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Selected Poems
Listen to what they did.
Don't listen to what they said.
What was written in blood
Has been set up in lead.
―from "Blood and Lead"
The leading poet of his generation, James Fenton has over the course of his career built a body of work breathtaking in its range and sensibility. From the passionate political poems that launched him into fame to the intimate illuminations of love―and loss of love―in his later work, Fenton's poetry has always been marked by formal daring, wit, and an abiding empathy for the victims of war and political oppression. With selections from all of his published work since The Memory of War , the entire text of his libretto The Love Bomb , and new, previously uncollected poems, Selected Poems is an imaginative and formal tour de force.
Don't listen to what they said.
What was written in blood
Has been set up in lead.
―from "Blood and Lead"
The leading poet of his generation, James Fenton has over the course of his career built a body of work breathtaking in its range and sensibility. From the passionate political poems that launched him into fame to the intimate illuminations of love―and loss of love―in his later work, Fenton's poetry has always been marked by formal daring, wit, and an abiding empathy for the victims of war and political oppression. With selections from all of his published work since The Memory of War , the entire text of his libretto The Love Bomb , and new, previously uncollected poems, Selected Poems is an imaginative and formal tour de force.
- GenresPoetry
208 pages, Paperback
Published October 17, 2006
About the author
James Fenton
94 books59 followersJames Fenton was born in Lincoln in 1949 and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford where he won the Newdigate Prize for poetry. He has worked as political journalist, drama critic, book reviewer, war correspondent, foreign correspondent and columnist. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and was Oxford Professor of Poetry for the period 1994-99. In 2007, Fenton was awarded the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry.
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
August 29, 2021
James Fenton's "In Paris for You" has long been one of my two or three favorite poems in English, a preference that might strike some as odd since on the surface it can seem like "light verse," a genre often denigrated for its perceived lack of depth or seriousness. The poem has many features that often herald light verse: humorous coinages ("maroonded"), word choices with humorous associations ("bamboozled" rather than, say, "duped" or "tricked"), feminine rhymes ("earful"/"tearful," "rebound"/"we bound," "embarrassing you"/"Paris with you"), strained efforts to rhyme with especially challenging polysyllables ("Elysees"/"sleazy"), and pairs of short lines succeeding pairs of longer ones (a feature reminiscent of limericks). With its repeating refrain, the poem plants its flag in the camp of song rather than, say, the camp of academic treatises, and it has a conversational straightforwardness that doesn't linger on painting imagery or constructing metaphors.
And yet the poem's light-verse veneer not only makes it more fun and pleasurable to read, but also enables it to subvert expectations. I love how the meaning of the recurring phrase "in Paris with" transforms as the poem progresses, a magicianly legerdemain. I love the surprising tonal shifts, from bitter to tentatively seductive and yearning to vulnerable and tender. The first stanza sets us up to expect a poem that is cynical throughout, but the last stanzas show us a man who, despite all the bruisings he's been through, is willing to give sincerity and sentiment another try. With its relatable defense mechanisms, this poem hits me right in the emotions, which is what the best "serious" poetry does, too.
Though none of the other poems in this book are quite like "In Paris With You," many of them also harness light verse's conventions to achieve unexpectedly serious ends. Some, like "In Paris With You," deal with personal emotions regarding romantic relationships, while others draw on Fenton's career as a political journalist and war correspondent to confront the brutality of 20th-century world events. You can see this in the "The Ballad of the Imam and the Shah," which evokes absurdism in how it breaks the fourth wall and treats abstract nouns as interchangeable dactyls to express a sense of futility and hopelessness at humankind's failure to learn from history:
"The song is yours. Arrange it as you will.
Remember where each word fits in the line
And every combination will be true
And every permutation will be fine:
"From policy to felony to fear
From litany to heresy to fire
From villainy to tyranny to war
From tyranny to dynasty to shame...."
