It would be hard to single out any one of Martin Stannard’s poems as being better than the others. Some are more interesting than others, it’s true, but they all have an engaging way of rolling along, spinning off asides and ideas, and generally taking an oblique look at life. It’s equally hard to pick out a few lines that might illustrate his style because the effect lies in the totality of what is written even to the point where isolating individual poems can affect the rhythm of the book. But, despite what I guess will be Stannard’s mocking reaction to a reviewer struggling to select an example I’ll take a chance with a few lines:

Music from a distance can be beautiful,
as can sunsets by the sea and
cottages nestled among green valleys.
Laughter from a playground is pretty nice,
and the happy yapping of dogs.
Reaching the brow of a hill is good,
looking down and tracing the line of the road
as it meanders off into the distance,
and a cool refreshing tumbler of water
can scarcely be bettered.

That passage is easy enough to follow but it does need to be seen with the rest of the poem to make it really come alive. What is impressive, I think, is that Stannard uses his imagination at all times. He is not the kind of poet who needs to describe exactly what is in front of his eyes (what’s behind them is more important) nor the kind who goes places and insists on telling us about them. There's a funny poem by Stannard in which he lists all the things his family have never done or been, and it neatly sends up the role of experience in writing poetry. He clearly values the imaginative process and that’s why his poems tease and provoke the reader. They are not surrealistic, though it’s a temptation to take the easy way out and use that term about them, and they take off in flights of fancy at the drop of a hat and without needing to go to extremes of language or technique.

     As I said, some of the poems are more interesting than others but they nearly all entertain and make some sly points without appearing to. Writing Down the Days ought to be read by anyone who accepts that poetry can do more than describe and define things in an orthodox way.