The Frank Skinner Show - Frank Skinner's Poetry Podcast: Jack Clemo

Episode Date: August 27, 2025

Frank loves the clay, machinery and scary religion in the poetry of Jack Clemo. The poems reference are ‘A Calvinist in Love’, ‘Christ in the Clay-Pit’, ‘The Excavator’ and ‘Sufficiency���. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Oh, hey, I'm just sipping Tim's all-new protein ice latte, starting at 17 grams per medium latte, Tim's new protein lattes, protein without all the work, at participating restaurants in Canada. Hello and welcome to Frank Skinner's poetry podcast. Today, I want to look at the Cornish poet Jack Clemm. Jack Clemow was born in 1916 and died in 1994 and I want to focus on his earlier period. I want to look at a poem from his first collection, which was called the Clay Verge. Why the Clay Verge, that will become very apparent as we go on. Clemo's obituary in the Independent in 94 when he died, described.

described him as remorselessly austere. But don't let that put you off. I think he's absolutely brilliant. And I kind of want to get straight into the poetry and then we'll jump off for explanations and further discussion. The poem I want to look at is called a Calvinist in love. I mean, it's already pretty good, you must admit. and it's from, as I say, his collection, The Clay Verge, which was published in 1951.

He was, or he certainly described himself as a Calvinist. Calvinism, of course, is a sort of dissenting religion. It is quite austere. None of the gold trappings and finery of my own religion. Roman Catholicism. It's much more stripped away than that. Klamo, his religion was a sort of an amalgam of a few non-conformist religions, but he called himself a Calvinist, but there's a bit of Methodism and all that stuff going on. Who cares? Basically, he likes his religion, stripped, bare and painful. That sounds creepier than it was meant to. Let me get into the poem and you'll get

the feeling. This is, remember, called a Calvinist in love, which is a sort of a, almost a contradiction it feels like, but of course Calvinists fall in love. And for this particular Calvinist, this is what it was like. I'll just give you the first two stanzas. I will not kiss you contrary fashion by headsides where weasel and hair claim kinship with our passion. I care no more for fickle moonlight, would rather see your face touch me under a claywork dune light. Right. The poem is in quatrains, that sets of four lines, its stanza, each block of poetry is four lines. And it's gone a ABBA rhyme scheme. So, A, B, A, meaning that A, the first line rhymes with A, the fourth line, and then the two B-B lines in the

middle rhyme with each other. Okay, I will not kiss you contrary fashion by headsides where weasel and hair claim kinship with our passion. So from the beginning, I will not kiss you. you country fashion. I'm not interested in a sort of a rustic cider with rosy romp. I don't want hedge science or weasels or hairs or any kind of natural phenomenon claiming any kinship with our passion. Our passion, our love, he's speaking obviously to his lover, that is different from all that. It's not of nature. Now that might seem like a odd thing because,

you know, we've kind of grown up if we've read poetry from when we were children on poets talking about the beauties of nature and comparing them sometimes with the excitement and the beauties of love and all that stuff, that's not clemo at all. I will not kiss you country fashion by head sides where weasel and hair claim kinship with our passion. He's sort of anti-nature, I would say. And the reason he's anti-nature is he believes very much in the fall of humanity that Adam and Eve and all that, the original sin, when they defied God, humanity fell. And man is besmirched and scarred by sin. And he feels that nature also fell.

So nature isn't a positive, beautiful thing. It is also a dark and potentially evil thing. So he's not what you would call a nature poet. His favoured landscape is that ravaged terrain created by the Cornish china clay mining industry. So gaping trenches of milky white water, tall mountains of waste and lots and lots of heavy industrial machinery everywhere. It's a sort of anti-nature that Clemo goes for. I'd like to read you a little bit from another poem called Christ in the Clay Pit. You're getting the theme now, aren't you?

So he's talking about the cross that Jesus died on in this. There were no leaves upon his chosen tree. No parasitic flowering over shames of Eden's primal. infidelity. So in other words, the cross didn't have any leaves on it. It wasn't covering up anything the way nature can hide the dark side. The way in the Garden of Eden, I suppose, the old idea of the fig leaf, the whole idea of covering up your sins, there were no leaves upon his chosen tree. So no leaves on the cross, no parasitic. flowering. What a lovely description of nature over shames of Eden's primal infidelity.