In light of the devastating stories on the front pages of newspapers these past few weeks, I felt an appreciation for the complexity of poetic techniques Fenton uses to grapple with these horrors, the way he pulls out all the stops in poems like the classic "Cambodia" ("One man shall smile one day and say goodbye. / Two shall be left, two shall be left to die. // One man shall give his best advice. / Three men shall pay the price....") and the spare list-like "Lines for Translation Into Any Language" ("9. Seeing a plane shot down, not far from the airport, many of the foreign community took fright. // 10. The next day, they joined the queues at the gymnasium, asking to leave...."). "Children in Exile" is a well-executed recitative depicting Southeast Asian refugee life through the eyes of an empathetic outside observer, while "I Saw a Child" is a heartbreaking aria that uses the conventions of song to take the same themes to almost unbearable emotional heights. If nothing else, this book reminds me of the immense power that can be mined from poetry's hereditary closeness to song, a secret some poets seem to forget, though Elizabeth Bishop remembered it in her masterpiece "Insomnia," and Fenton drew water from the same potent source in poems like his "Fireflies of the Sea."
And yet the poem's light-verse veneer not only makes it more fun and pleasurable to read, but also enables it to subvert expectations. I love how the meaning of the recurring phrase "in Paris with" transforms as the poem progresses, a magicianly legerdemain. I love the surprising tonal shifts, from bitter to tentatively seductive and yearning to vulnerable and tender. The first stanza sets us up to expect a poem that is cynical throughout, but the last stanzas show us a man who, despite all the bruisings he's been through, is willing to give sincerity and sentiment another try. With its relatable defense mechanisms, this poem hits me right in the emotions, which is what the best "serious" poetry does, too.
Though none of the other poems in this book are quite like "In Paris With You," many of them also harness light verse's conventions to achieve unexpectedly serious ends. Some, like "In Paris With You," deal with personal emotions regarding romantic relationships, while others draw on Fenton's career as a political journalist and war correspondent to confront the brutality of 20th-century world events. You can see this in the "The Ballad of the Imam and the Shah," which evokes absurdism in how it breaks the fourth wall and treats abstract nouns as interchangeable dactyls to express a sense of futility and hopelessness at humankind's failure to learn from history:
"The song is yours. Arrange it as you will.
Remember where each word fits in the line
And every combination will be true
And every permutation will be fine:
"From policy to felony to fear
From litany to heresy to fire
From villainy to tyranny to war
From tyranny to dynasty to shame...."
In light of the devastating stories on the front pages of newspapers these past few weeks, I felt an appreciation for the complexity of poetic techniques Fenton uses to grapple with these horrors, the way he pulls out all the stops in poems like the classic "Cambodia" ("One man shall smile one day and say goodbye. / Two shall be left, two shall be left to die. // One man shall give his best advice. / Three men shall pay the price....") and the spare list-like "Lines for Translation Into Any Language" ("9. Seeing a plane shot down, not far from the airport, many of the foreign community took fright. // 10. The next day, they joined the queues at the gymnasium, asking to leave...."). "Children in Exile" is a well-executed recitative depicting Southeast Asian refugee life through the eyes of an empathetic outside observer, while "I Saw a Child" is a heartbreaking aria that uses the conventions of song to take the same themes to almost unbearable emotional heights. If nothing else, this book reminds me of the immense power that can be mined from poetry's hereditary closeness to song, a secret some poets seem to forget, though Elizabeth Bishop remembered it in her masterpiece "Insomnia," and Fenton drew water from the same potent source in poems like his "Fireflies of the Sea."
December 31, 2012
"The Possibility
The lizard on the wall, engrossed,
The sudden silence from the wood
Are telling me that I have lost
The possibility of good.
I know this flower is beautiful
And yesterday it seemed to be.
It openend like a crimson hand.
It was not beautiful to me.
I know that work is beautiful.
It is a boon. It is a good.
Unless my working were a way
Of squandering my solitude.
And solitude was beautiful
When I was sure that I was strong.
I thought it was a medium
In which to grow, but I was wrong.
The jays are swearing in the wood.
The lizard moves with ugly speed.
The flower closes like a fist.
The possibility recedes."
"Out of the West came napalm
And it tumbled from the blue
And it spread at the speed of the warrior wind
And it clung to the heart
And it clung to the soul
As napalm is designed to do"
"It's the same hand on the windpipe!
It's the same sand in the windsock!
It's the same brand on the handbag!
It's the same gland in the handjob!"
