Andrew Motion is a case of existential irony. His work is relatively free of the ironic detachment and sardonic observation of the human condition. Motion is the perfect name for this poet because he truly is a writer of poetry in motion. Though not exclusively so, his categorization as a narrative poet is justified; his verse moves along a tract of storytelling that often notably blurs many of the distinctions between prose and poetry. .
Motion once opened a poem with the suggestion that in another life he would be a darling of the Renaissance. It is a brutally honest admission; the almost complete lack of irony has made him an increasingly isolated figure in the world of modern literature: a purveyor of sincerity. In a poem of remembrance about his father, the speaker makes the kind of admission that is perhaps only found in poetry these days. It certainly is only rarely to be found in the world of visual arts without an ironic capper that undermines the emotional investment:
His voice is kinder than I expect,
as though we have in common
a sadness I do not feel yet.
It is an image—simple yet elegantly truthful and unabashedly sentimental—that would go unnoticed in the romantic poetry of the Renaissance. In the world of the 21st century, however, such imagery almost threatens to become laughably sincere. Few writers today—novelists, screenwriters, lyricists or whatever---dare to ask readers to go on a journey with them to invest in something as simple yet meaningful as the image of his father tending to the fireplace without feeling the urge to inject at least one little ironic aside. And, indeed, at one point, it looks like he is going to do just that:
I can see them
and hear them raging
through yesterday’s cartoon of President Kennedy
and President Khrushchev
racing towards each other in their motorcars
Kennedy and Khruschev? In a sentimental poem about fathers and fireplaces? Surely, the poet is moving toward some sort of mordant observation that admits this little scenario of remembrance may be important to the poet, but he gets that it the grand scheme of things it’s hardly world politics. The stanza continues:
both shouting
I’m sure he’s going to stop first!
Except that he’s not being ironic or even undercutting the personal significance of this recollection. The speaker is connecting the memory of his father to a dateline of remembrance; the Cold War at its height. This is the era of the Bay of Pigs invasion and the Cuban Missile Crisis; the world was on the verge of extinction and only pulled back from that brink at the last minute when one of the drivers swerved. There is no irony in this poem, there is only story and sincerity. Few would argue that “Laying the Fire” is beyond question Motion’s best work, but even fewer would argue that it is not absolutely representative.
Motion tells stories in verse. Sometimes the construction of the verse does not even look like a poem. And much of his poetry is infused with allusions that the average Joe can get. Maybe not everyone understands the significance of the reference to Kennedy and Khruschev, but more likely get that allusion than they would a reference to some figure from ancient Greek myth. Most of Motion’s references are much closer in time and meaning, ranging from the assassination of Franz Ferdinand to the cult TV show The Wire to the paranoia of post-9/11 public space surveillance cameras. These allusions serve to make Motion’s poems a reaction upon his own age; he is a writer commenting about his own time to those living there with him.
And therein lies the existential irony of Andrew Motion: he is a writer whose emotional tenor is out of step with his times who is nevertheless one of the most consistently insightful documentarians of that period.
