Sphinx Issue 4 August, 2006
~ THE ESSENTIAL DAVID TIPTON, the story of
a poet, pamphleteer, novelist & translator smitten
with writing & publishing, how he set up first
RIVELIN, then REDBECK PRESS, his setbacks & his
TRIUMPHS~
David Tipton’s first slender poetry pamphlet was printed in 1960 by
Howard Sergeant (Outposts). Since then, the list of imprints under
which his work has appeared reads like a paean to fugitive presses:
London Magazine Editions, Second Aeon Publications, Blackweir,
Rivelin, Plata Publishing, Red Dust, Purple Heather, Rivelin Grapheme, Green Horse, Galloping Dog, White Adder, University of Salzburg, Shoestring and Sow’s Ear.
Rivelin and Redbeck, of course, were set up by Tipton himself.
This is a man who knows a thing or two about independent poetry
publishing—and knows it from both sides. Like most publisher/writers, his life has been characterised by creative restlessness, resulting
in (among other things) an astonishing level of productivity, despite
difficulty and setback.
Where did it all start? Well—in his final year at secondary school,
after a sound and successful education, Tipton won the English
Verse prize and was presented with The Essential Hemingway and
a Penguin Selection of D H Lawrence’s poetry. These two writers
became, in a very real sense, his heroes. To follow in Hemingway’s
footsteps (which was the plan) young Tipton needed overseas experience—and preferably a little active combat.
He volunteered to fight in Korea. Instead, he was sent as a
National Serviceman first to Singapore, then Malaya during the socalled “emergency”—in fact a full-scale guerrilla war between the
Chinese Terrorists and British, Commonwealth and Malayan armed
forces. At the age of 19-20 he was sitting behind a double-bren in
an armoured truck on convoy patrols from Kuala Lipis to Kuala
Lumpur. Nothing horrible happened to disabuse his romantic ideals; in fact, rather the reverse. His experience enriched and changed
him—and all the time he was taking mental notes for a novel.
When he finally returned to the UK, he ignored the deferred
university place that was waiting for him. He was young and strong.
He did casual labour, short-term jobs—anything to support the life
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Sphinx Issue 4 August, 2006
of a writer. His parents thought it was a disaster. All that good education going to waste! To make things worse, he got married at 22
to a young woman with similar interests (Ena Hollis). Both of them
mingled happily with reprobate poets.
In the late fifties,Tipton was involved in the start-up of a Birmingham-based magazine called Extra Verse. Roy Fisher was marginally
involved and at one point he presented Tipton with a copy of Ginsberg’s Howl. “I think you might find this interesting,” he said. In fact,
says Tipton, “it knocked me out.” After that, American influences
(such as the Beats, Olson, Bukowski, Snyder and Reznikoff) would
profoundly influence his poetic development, just as Hemingway,
Mailer, Miller, Jones and Kerouac informed his prose.
In 1960,Tipton’s parents finally persuaded him to do the respectable thing and train as a teacher. He spent two years qualifying to
teach English and history, taught in Birmingham for just long enough
to satisfy probation requirements, then took the first opportunity
to work abroad, in Argentina. Here he began to learn Spanish. He
was healthy; he had a young family which was still expanding; he was
working and playing hard—he topped the Argentine bowling averages in 1961-2. Life was good.
Tipton and his wife moved to Peru, where they mingled with expats keen to talk about writing and to translate the poetry around
them. The years in Lima (1964-1970) were exciting, with everything
to play for—it was a period in which Tipton was successfully placing
poems in leading magazines both in the UK and USA. A second collection of poems came out from Outposts in 1967; his translation
of Antonio Cisneros’ poetry was due from Cape Goliard; and in
1969 Poetry (Chicago) accepted three poems. Tipton thought—
wrongly—he had “reached a kind of pinnacle of success”.
On October 31st, 1970, tragedy struck. Ena Tipton experienced
a pulmonary embolism. She died suddenly, and without warning. She
was thirty-six.Tipton and his three small children (the youngest not
yet 3) returned to the UK. It was the end of his formative apprenticeship, the start of a new way of life. Tipton settled in Yorkshire
with his children and wrote hard—about the loss of his wife, about
his experiences abroad. Another poetry pamphlet (Millstone Grit)
was published, this time by Peter Finch’s Second Aeon Publications.
