Erratum p,23, l.3, w.5 for 'hr' read 'her'

There are few things more depressing than finding a printing error in a freshly produced edition of books the proofs for which you had previously checked.  Thoroughly.  He said in the middle of a pandemic.  OK, I will admit that there are, in fact, lots of things worse than finding a printing error in your latest book.  But it does still hurt.

     The printing history of my latest book, The eloquence of broken things, has been a little bumpy.  I sent off a ‘perfect’ pdf of the book (with, as it turns out the bloody printing error) and the batch that I got back was woefully inadequate.  In a truly bizarre way I discovered two or three different sequences of errors in the printing.  The key to the version was to look at the logo on the title page: if the top part of it was missing you had what we might call, ‘Error sequence A’; if the bottom part was missing, it was ‘Error sequence B’.  That, sort of made sense, depending on how the pages were positioned when being printed out.  But I soon discovered that there was a third variant, which made no sense at all.

     Anyway, the printer and I regarded the first tranche of books as a sort of ‘proof’ printing and the second attempt was perfect – except for the bloody miss-print – and that was entirely my fault.

     The mistake occurs in the second poem in the collection and it is in a sonnet as well, so it is all the more glaring as the poem is so short.  In my own defence, the poem was a reprint from an earlier collection and, as I couldn’t find the original copy, I typed it out again and so the mistake crept in.  I cannot pretend that I didn’t read the ‘new’ version a few times and, attentive reader as I am, I still failed to spot the missing ‘e’ in ‘hr’ or ‘her’ as it should have been.  By the time I noticed the mistake it was too late and the erratum slip would have to be deployed.

     It was at that point that I determined to make the best of a bad job and write a poem about the mistake to be included as a signed (well, initialled) insert for each of the new books.

     My starting point is the Turkish rug, whose intricate pattern has an intentional ‘mistake’ so that man’s attempt at perfection does not mock god.  I have always found this concept interesting and once heard I decided that it was far too useful an idea to exploit in all sorts of circumstances to be dependent on the absolute truth of it all.  I suppose that there are inferior sorts of rugs that actually try to be ‘perfect’ but I am talking about the highest quality and most painstakingly worked examples of the rug makers’ craft.  So there. 

     In the poem I take the concept of built-in imperfection a step further and turn the conceit in on itself.

     This is a poem that has to be read, it cannot be recited as two of the points that I make will not be at all clear, and I end with a twist that gives me scope to accommodate any further mistakes that I may have missed!

Erratum
p.14, l.2, w.6
for hr read her

Within a Turkish rug’s
expensive symmetry
is woven an intentional false note –
because perfection’s the preserve of god,
and not of stumbling, imperfect Man.

But, isn’t there an arrogance
in saying, “Yes, of course there’s that –
but all the rest . . . !” As if
parading of a self-made fault
limits additional faux pas?

It’s Baldrick’s bullet.[1]
Logic? False!

Yet it’s a way of life we all adopt
because we live inelegant reality
not textbook-sharp, black-outlined clarity.

Mistakes and errors? That’s who we are!
Come with the territory.
Flaws are the marbling of life.
We have to say.
Because it’s inescapable.
  

I’d read and read again
the poem that contains the fault,
and yet not seen the missing ‘e’
until the final print was done
and it was then too late to change.

The sticking-plaster-sized
erratum slip is grudgingly applied
accepting and bewailing
my falling short.

But, what are vowels in the scheme of things?
Thngs tht cn b thghtlssly gnrd –
and still the consonantal frame
allows a certain fluency.

If there had only been a gap
the reader could have,
would have, filled it in
without a thought.

But these are cavils
trying hard to justify
imperfect sight.

I should regard the ‘humbling by slip’
as something more akin to public sacrifice:
(expiation, celebration,
for inexact humanity)

than hoping that,
in spite of all the odds,
the misprint, all alone,
is by itslf.

[1] 1 Private S. Baldrick, Captain Blackadder’s idiot batman is caught inscribing his name on a bullet when in the trenches in 1917, his explanation is, “I thought if I owned the bullet with my name on it, I’d never get hit by it.” Blackadder Goes Forth Series 4, Episode 1. First broadcast 28th September 1989, 9.30 pm on BBC1, written by Richard Curtis and Ben Elton.

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