Clive James: The Book of My Enemy: Collected Verse 1958-2003

Reviewed by DAVID LARSEN

Clive James is a man in need of a very large hat-rack. The envious and the unkind would say that this is because his head is so swollen only 20-gallon hats will fit it, and whether they have a point is one of the questions a reviewer of his poems has to answer. I'm going to, but let's stick with easier matters for now, such as the multi-disciplinary success story leading to this book's publication.

So never mind the size of his hats, check out the quantity. James has a television critic's hat, a television performer's hat, an essayist's hat, a novelist's hat, a songwriter's hat, and a hat for whatever you call someone who writes hilarious memoirs. (Comic memoirist?)

Whichever hat you choose, he's done work of lasting merit wearing it — the first volume of his memoirs, in particular, is one of the funniest, saddest, wisest books about growing up the last century produced.

And then he puts his poet's hat on, and there's a temptation, even if you're a fan, to throw up your hands and cry: "Show some restraint! Leave something for the other writers!" But, replies James — who knows very well what you're thinking — poetry "is not a supplement to my writing life, but at the heart of it".

The book's title is a cunning pun designed to make this point. Some years ago James made a substantial splash with the coruscating satirical poem The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered, in which a writer crows with obscenely witty glee at his rival's discomfiture: "The book of my enemy has been remaindered /and I rejoice. /It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion /Beneath the yoke. /What avail him now his awards and prizes, /The praise expended upon his meticulous technique, /His individual new voice?"

"Sceptics", writes James, "will assuredly spot that a book called The Book of My Enemy is a naked attempt to co-opt the notoriety that accrued to my poem ... Needing whatever help I can get on the bookshop shelves, I would be a fool not to capitalise on an established brand. But in its truncated form, and transferred to the spine of a book, the title has another meaning. The urge to write verse has always been my financial enemy, and I have always done my best to resist it."

Would we be better off if he'd resisted more successfully? There are 147 poems here, including representatives of nearly every Western metrical form, from a mock epic in rhymed couplets to a sonnet sequence assembled on a fridge door using only the words in the Basic Magnetic Poetry Kit. Subject matter ranges equally widely, and so does merit. James has perfect pitch when it comes to fitting word to metre, or to finding the rhyme sure to provoke a laugh, followed, three beats later, by a pause for serious reflection. He has a tin ear when it comes to knowing how many obscure names he can get away with dropping.

This is the swollen-head question. James, as well as being one of wittiest men alive, is ferociously erudite, and while this gives his writing scope and bite, it also leads to some truly leaden passages. A poem whose references take longer to explicate than the poem itself does to read, is only forgivable from a poet dead long enough that the cultural backdrop needs to be repainted for the audience.

So: at his worst clunky and opaque, at his best sublimely entertaining. Between these extremes lies a body of enough funny, thoughtful and unexpected verse that I'd have been sorry to miss it. The head may be swollen, but the poet's hat fits.

Picador, $26.95

* David Larsen is an Auckland reviewer.