Tipton was also successfully placing travel articles, had a contract
for a travel book from mainstream publisher Dent and was doing
supply teaching part-time.
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Then another setback: the commissioning editor for his Dent
book was sacked and her clients (including Tipton) were dropped.
But Tipton was, as ever, mingling with those dangerous cronies—aspiring poets. In 1975 he and Kevin Borman (a Sheffield-based geography teacher, writer and poet) put their heads together and set up
their own imprint, Rivelin Press. If Howard Sergeant and Peter Finch
could do it, so could they. Learning as they went, they published a
series of mimeographed poetry pamphlets which, though cheaply
produced (about 20 pence apiece), were remarkably successful. In
the first year, they printed their own work—as well as a number of
others, including Jim Burns, Jeremy Hilton, and—posthumously—
Ena Hollis. At that time, such publications were reviewed in the
national press. Orders came in steadily.
Meanwhile Tipton was approached by an agent (Giles Gordon)
who got him other work, including a contract for a biography on
Atahualpa, the last Inca Emperor.
So he was running a small press successfully, had written several
draft novels, had his own poems in significant magazines, acquired a
reputation as a translator, had contracts for ongoing work. “This is
it,” he thought. Wrong again. “It”—in terms of profitable success—
never arrived. Nor was the personal side of things working well. He
got married disastrously in 1975 and separated again the same year.
In 1978 he moved to Bradford, from where he continued to teach
full-time and also run Rivelin, producing about 50 pamphlets and
books featuring names now well-known (Jeff Nuttall, Ian McMillan).
By this time he had formed an association with Tony Ward, who
had set up a full printing operation at Hebden Bridge where he
was printing not only for his own imprint (Arc) but also for other
independents.
But more setbacks were to come. In the late seventies, Giles
Gordon severed connections (Tipton hadn’t made enough money).
Rivelin, though, was still doing well. The success of the press was
bolstered by a marvellous Yorkshire Arts Council scheme to buy
75-100 copies of every publication, which they then distributed to
independent bookshops. Furthermore, 1981 saw the award of a big
central Arts Council grant for Rivelin and a promise for annual renewal, on the strength of which Tipton took on new authors. The
following year, the Arts Council Poetry Panel changed, and the grant
was cancelled.
Rivelin was in trouble. Tipton advertised it for sale in the Times
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Literary Supplement, not really expecting a result—but in fact two
London-based buyers took over, at first keeping Tipton on as Associate Editor (this secured ongoing support from the Yorkshire Arts
Council purchase and distribution scheme). Rivelin Grapheme, as it
became, took over most of Tipton’s writers, in the next couple of
years publishing Elizabeth Bartlett, Dinah Livingstone, Isobel Thrilling, Philip Callow, Ian McMillan, Alexis Lykiard—and Tipton himself.
But as the stock was moved to London, Yorkshire Arts withdrew
support; then Rivelin Grapheme ditched Tipton and, not long after,
ceased publishing anything at all.
Meanwhile back at the ranch,Tipton—one of life’s survivors—had
already set up Redbeck Press and was publishing short stories (by
Ian McMillan, Chandler Brossard, Jack Debney etc)—which didn’t
compromise his association with Rivelin Grapheme’s poetry list and
which did qualify for support from the Yorkshire Arts distribution
scheme. Then, as Rivelin Grapheme stopped publishing poetry, Tipton took up the reins again.
One scheme for helping to fund poetry publication was the
Redbeck pamphlet competition which, for over ten years, attracted
poetry submissions and resulted in a range of attractive chapbooks.
And for some entrants (e.g. Michael Tolkien, Stuart Pickford) the
first chapbook was the start of a longer publishing association.
In 1992,Tipton took early retirement from teaching. By this time,
he was publishing 10 to 12 titles a year, assisted by an editorial/advisory team ( Jane Ramsden, Bill Broady, Jim Greenhalf and Debjani
Chatterjee).
Latterly the operation was described as a “non-profit making
enterprise”, assisted in most years by a small grant from Yorkshire
Arts. The average print run (except for anthologies) was 300—500,
depending on the author. As for the terms—20 free copies to the
author, thereafter books at author’s price and 50-50 shared profit
on sales. And it was successful. In the specialised field which is poetry, Redbeck established a hard-won and well-deserved reputation
for attractively presented, good quality writing.
