puts my own poetry to shame!! :)
May 16, 2019
Dal libro:
Si muore.
Perché altri possano nascere.
S’invecchia
perché altri possano essere giovani.
Il senso della vita è vivere.
Amare se si può. E poi tramandare.
Si muore perché altri possano nascere
S’invecchia perché altri possano essere giovani.
Il senso della vita è vivere,
Amare se si può
e poi tramandare.
July 22, 2024
It's 0418 seven perfect strangers are awake and a storm is coming. That storm is Kae Tempest.
Another exquisite narrative concept album for Tempest exploring a a snapshot of seven different lives and experies connected by being awake in the middle of the night and walking into the storm.
Banging, moving, thoughtful, relevant, critical, lyrical.
My attempt to review is pitiful.
But I love it.
Another exquisite narrative concept album for Tempest exploring a a snapshot of seven different lives and experies connected by being awake in the middle of the night and walking into the storm.
Banging, moving, thoughtful, relevant, critical, lyrical.
My attempt to review is pitiful.
But I love it.
February 16, 2021
Vi a atuação de Kae Tempest em 2017 no Paredes de Coura e fiquei de rastos. A forma como levou este álbum ao palco e foi jorrando, palavra por palavra e com a mesma raiva que a escrita já apresenta, fez com que aquela hora, a fechar o palco principal no primeiro dia com toda a gente a ver, passasse a voar.
(Escrever isto em português é difícil uma vez que Kae Tempest se identifica como they/them. A escrita portuguesa é das coisas menos inclusivas para pessoas não-binárias que existe.)
(Escrever isto em português é difícil uma vez que Kae Tempest se identifica como they/them. A escrita portuguesa é das coisas menos inclusivas para pessoas não-binárias que existe.)
January 27, 2024
3.5/5
2016 çıkışlı aynı isimli albüme bayılsam da Kae Tempest'in önceki şiirlerine göre biraz daha az beğendim. Performans için yazıldığından belki lezzetine öyle varılıyordur. Kitabın başındaki yüksek sesle okunmalıdır uyarısı boşuna değilmiş.
2016 çıkışlı aynı isimli albüme bayılsam da Kae Tempest'in önceki şiirlerine göre biraz daha az beğendim. Performans için yazıldığından belki lezzetine öyle varılıyordur. Kitabın başındaki yüksek sesle okunmalıdır uyarısı boşuna değilmiş.
June 26, 2019
Wow. So. I've always had a toe in poetry. I LOVED doing it as a kid, and maintained a lukewarm interest. Then along comes Jen Campbell and her booktube channel and I'm like. I need to give this another go because I love her and she loves poetry. I've had great poems, I've enjoyed beautiful lines, but never really got the whole amazement at a collection.
Until.
Now.
Oh wow.
I saw Kate Tempest's opening poem from her Glastonbury set and I immediately loved her, and saw that her latest book of poetry was a Costa shortlisted book and it was in stock in my indie book shop. I bought it. I read it out loud as is suggested. And before long I was literally performing it to my dogs and crying with joy and fuming with her anger and desperately wanting 85 more copies so I could pass them all on. I'm now chasing this high and have ordered all the poetry.
Until.
Now.
Oh wow.
I saw Kate Tempest's opening poem from her Glastonbury set and I immediately loved her, and saw that her latest book of poetry was a Costa shortlisted book and it was in stock in my indie book shop. I bought it. I read it out loud as is suggested. And before long I was literally performing it to my dogs and crying with joy and fuming with her anger and desperately wanting 85 more copies so I could pass them all on. I'm now chasing this high and have ordered all the poetry.
December 5, 2016
maar dan het album geluisterd. europe is lost <3
June 26, 2025
euh trop déçue, on me l'a tellement vendu, je m'attendais à un truc hyper subversif.. bah on repassera hein
August 30, 2017
Another one kept around and pawed through for ages, a good fire starter. Reminds me of the time my aunt was trying to comfort me and stop me from crying one time by insulting me over and over, increasingly more ridiculously, so that I would start laughing instead of crying. Sometimes you have to be mean to be kind or to get people back on their feat fighting.
April 1, 2024
i just love the strangers sharing moments/having something in common/being soulmates trope hello chungking express hello fallen angels
March 26, 2017
Quick read, honestly idk I don't think I'm a poetry person really:)) it was alright in my opinion but everyone super loves it:) so idk ladies:)
I liked this tho:
Is this what I'm doing?
I know I exist
but I don't feel a thing
I'm eclipsed,
I'm elsewhere.
The worst part is I don't think
that I care.
Is this all that's ahead of me?
I always thought
that life
would mean more to me
eventually.
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially seventy-five,
and realise I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days regretting,
wishing I could be forgetting.
cause hello es me:))
I liked this tho:
Is this what I'm doing?
I know I exist
but I don't feel a thing
I'm eclipsed,
I'm elsewhere.
The worst part is I don't think
that I care.
Is this all that's ahead of me?
I always thought
that life
would mean more to me
eventually.
I hate to think I'll make it to seventy,
potentially seventy-five,
and realise I've never been alive,
and spend the rest of my days regretting,
wishing I could be forgetting.
cause hello es me:))
October 6, 2018
— 3.5 / 5 stars ✨ —
December 19, 2021
"Smart flats. Rough flats.
Can’t-get-enough-cat flats,
you know, seventeen cat-flaps.
Rich flats, broke flats.
New flats.
Old flats.
Luxury bespoke flats.
And this-has-got-to-be-a-joke flats."
It's raw and rhythm and rage, a dark-colored mosaic of contemporary society.
Can’t-get-enough-cat flats,
you know, seventeen cat-flaps.
Rich flats, broke flats.
New flats.
Old flats.
Luxury bespoke flats.
And this-has-got-to-be-a-joke flats."
It's raw and rhythm and rage, a dark-colored mosaic of contemporary society.
November 26, 2016
Already comparisons are being drawn with the Waste Land - but I would hesitate, as I think that would do disservice to both works. They share a space, but where Eliot's poem is a heap of broken images, Tempest's is a plotted narrative of connection. Tempest's poem is emphatically not modernist, even if it may look it on the page. Built around city life - specifically, very heavily invested in London 'and all the gods from all those places who taught me everything I know', as she put it in Brand New Ancients- it weaves a story around seven characters, and I recognised parts of myself in at least three. Greatly enjoyed, but then I do read a lot of dystopia.
My recommendation would be to read it first, then listen to the album recording - but definietly to do both. It's a bravura performance.
My recommendation would be to read it first, then listen to the album recording - but definietly to do both. It's a bravura performance.
December 15, 2016
This is EVERYTHING. Though its full-force lies in her performance of it (youtube-available live on BBC). My heart.
August 11, 2017
I listened to the album on Spotify, and I think that really enhanced my enjoyment. I do think I would enjoy reading this in print, and I also want to listen to the album a couple more times to really get a sense of the language. Really thought-provoking and beautiful upon a first listen.
January 7, 2023
major fan over here
August 6, 2025
Als kae schrijft "this poem was written to be read aloud" dan volg je braaf en lees je jezelf in één ruk door een van de krachtigste werken die je al las.
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