So he didn't try to hide anything. There was no fig leaves. Nothing was floral or ornamental. The crucifixion is a stark, real, scary thing. This is how Clamo likes his religion. dark and scary. Now let's look at that second stanza. I care no more for fickle moonlight. Would rather see your face touch me under a claywork June light. So in other words, a man-made light,

this thing that hangs up in the claywork so they can see by night what is going on. So the clay work area is seen as superior to the natural thing. And fickle moonlight, that sounds like an anti-romantic stance, doesn't it? And I'm talking romantic initially with a capital R, that kind of poetry which sees us as at one with nature. Love poetry, wordsworth, I suppose, spring. to mind. He doesn't want that. Not Clemo. I care no more for fickle moonlight. So don't give me that stuff about lovers in the moonlight. Rather see your face touch me. And it's interesting what he uses

as an expression of their intimacy. Your face touch me. It's a very sensual, very real thing. Clemo does not back off from sexuality. He thinks, as long as it's within a profound religious marriage, it's actually fantastic. It's quite an erotic poet confusingly, but the sex has to be in the right religious context. Okay, I care no more for fickle moonlight. So there's a sense not only of a sort of anti-poetic nature in him, but also, I think, anti-organized religion, which he sees also as quite poetic. And he thinks that modern religion is a bit to user-friendly, I suppose, is what you'd call it.

And its poetry is all about spirituality and these sort of vague senses of the love of God. And he sort of feels God at times as a screaming, reprimanding presence. Doesn't at all fit with modern religion. Let me read you another little bit from a poem called The Excavator. Loving to stand as now in outlawed glee. So he's feeling joy here amid the squelching mud and make a vow with joy no priest or poet takes from me. I cannot speak their language. I am one who feels the doggerel of heaven purge earth of poetry. Doggerall is sort of bad poetry, if you like,

unpoetic poetry. And that's what he wants. He doesn't want any fanciness. He doesn't want any floweriness. He doesn't want soft religion. He doesn't want. He doesn't want. He doesn't want nature talks as if it's this beautiful backdrop to humanity, he's against all of that. I'm going to look at the next few stanzas. I hope you're really liking, Jack. I'm painting him as quite a difficult man. It might be something in there. I want no scent or softness around us when we embrace. We could not trace therein what beauties bound us. this bare clay pit is truest setting for love like ours no bed of flowers but sand ledge for our petting the spring is not our mating season the lift of sap would but entrap our souls and lead to treason okay so I'm hoping you getting the system here I think

I think it kind of works these blocks of four lines, that he makes a statement and then he sort of comments on it. He sort of pulls it apart. So I want no scent or softness around us. I think he's using those lisping sys there to suggest a sort of a soft, a feat, unwholesome sweetness. I want no scent of softness around us. So that first line, I think then, is sort of commented on by the remaining three. So I want no scent or softness around us. Flowers, I think he's talking about nature. And it's so-called beautiful scents and smells.

When we embrace, we could not trace therein what beauty is bound us. So we won't find our beauty in fallen nature. That's not us. That's not what we're like. We could not trace. We could not read, if you like, therein, in nature, what beauties bound us. This bare clay pit is truest setting. That use of the word bear, I don't want any trappings, any finery. I want the truth untouched. This bare clay pit is truest setting for love like ours. No bed of flowers. but sand ledge for our petting. Okay, no bed of flowers, I think he's saying that's not what we will lie on when we pet, when we kiss. But also no bed of flowers, he's very reminiscent of no bed of roses. It's not going to be sweet and lovely and nice. It's going to be much more real.

And I want to be on a sand ledge. A sand ledge would have been created by the mining process. A probably man-made step or seat, if you like, where the level of the sand changes. And that's what he wants. He doesn't want to sit in a bed of flowers. He wants something stark and simple. That thing about no scent or softness seems to be another,

I don't want any flowers around. around us. There's one other bit I'd like to read you from another poem, which I like very much. And it is from a poem called sufficiency. I mean, get this. This is a comparison of what poets normally celebrate in nature compared with what Jack Clemo celebrates in this industrial china clay landscape. Is there a flower that thrills like frayed rope? You'd think so, but not for Jack. Is there a flower that thrills like frayed rope? Is there grass that cools like gravel? And are there streams which murmur as clay silt does that Christ redeems? So clay silt, the actual sort of waste from this clay,

He prefers that to the murmur of a stream. He prefers gravel to grass and frayed rope to flow us. This is Jack's world and he feels that it illustrates who God is and what God is like from his Calvinist, we'll call it that point of view, not some sweetened, not some decorated, made, God, but the real scary, dark voice of a potentially angry creator. The spring is not our mating season. The lift of sap would but entrap our souls and lead to trees. And spring being the traditional time when love flourishes, of course, when a man's fancy turns to thoughts of love I think the poet says but not for clemo the spring is not our mating season the

lift of sap would but entrap our souls and lead to trees and so I think we could get carried away by that stuff we could be misled by all that excitement around spring and the lift of sap the idea that things are bursting and budding. That would entrap our souls and lead to trees. And that might lead us away from our stark religious beliefs to something a bit more cliched, a bit more romantic, a bit more modern religion. Oh, hi, buddy.

