“I am unanswered prayer, like poetry”: A Review of Sincerity (2018)

            I began reading Sincerity (2018) – the most recently published collection by the Scottish-born poet Carol Ann Duffy – in March, but failed to finish it until May. Whilst Sincerity has certainly earned its dedicated praise, in its meditations on time and pasture, I admit that that the renowned Poet Laureate (2009-19) did not seem to hook me; there is a mundane voice that hinders these poems from progressing to any element of surprise or intrigue. In comparison to the famed Standing Female Nude (1985), which engages in gender and oppression in a conversational tone, Sincerity is rather banal. It is enhanced by little stanzaic or rhythmic experimentation and demonstrates a mere scattering of attempts at lukewarm rhyme, which are often subtle enough to require an active uncovering. The frequent second person address to ‘you’ also invades the possibility of depth or connection, as the poems feel imposed, or even forced upon, the reader, who follows the blank tonality and predictability of each line. Glimpses of emotion appear too fragile to gain any grip on the images, which refuse a sense of immediacy.

            Yet—in rebellion against the many teachers who have always told me, as a student of English Literature, to never use the word ‘deliberate’ when it comes to writing about writing—perhaps these characteristics which make Sincerity strangely underwhelming are intentional. Perhaps, Duffy combines a dull, everyday tone of near-boredom with contemplations of gardening and train stations, in order to remind us as readers that poetry does not require excitement. Must every poem resemble the unpredictability of T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, or the constant action and grandiloquence of Milton’s Paradise Lost? The reductive presentation of a speaker who not only makes language casual but also imposes these tedious images onto the reader is, unfortunately, far from addictive, as noted in a review by Jackie Law: “In a sizeable collection such as Sincerity there will likely be certain poems that do not resonate quite so deeply. [...] the intended significance remains elusive or opaque”. However, whilst the monotony is implied to stimulate only a brief resonance, according to Law its “structure and use of language can still be appreciated”.

            There are certainly tropes and themes that link this curious collection together. Imagery of royalty and nobility, and especially the relationship between history and religion, possibly influenced by Duffy’s upbringing in a Roman Catholic family, pervades many of these poems, such as ‘Blackbird’, ‘Richard’, and ‘Backstage’. Though deeply concerned with consolation, the disconnected tone of Sincerity makes these considerations seem distant, almost broken off, from the events and figures that they ridicule. The role that the reader occupies is observational, sometimes divorced from life and emotion altogether. But there is a possibility here, to draw something out between the monotonous voice and the issues of regality and religion, such as the potential for ideas about the body and natural imagery to be conceived in ‘Scarecrow’: “the way my spine | roots me to the earth; some of me Tree, nailed | to its DNA the old spade of my arms, shoulders”.

            The most interesting concerns lie in the contemplations of motherhood, femininity, and aging, as the references made to a daughter growing up and a woman facing the inevitability of passing life are direct in their vulnerability. The opening poem, ‘Clerk of Hearts’, has a crafted and measured sense to its careful lines, coupling organic imagery of trees, kingfishers, and rain with the personification of emotions such as Humility, Dread, and Acceptance, which instils a quality of reflection: “I am unanswered prayer, like poetry”. If Sincerity is a selection of unanswered prayers, mediating on religion and the treasures that time takes away from us, then I can attempt to understand the dullness and defeat of its voice—fed up or even depressed by the way that life cannot be paused. A Poetry Book Society review indicates that Duffy “gazes out from the autumn of life” and seeks to find “moments of grace or consolation” in the elegies and “literary luminaries” of Sincerity; thus, this self-consciously prosaic collection might be the result of reflecting on, and sometimes mourning, a lived life, rather than diving into the vitality of it. Which, above all, is a very human musing.

            There are moments where I can relate to the poet, and find wonderful imagery in my favourite poems, ‘Clerk of Hearts’, ‘Burgling’, ‘On The Other Hand’, and ‘Symptoms’. Representative of a snapshot of Duffy’s life and the final collection of her time as Poet Laureate, the banal poetic voice might be forgivable in its despondent outlook, as Duffy focalises on the complexities of looking back: “I wait for the gloaming, | stake it out, concealed in the overgrown garden”.