It is most useful to think of Bob Mee’s The Maker of Glass Eyes (Cinnamon Press) as a man trying unsuccessfully to lead a quiet life. The poet’s days are given to the strange, the absurd; afternoons are disturbed by curious, unexplained incident and interrupted by a constant stream of outrageous, uninvited guests. From Gustav Mahler spotted sipping an espresso to Mr and Mrs Shakespeare nursing bacon sandwiches in a café, characters from history, literature and the imagination make continuous, unexpected appearances.
Many poems are unresolved; beguiling sketches where you are left to draw your own conclusions. The Hat involves a man returning from the fields to find a woman’s hat that he doesn’t recognise on the peg. He goes ‘from room to room’ and calls out: ‘Is anyone there?’ Receiving no answer, he simply returns the hat to the peg. The language is plain and the narrative straightforward and on the face of it, there is nothing particularly poetic about it, but the effect is pleasantly strange and gently philosophical.
Events unfold around us, the poet seems to be saying; we can either resist, wasting our energies, or simply give them room and watch what happens. Perhaps not all of these work, such as Early Morning, Herefordshire, where a white haired man pushes a barrow, followed by a black dog. It’s little more than an image; a rural snapshot, balanced pleasingly in black and white, but the poet presents it anyway – almost with a shrug: Here it is, it’s up to you what you do with it. He is not afraid to be simple, and does not pursue the self-consciously poetic line. What makes it poetry is the frame placed around it; its selection from reality.
The family is at the heart of The Maker of Glass Eyes and is the inspiration for some of its best poems. His studies of his son, Jack, as he finds his way with woodworking are acutely observed and admirably restrained: ‘nails in his teeth, in the rain astride a branch/bow saw slung across his shoulder.’ Elsewhere, father and son are fishing together ‘at the edge/of the pond/without need/of words.’ A series of mundane actions ensue; tea is poured, lines are cast – and with a comic’s timing, he concludes: ‘it doesn’t matter what happens.’ The subtext is everything – and the ability to imply tenderness, connection and respect between these two anglers is enviable. These are portraits in words that will be treasured in years to come.
There is plenty of humour here; some comes in the form of anachronistic observation; Mee has a (glass?) eye for the unusual image – a nun plays cricket on the beach ‘fielding in the sea’ with some boys in football shirts; her laughter ‘floats out across the waves./It should reach Holland by nightfall.’ But there is a tenderness and humanity as well as humour in these images that take them beyond the anecdotal; they are small reminders of our potential for vivacity and shared experience.
Other poems have more elaborate constructs and are increasingly absurd; we stumble upon Nelson and Hardy playing Scrabble before Trafalgar, where the pair argue as to whether ‘URGH’ is a word. A man stands on one left for four hours for a bet, while the wonderful ‘Aunt Mary’ begins: ‘I bought Aunt Mary on the Shopping Channel yesterday’. The conceit is spectacularly well executed and the invention is sustained throughout. It works brilliantly well in performance, but is equally enjoyable on the page; the deadpan delivery is controlled by judicious line breaks and clever repetition, which changes rhythm and pace.
This is an accessible collection and one that is easy to like; but that is to take nothing away from its seriousness. The sequence about the poet’s father is richly evocative and moving; the period detail of woodbines, Third Class travel and Carnation milk is expertly chosen; it allows us to touch and taste the past. Mee has both a magician’s box of tricks and a painter’s pallet; whether working in simple lyricism or acrobatic surrealism, Mee presents modern fables that resonate in the most profound and unexpected of ways.