Who's the best you are? I wish I could spend all day with you instead. Uh, Dave, you're Huff, mute. Hey, happens to the best of us. Enjoy some goldfish cheddar crackers. Goldfish have short memories. Be like goldfish. Pumpkin is here at Starbucks, and we're making it just the way you like.

Handcrafted with real ingredients like our real pumpkin sauce and rich espresso, sprinkled with pumpkin spice. It's full of real flavors you'll keep coming back for. Made just for you at Starbucks. I hope you're still with me. Next bit. This troculent gale, this pang of winter. This could be a fair description of this poem, couldn't it?

This troculent gale, this pang of winter awake our joy. Is that not one of the most counterintuitive things you've ever read in a poem? We used it soft, sweet breezes and spring in the air. this truculent gale this angry storm if you like this pang of winter awake our joy for they employ moods that made calvary splinter so that's what we want high winds cold and a sense of real true religion moods that made calvary splinter. You can almost hear the nails going through the hands and feet and into the cross. We need no vague and dreamy fancies, care not to sight the infinite, intrancient necromances.

I'll come back to that. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth upon our youth. know the sly assassin. Jack, take it easy. Okay, so having celebrated a storm, cold, and nails going into the cross as emblematic of their love, this him and this woman he speaks to, we need no vague and dreamy fancies.

Care not to cite the infinite, obviously he's using, a sort of infinite, a sort of a nea rhyme there. We care not to cite the infinite in transient necromancies. Necromances, I think, can mean a sort of magic spell, this idea of the magic of love and the magic of nature. It can also mean raising the dead for ritual purposes, which could be a reference to Holy Communion, that sort of deep,

symbolism that you get in more formal religions, perhaps. The Roman Catholics actually believing that that becomes the body and blood of Christ, and which Jack would not have believed. So we care not to cite the infinite, intransient necromances. And you see again what I mean by, you get the first line and then he sort of pulls it apart. We need no vague and dreamy fancies. And then a little bit deeper, care not to cite the infinite intransient necromances.

So we don't want to find God. We cannot find God in anything transient, anything that passes, anything that's here today and gone tomorrow. And we don't need magic. We don't need ceremony. we don't need any sort of fine ritual. We are beyond that. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth upon our youth.

We know the sly assassin. And as with in the previous one, the way he uses a sight, an infinite mouth and youth is using the look of the word rather than the sound of the word as a sort of visual rhyme. I think he's doing that because he's trying to be anti-poetic. He doesn't want it to rhyme perfectly. It wants it to feel a bit awkward and a bit difficult. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth. So the poetry of earth, and I think he means literal poetry, but perhaps in this case of even more that sort of poetic, beautiful, religious.

No poetry of earth. He thinks that's very much man-made, not of God. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth upon our youth. We know the sly assassin. So we're not going to be fooled into all that stuff. We're not going to be rhyming moon with June and going, oh, I love you so much, fiddly didly, d-dee. No poetry of earth.

It's vampire mouth, something that will suck the blood, the life out of our noble, deep, clean, pure, untouched, on earthly passion. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth upon our youth. We know the sly assassin. We're not falling for that one. I think that his attraction to the china clay industry is that it sort of disembles nature. It rips a hole in the earth and socks it dry, sucks all the good stuff out of it. And he likes that because nature is a fallen thing and it deserves. to be treated badly.

I think also his religious views mean that there is this idea of a sort of forced spirituality, what I think the Calvinist call irresistible grace. So when God chooses you, you're chosen, and he sort of disembells you. He removes your earthly humanity. and replaces it with something else, like emptying a chalice and then replacing it with something godlike. So again, I think that's why he likes

the imagery of this industrial landscape around him. The earth has been ripped apart. No poetry of earth can fasten its vampire mouth upon our youth. we know the sly assassin. So we're not falling for the fancy stuff. Okay, last three stanzas. We cannot fuse with fallen natures our rhythmic tide.

It is allied with laws beyond the creatures. So their love moves to a sort of a tidal force, but a tidal force which is supernatural, it is of God, rather than an earthly tide, if you like. We cannot fuse with fallen nature's hour rhythmic tide. So fallen nature's tide and our rhythmic tide, they don't fit. We have a different beat to nature.

We can't fuse with fallen natures, our rhythmic tide. We can't fit the way we are with the way nature is. We are outside of nature. We are, as I think, St Paul said, in this world but not of it. We're not interested in nature. We are tuning into something beyond that. Next stanza. Speaking of their specific rhythmic tide.

And I love this stanza. It draws from older, sterner oceans, its sensuous swell. too near to hell are we for earthly motions? So this rhythmic tide of theirs, their rhythm, their heartbeat, their love is not part of nature.

It's not part of the world. It draws from older, sterner oceans, its sensuous swell. And he's talking about the swell of an ocean there. And he's talking about older sterner, it sounds very Old Testament, doesn't it, the source of their love?

