Many apologies for the late arrival of this week's Poem of the Week. My internet connection was in meltdown for a few days, rather appropriately, as you'll see, because I'd chosen a playfully mocking address to a computer program. It's the title sequence from Fleur Adcock's most recent collection, Dragon Talk, and the "Dragon" persona derives from the program's full title: "Dragon NaturallySpeaking voice recognition software".
Behind the rueful humour lurks a writer's nightmare. Ten years ago, after a stint of intensive typing, Adcock found herself with a severe case of RSI. While, happily, she is still able to write longhand, and to continue her practice of taking every poem through a meticulous re-drafting process, she has had to learn how to use (and train) the voice recognition program so as to make final publisher-ready copies of her text.
The icon that originally appeared on the desktop, Adcock tells me, was actually a small red dragon's head. (It's since been replaced by a less appealing green flame). Powerful beasts, even mythical ones, have always attracted advertising (and branding) agencies. The recycling process hinted at here is fascinating: old myth into brand-name, brand-name into new myth, enabling the poet to give a digital "airy nothing" bodily and symbolic presence.
The poem begins at the beginning, almost in "once-upon-a-time" fashion, with a friendly nudge to the Dragon, as if inviting reminiscences. It recalls the choice of Alice in Wonderland as the training text – because, Adcock says, "it seemed to me that the mythological creatures in that book would feel at home with a Dragon as part of their crew."
With no fiery breath of its own, and only metaphorical claws and wings, the virtual dragon proves a little slow-witted. "If you pause between individual words the Dragon is less likely to understand them," Adcock says. "It works by context – or at least that's the theory." In the poem, the Dragon's difficulties with its imaginative context are comically and engagingly drawn. Its mistakes can clearly be infuriating but its docility, though merely that of the machine, arouses the poet's, and the reader's, sympathy.
The Dragon's transcription errors occasionally verge on the sinister. It's one thing to confuse "flirtation" with "flotation", and another to mishear a child's name as Death. Crisp, short lines, regular stanzas, occasional rhyme-patterns enhance a tone that is light and glancing, refusing self-pity. But perhaps there is a suggestion of parable. The idea of a "verbal being" that cannot understand laughter is rather frightening, and perhaps prescient.
The speaker scolds her tame beast but overall remains affectionate and teasing, flirtatious at times, and insistently curious. What gender is the Dragon; what is it made of? It takes various shapes. It becomes, among other things, parasite, slave, bird, drug-dealer (it's an expert in pharmaceutical products), lover, and, perhaps, a kind of god ("Are we into theology?"). When the Dragon changes "wren" into "rain" or "ring", Adcock momentarily turns it into a poet. Finally, the beast emerges from its tidy cage of quatrains, to be spotted "cresting the gable/ of someone's roof" – only now it becomes a mere "graven image" without the poet's voice to give it life. Words are the Dragon, and the poem itself, long and slim and elegantly draped over the pages, resembles a live, if mythic, creature, animated by the poet's breath, and exhaling imagination's fire.
Dragon Talk
How many years ago now
did we first walk hand in hand –
or hand in claw –
through Alice's Wonderland,
your favourite training ground,
peopled with a crew
of phantasms – Mock Turtle, Gryphon –
as verbal as you?
Your microphone, kissing my lips,
inhaled my words; the machine
displayed them, printed out
in sentences on a screen.
*
My codependant,
my precious parasite,
my echo, my parrot,
my tolerant slave:
I do the talking;
you do the typing.
Just try a bit harder
to hear what I say!
I wait for you to lash your tail
each time I swear at you.
But no: you listen meekly,
and print 'fucking moron'.
*
All the come-ons
you transcribed as commas –
how can we conduct a flirtation
in punctuation? –
Particularly when,
money-mad creature,
you spell doom to romance
by writing 'flotation'.
*
I can't blame you for homonyms,
but surely after a decade
you could manage the last word
of Cherry Tree 'Would'?
Context, after all,
is supposed to be your engine.
Or are you being driven
by Humpty Dumpty?
*
I take it amiss
when you mis-hear the names
of my nearest and dearest;
in particular, Beth.
Safer, perhaps, if I say Bethany.
Keep your scary talons
off my great-granddaughter:
don't call her 'death'.
*
You know all the diseases
and the pharmaceuticals:
bronchopneumonia,
chloramphenicol
are no trouble to you,
compulsive speller,
hypochondriac,
virtual dealer.
*
You're hopeless at birds:
can't get wren into your head –
too tiny, you try to tell me:
it comes out as rain or ring.
Let's try again: blackbird, osprey,
hen, (much better), kingfisher, hawk,
duckling. But I have to give up
and type Jemima Puddleduck.
*
What am I thinking of,
dragon bird?
How could I forget
that you too have wings?
Fly to me;
let me nuzzle your snout,
whisper orders, trust you
to carry them out.
*
Do I think of you as "he"? –
Beyond male or female;
utterly alien,
yet as close as my breath –
invisible, intangible,
you hover at my lips –
am I going too far?
Are we into theology?
*
Animal, vegetable or mineral?
Who's playing these games? –
Abstract, with mineral connections
and a snazzy coat of scales.
Gentle dragon, stupid beast,
why do I tease you?
Laughter's not in your vocabulary:
all you understand are words.
*
Today I saw you cresting the gable
of someone's roof: a curly monster
smaller than me, but far too large
to hide yourself inside a computer.
They'd painted you red – was that your choice?
But this was only your graven image.
Your private self was at home, waiting
for reincarnation through my voice.