And next? At the time of writing, after thirty years in publishing,
Tipton is winding down. It’s more difficult than it used to be, harder
to get poetry books (and impossible to get pamphlets) into bookshops, unlikely that anything will be reviewed by the national press.
He plans to spend more time on his own work.
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Praised as a translator and prose writer, the reception of his poetry, after his early successes, has been mixed. Like D H Lawrence,
he has been criticised for formlessness and prosy phrasing—as well
as for banality on the one hand and, on the other, excessive indulgence in what one bookseller delicately terms “poetry of an erotic
turn”.
He is unrepentant. “What matters,” he observes, in the introduction to Amulet Against the Evil Eye & Other Poems (1997), “is whether
the poem, the construct, resonates in the reader’s mind.” And some
of his disarmingly frank verse does resonate—it is deliberately unpoetic, naive in the consciously painterly sense, and intensely human.
But of course his original plan was to be a novelist, and he’s still
working on it. In 1998, Shoestring Press published his first novel
Paradise of Exiles.This was followed in 2002 by Medal for Malaya (the
novel for which he was making mental notes in 1955). Defying the
Odds (Selected Poems) is due from Sow’s Ear Press next year. A
volume of short stories (Blue Rondo) is in preparation, and there’s
another novel (Passion and Prudence) in the pipeline. . . .
“Looking back on it all—did you get the balance right between
publishing and writing?” I asked him.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said.
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Sphinx Issue 4 August, 2006
SOME POEMS BY DAVID TIPTON
SAN CRISTOBAL
I take the dusty path from Rimac
and climb the hill. Adobe huts thatched with cane
huddle round the mountainside;
crude shacks are hewn out of bare rock.
Ochre-grey and arid in the sun
the mountain’s like a human beehive.
The children playing by some rancid cess
stare at this gringo, conspicuous with fair hair
and blue eyes, footing it up the jagged path.
Mangy dogs bark; they too detect a foreigner.
I am alert to kick; rabies was headlined last week.
Sweating I clamber up, dust blurs my tracks,
the shanties thin out, cholos still stare.
I am prepared to run, punch or bluff it out.
Halted by stark rock halfway up, I see the Cross
remote above me. The path is lost.
An Indian woman surrounded by her kids
watches me hesitate. I speak,
and suddenly smiling she points out the route
to the top. Her boys’ll take me
though it’s a long way up. I’ll return
mañana, si mañana. Hasta mañana!
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Fears die. I smoke a cigarette. Below
Lima siestas in the dusty plain;
the sea is lost in haze and sky. Close by
are a pink colonial church, the pink
plaza de toros, a pink arch built
for some viceroy’s turbulent mistress.
For this view I’d accept the poverty,
dust and poor water supply, I think,
but of course my thoughts lie
( from Crossing the Rimac, White Adder Press, 1995)
MORNING AFTER
He awoke slowly head swollen from alcohol,
a dehydrated feeling like chalk dust in his throat,
dimly remembering the skilled sex of the night
and standing in his room with lemon tea
was a beautiful Malay girl, nineteen about.
She smiled and there was a moment
when memory cheated him
and it might have been true, this girl’s love,
but he turned to the woman lying at his side,
her wrinkled neck and cold unfeminine eyes,
a middle-aged street whore with gold teeth
who smiled her cracked yet kindly smile
and put her tight-skinned hand upon his thigh:
‘my daughter’, she said, pride teetering in her voice.
( from Green and Purple, Redbeck Press 1993)
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Sphinx Issue 4 August, 2006
JAZZ ON PIANO
In the pub at Sunday lunch
the pianist playing
it’s still the same old story
a fight for love and glory
my arm around your shoulder
I told you about Barmouth
1944 when I first saw
Casablanca
the pianist plays more jazz
old tunes remembered
and there we go again
Redditch
your childhood and adolescence
there my visits to an aunt
before you were even born
but it doesn’t matter
age
time passing only the present
the long moment extended
an endless jazz number
on the piano
( from Amulet Against the Evil Eye & Other Poems,
University of Salzburg Press, 1997)
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