That Old Testament, angry, jealous, God who destroys people who cross him. It draws from older stern oceans. It's sensuous swell. It's hard to get round the fact. I described him earlier as an erotic poet. A sensuous swell. Of course he's talking about the swell of the ocean, but there's something else. He's talking about love.

And he's saying that this is real and it's passionate. And it's physical, or it will be when they get married, at least. Too near to hell are we for earthly motions? Yes, because we are in this sinful world, we have to be careful not to be drawn in by it. So we have to follow our own rhythmic tide. Okay, last stanza. Our love is full-grown dogmas off-swe.

election's child making the wild heats of our blood an offering. Our love is full-grown dogmas offspring. Dogma being the rules and teaching of a religion of the Bible, a thing that normally you would expect poets to shy away from. hard cold rules teaching but no our love is full grown dogmas offspring he celebrates the fact that we are not like most people we are following this hard rule of a hard god elections child now our love is full grown dogmas offspring elections child so their love is is elections child. Now election is a Calvinist theory and it is a sort of predestination. The idea that

you are born as one of the elect, so you are going to be saved at the end. That's the deal. And that's what ties in with that spirituality that you can't really fight against, where you are God chooses you and his irresistible grace is going to empty you out and fill you up with the right kind of godliness. Clemo believed that he was one of the elect, that he was going to be saved. He believed that he was destined to be a religious poet. He believed that that was absolutely predestined. He also believed that he would be married. That was something he was absolutely convinced about and it didn't happen until quite late on. There was a lot of muses, a lot of young women who we fell for along the way, many of whom were not that interested, some of whom were. But whenever I hear the word muse, I always worry,

it sounds a bit like stalking in rhyme. I don't think it got that bad with Clemo, but But he was absolutely convinced that he had to marry. That was part of his pre-destination. I'm going to finish this off, and then I'll give you a bit of just extra stuff about Jack Clammer, some of which is tragic and some of which is eyebrow raising. Okay, I love his full-grown dogmas offspring, elections child.

So it's a child of the elect. So presumably he and this woman are both of the elect, not of the world. They don't need to join him with the world. They are destined for something greater. I love is full-grown dogma's offspring, elections child, making the wild heats of our blood an offering. Again, the wild heats of our blood, our passion, our physical lasting for each other, We're offering that to God because we're going to do it in the right context.

We're going to do it. When he wrote this, he wasn't married, but he knew he would be. So this female who the speaker addresses, they are not married yet. And nothing, always a siren in my podcast. Nothing too physical is going to happen. But the passion is very, very real. and when they marry it will be fully consummated. Now, what you're wondering is he did become a religious poet

and he wrote a lot of fantastic stuff about clay. Clay and God, that's what he wrote about. I should tell you that as a child he suffered with intermittent deafness and blindness. and these got worse and worse. By the time he wrote this poem in 1951, he was totally deaf. And within three years, he became totally blind. So he carried on writing poetry less stuff about this fabulous lunar landscape of China clay in Cornwall. I suppose, I don't know.

I don't imagine he forgot what it looked like, but he wrote about it less, anyway. So, yeah, he was what he called white blind, so he saw complete whiteness rather than complete darkness. Anyway, his poetry became successful, and he had a following, and a woman called Ruth Peety wrote to Jack Clem, Pemmo, a fan letter saying how much he liked him and she'd love to meet him and she wrote the letter in

1967 and they met and at that first meeting Jack Clemo proposed. He thought this is the woman I was destined to marry. She agreed and they married the following year. Charles Corsley, the other great Cornwall poet, was the best man in fact. And they had seemingly a very happy marriage She would write letters on his hand, and that was how she spoke to him. She even got him back to church, which he had stopped going to because he thought it was too wet. That is Jack Clemo, and that was a Calvinist in love. I hope you liked it. I absolutely love it.

It's so what you don't expect poetry to be. that's what I I like so much about it because we have so many and I've done them in these podcasts celebrations of nature talking of religion as a beautiful uplifting thing and this is just a different way someone who's going a different way there is a bible quote and it's something like my ways are not your ways, my thoughts are not your thoughts. And I think Jack Clemo could be saying that to most of his readers. But I love it. I love his starkness and I love his rage. And how fabulous that he feels so drawn to this strange landscape. There's actually a moment, this idea that the china clay mining industry was his church at this.

point of his life. There's a bit in one poem where he stands onto this big excavator, this thing that digs big chunks out of the earth. And it's dripping and it drips onto him and he talks of it as a baptism. And I think that's a fair summary of Jack Clemo's religion. Check out more. He was known as the poet of Clay and you've probably worked out one. Thank you for listening to Frank Skinner's poetry podcast. I hope you enjoyed series 11. I'll see you again soon. Thank you.