The lizard on the wall, engrossed,
The sudden silence from the wood
Are telling me that I have lost
The possibility of good.
I know this flower is beautiful
And yesterday it seemed to be.
It openend like a crimson hand.
It was not beautiful to me.
I know that work is beautiful.
It is a boon. It is a good.
Unless my working were a way
Of squandering my solitude.
And solitude was beautiful
When I was sure that I was strong.
I thought it was a medium
In which to grow, but I was wrong.
The jays are swearing in the wood.
The lizard moves with ugly speed.
The flower closes like a fist.
The possibility recedes."
"Out of the West came napalm
And it tumbled from the blue
And it spread at the speed of the warrior wind
And it clung to the heart
And it clung to the soul
As napalm is designed to do"
"It's the same hand on the windpipe!
It's the same sand in the windsock!
It's the same brand on the handbag!
It's the same gland in the handjob!"
October 12, 2021
In a bookstore on the Cape, I asked for a copy of Four Quartets. The owner was genuinely upset he didn’t have a copy and recommended several other English poets. I landed on James Fenton and I’m glad I did. His style is eclectic and ranges from love poems to imperialism and refugees.
Out of danger
Heart be kind and sign the release
As the trees their loss approve.
Learn as leaves must learn to fall
Out of danger, out of love.
What belongs to frost and thaw
Sullen winter will not harm.
What belongs to wind and rain
Is out of danger from the storm.
Jealous passion, cruel need
Betray the heart they feed upon.
But what belongs to earth and death
Is out of danger from the sun.
I was cruel, I was wrong—
Hard to say and hard to know.
You do not belong to me.
You are out of danger now—
Out of danger from the wind,
Out of danger from the wave,
Out of danger from the heart
Falling, falling out of love.
Out of danger
Heart be kind and sign the release
As the trees their loss approve.
Learn as leaves must learn to fall
Out of danger, out of love.
What belongs to frost and thaw
Sullen winter will not harm.
What belongs to wind and rain
Is out of danger from the storm.
Jealous passion, cruel need
Betray the heart they feed upon.
But what belongs to earth and death
Is out of danger from the sun.
I was cruel, I was wrong—
Hard to say and hard to know.
You do not belong to me.
You are out of danger now—
Out of danger from the wind,
Out of danger from the wave,
Out of danger from the heart
Falling, falling out of love.
December 15, 2013
I picked this volume of verse off a library shelf at random. I just felt the need to read some poetry again. I haven't read much poetry at all for years. This collection is superb. Poems about war, love, religion, exiles... Technically his work is wonderful, but it is also emotionally powerful. Fenton is a very good poet indeed.
June 1, 2017
James Fenton is my favorite living poet of the English language and this collection showcases some of his absolute best. Particular highlights include: Children in Exile, God: a Poem, The Skip (my personal favorite), In Paris With You, and I Know What I'm Missing. Witty, biting, elegant, crystal clear language, beautiful imagery; it's all there.
Read
October 4, 2021Plenty of fun stuff in this selected poems of James Fenton, like this excerpt from his musical drama, "Love Bomb":
Some people are like that.
They split up and then they think:
Hey, maybe we haven't hurt each other to the uttermost.
Let's meet up and have a drink.
Let's go over it again,
Let's rake over the dirt.
Let me pick that scab of yours.
Does it hurt?
Let's go over what went wrong-
How and why and when.
Let's go over what went wrong
Again and again.
We hurt each other badly once.
We said a lot of nasty stuff.
But lately I've been thinking how
I didn't hurt you enough.
Some people are like that.
They split up and then they think:
Hey, maybe we haven't hurt each other to the uttermost.
Let's meet up and have a drink.
Let's go over it again,
Let's rake over the dirt.
Let me pick that scab of yours.
Does it hurt?
Let's go over what went wrong-
How and why and when.
Let's go over what went wrong
Again and again.
We hurt each other badly once.
We said a lot of nasty stuff.
But lately I've been thinking how
I didn't hurt you enough.
May 24, 2026
In actuality I may never be done reading this superb collection.
March 7, 2011
Poetry composed of juvenile language, awkward rhythm, and a light shade of cynicism.
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews