Lucy Tunstall, born in London in 1969, published her first collection, The Republic of the Husband a few months ago. She belongs, at least on the evidence of this collection, to a wittily anti-realist wave of younger women poets (Tara Bergin, Heather Philipson, and Jane Yeh are others) who channel a subversive inheritance from Jo Shapcott and Selima Hill (and, ultimately, Stevie Smith and Edith Sitwell) for a streetwise, theory-aware, postmodernist generation.
Tunstall strikes a note that’s clearly her own. Alienation often seems less of a private affliction than a shared family trait , and characters who might have fired a comic novel find alternative lyrical shapes for their stylish volatility in her work. This week’s poem, Signal Flags (Without You It’s Chaos) centres on the comedy of failed sexual communications, while disturbing several genres: the photograph/home movie poem, the love poem, the period piece. It may start with a quaintly realistic portrayal, but it’s not in the business of realistic portraiture. As an unrequited love poem, it makes fun of the genre, yet it’s no parody. The possibility of a fierce, painful sincerity is always left open.
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