Found poets, such as Phyllida, who take words or phrases from one arena of life and reframe them as poetry or literature, have a sort of alchemistic power to transform the daily and banal simply by changing the context. These notes – which began as a practicality – are more than the sum of their parts: when viewed together they reveal powerful truths about  the complexity of human conversation. By keeping Annie, her mother-in-law, in the loop about the day to day goings on, Phyllida is able to give voice to the now silenced hustle and bustle of family life.

These notes become the bread and butter of the older woman’s existence and reveal what we always suspect, that what keeps us alive and relevant is communication – a lesson never more powerfully realised than in our increasing reliance on the plugged-in world of instant message, chat, and Twitter.

But this found poetry is at one end of the spectrum – these notes were written by the author for a deliberate purpose -  sometimes to comfort, sometimes to cheer, sometimes just to catch up – and all the while their artifice is undeniably intentional, they were notes intended to be read (just not – initially – by us.)

The full spectrum of found poetry encompasses a whole range of less carefully constructed work, including tickets, receipts, love letters, shopping lists, speeches, post cards and notes. The ‘author’ may not have intended them to be read, especially not read in the realm of poetry.

But does this kind of found poetry have any real worth – or is just one post-modernist joke? Its roots can be found in that most notorious trickster, Marcel Duchamp, and his objets trouvés. 

This sculpture, for example, entitled ‘The Fountain’, sees a urinal placed out of context to give it a new meaning. At its most basic, this is the essence of ‘found art.’

Davy Rothbart, founder of FOUND Magazine, certainly thinks it does have worth. The publication collects and catalogues ‘FOUND stuff: love letters, birthday cards, kids’ homework, to-do lists, ticket stubs, poetry on napkins, telephone bills, doodles’ and publishes them in an irregularly-issued magazine, in books, and on its website. The point? To get ‘a glimpse into someone else’s life. Anything goes…’ The project clearly taps into something in the Zeitgeist, as Rothbart has never been short on material – the majority of which is submitted by readers.

What often struck me about the work in Found was that the writing seemed truer to life than a best novel’s fiction – as well it should - and that there was no faking this sort of rawness. The same quality is palpable in Phyllida’s collection – the words just rings true.

Here are a couple of examples of work from FOUND magazine:

Slate magazine found poetry in the words Donald Rumsfeld, such as these below (although I suspect they added the titles):

The Unknown

As we know,

There are known knowns.

There are things we know we know.

We also know

There are known unknowns.

That is to say

We know there are some things

We do not know.

But there are also unknown unknowns,

The ones we don’t know

We don’t know.

—Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing

 

The Digital Revolution

Oh my goodness gracious,

What you can buy off the Internet

In terms of overhead photography!

A trained ape can know an awful lot

Of what is going on in this world,

Just by punching on his mouse

For a relatively modest cost!

—June 9, 2001, following European trip

By calling this ‘poetry’ Slate seems to be drawing a parrelel between vaguesness in bad poetry and the obtuseness in Rumsfeld speeches.  The poetry here is being found ironically – by transposing them from the realm of rhethoric to the poetic Slate intends to expose their lack of substance.

This poetry from William Carlos Williams apes the style of found poetry, and also has something in common with Phyllida’s collection – taking on the form of a fridge note.

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

The appearance of the thing being hastily written, thrown together belies the craft and artifice of the piece. Does this make it less truthful than Phyllida’s genuine notes? Or are there some kind of truths that are better contained within poetic form?

I tried to think of some times in my life when I’ve come across ‘found poetry.’  These two are probably the best I can think of:

Doomsday

 

I found this on the fridge one morning and falsely assumed it was a warning of the apocalypse that would be brought about by large rodent-headed terror bearers. It was in fact a note from my mum advising when to expect Pest Control.

No Class

This was a genuine part of my university syllabus. I summarised it into this Haiku.

Idealism

Week Five: a basic

Intro to Karl Marx. Week Six:

Reading Week. No Class.

In conclusion, found poetry is oft debated and much disputed, even on occasion, bringing charges of laziness and plagiarism to bear upon the artist. But are found poets really that different to any other – whose supreme talent it could be argued lies not so much in their ability to render the world afresh with their own particular vision but in their incitefulness – and their gift to see the truth and profundity in day-to-day life that others miss.

Why not send in your examples of found poetry. The best will win a copy of Notes to my Mother-in-Law and one other book published by Press Books this month.

Here are some tips for ‘finding poetry’… Please feel free to add your own in the comments box:

• Translations. Try putting a sentence into Babelfish – translating it into Chinese and then back into English – you might find more poetry than you intend.
• Pads in shops used for testing pens – the automatic writing these inspire often leads to unexpected and amazing revelations.
• And of course, the perennial favourite – notes left on the fridge.

Annie. Otherwise known as ‘Gran.’ Phyllida’s mother-in-law. She is forced to move in after her daughter, whom she had lived with previously, absconds to Cornwall with ‘a beautiful young man.’  Has been getting increasingly ‘Mutt and Jeff’ of late.

Phyllida. Annie’s daughter-in-law. The author of the notes to Annie that explain what’s going on, and the author (and illustrator) of the book.

Mother. Phyllida’s mother. Has changed to enamel pots because she thinks aluminium pots create poisonous chemicals, and ‘that’s what’s the matter with uncle Arthur.’

Uncle Arthur.  Doesn’t like All Bran. Keeps a hammer in his bedroom to smash his pills into little bits.

Dad. Phyllida’s husband and Annie’s son. Likes to go golfing. Also known as Eric Thompson, writer and narrator of the Magic Roundabout.

Granny. Phyllida’s maternal grandmother. A ‘frightful bigot.’ She used to wear black garters on her green bloomers – ‘an unfortunate green, that seemed to glow in the dark.’

Mr Parnes. Responsible for the hearing aid that Annie has to have fitted, much to her discomfort. Ex-RAF.

Mrs Keith. An elderly friend of the family. Mrs Keith was like something ‘out of Dickens.’ When a bizarre foreign bird arrives in her husband’s warehouse, she knits it a woolen body stocking.

Boot. The cat. Is sick quite a lot. Especially when over indulging on spiders.

Emma and Sophie. Phyllida’s two children.

To find out more about Phyllida’s fasinating family life, why not read this article on the Guardian website.