Review of ‘ways to say we’re not alone’ by Simon Alderwick

In my lifetime I must have read hundreds of collections of poetry. I don’t know whether you’re the same but every time I open the work of a poet new to me I’m hoping that I will discover a writer with something different to say in a fresh and original way, a writer to whom I will return in the years ahead. Well, on opening Simon Alderwick’s ways to say we’re not alone (Broken Sleep Books, 2024) my hopes were realised. It’s a fabulous collection and difficult to believe it is his first.

As the title implies the poems explore connectivity: the rewards, the costs and obligations of being part of something bigger such as a relationship, a family, a society, a religion, an environment. In Flubbergust the surreal poem which opens the collection, we see Alderwick exploring our relationship to the latter. The poem begins with an apology: the speaker is not able to fulfil a social engagement because he ‘was opening a packet of crisps/ and found a whale inside’. He speaks to the whale: ‘I said: normally the packaging/ is inside you// but he failed to see the funny side.’ This is typical of Alderwick’s capacity to surprise, challenging our expectations often in a humorous and absurd way but with a serious intent. Here he captures the interdependency of creatures that inhabit the planet: our actions have implications for those sharing the same environment exemplified by crisp packets ending up in the stomachs of whales. The sense of closeness of that relationship is strengthened by the speaker’s capacity to converse with the whale: the whale understands the joke even it doesn’t find it funny. The speaker, at a loss of what to do, seeks help from the crisp manufacturer. The representative he speaks to, however, offers him a solution he finds unacceptable. He excuses her by saying that she couldn’t have been listening for she instructs him to dispose of the whale by putting it out ‘with the general waste’, a suggestion that shocks him with its callousness, the poem ending with his assertion ‘it’s still alive’. The girl would appear to represent the callous disregard of our responsibilities to the other creatures that share our environment and which threatens their survival. She disconnects from that relationship and in doing so condemns the animal to death.

We find the same surrealism in Everybody’s always trying to sell you something. This time Alderwick is concerned with what it is to be part of a consumer society. The speaker describes how he is assailed by women trying to sell him something: an eye test, a sausage roll, eternal life. In such a society even time is seen as a ‘resource’ to be ‘invest(ed)’ in. The speaker tries to resist: ‘i shook her off my leg, ran home, locked my door,/ hid behind the sofa in the dark for several years.’ However, when he emerges he says ‘i had clumps of hair in my hands./ even bits of her scalp, i thought she was clingy,/ but i remember now – it was me/ who would not let her go.’ The detail of the hair suggests an act of violence committed in desperation which conveys powerfully the invasiveness of the values of consumerism and the difficulty of resistance.

Another type of attachment that Alderwick explores is relationships. The Game describes the connection between a young child and father who are role playing at being separated. Significantly the poem begins with a moment of miscommunication: the daughter has to correct the father and instruct him how to play the game: ‘no daddy, she says, taking my hand,/  you’re in London’ and she physically places a barrier between them, walking him out of the bedroom and closing the door. Though this is a game, it has a profound effect upon him, particularly when she says to him ‘i miss you…when are you coming home?’ the speaker describing the toy brick as ‘heavy’ in his hand. The end of the poem reveals the reason why: ‘it’s a silly game,/ but it feels good// to make a game of it/ at last.’ There is a reality underpinning this game: it is an enactment of a situation all too common in their lives. This time, however, it is make-believe and it can easily be resolved so that he can ‘hold her’ in his arms. This moving ending conveys powerfully the strength and importance of the relationship between parents and their children and the circumstances that can test it so frequently in contemporary society.

As The Game shows, language in Alderwick’s poetry is problematic. It often fails to act as a conduit between people to secure the bond between them. I think it’s significant that the father doesn’t conclude the poem by telling the daughter he loves her, but communicates his feelings through action, by holding her. In 115MPH we see the limitations of language at work. It describes how the speaker’s best friend who having lost ‘a lot of dough’ gambling came close to committing suicide by stepping out in front of a train. Such is the closeness between the speaker and his friend when he is told this story he says ‘i swear i felt/ a rush of air/ same as he felt/ the train rushed by’. His empathy enables him to live his friend’s experience, to share the same feelings. However, he can’t communicate this to him : ‘if i could say/ anything my/ words would/ drown in the// sound of/ the train/ rushing/ by.’ Not only is he unable to find the words to articulate what he feels, there is a sense here of the inadequacy of words to do so. We find something similar in Departure,  a poem that describes a couple facing a temporary separation. The moment is painful: ‘they have so much to say/ & so much they can’t’, their final moments being spent in silence, which Alderwick represents through a large block of white space on the page. The inadequacy of language again. Problematic though it may be, he also believes that it is what we have to connect with others. In Speech Therapy he describes it as ‘a river that goes nowhere/ a tangled knot/ a lump of ice in your whiskey throat’ recalling its characterisation in 115MPH and Departure. However it is also the case, as he says, that ‘our language was invented/ to describe things/ that were born before us/ and will outlive us all.’ It has a permanence that we don’t have. It is the only means of connecting us with generations from the past, present and future, a means by which we can ‘pass/our story/ forwards.’

I wish I could go on, as I always do when reviewing a  collection as rewarding a read as ways to say we’re not alone. This is an exceptional debut and though it is only March I doubt I will read a better one this year. Congratulations to Simon and to Broken Sleep Books for giving him a platform to make his distinctive voice heard.

Simon Alderwick currently lives in Oxford, UK. His poetry has appeared in Magma, Berlin Lit, Poetry Salzburg, Anthropocene, Frogmore Papers, Dreich, IS&T, and elsewhere. A pamphlet, ways to say we’re not alone, is available through Broken Sleep Books.

Next up (6th April) a drop-in by Mark Antony Owen to reflect on a poem from his inspiring Subruria.