Karin Koller and Charlotte chat about poetry and science and the marks we leave behind.
Mendel’s peas
Experiments in Plant Hybridisation*
Observe how tenderly this quiet monk
kneels at his garden work, opens
each new bud, removes keel, then stamen,
brushes stigma with pollen from another plant,
dusts each new generation into being.
His lab bench: the monastery grounds,
his material: the common pea,
twenty-five thousand recorded
by shape, height and colour.
Collected not out of divine duty
but as scientific numbered truth.
A legacy of notebooks, time and care
far greater than the call to prayer.
*Gregor Mendel (1822-1884), Augustinian monk and eventual Abbot of St Thomas’ Monastery in Brno. Mendel’s pea hybridisation experiments were first published in 1866 and predicted the existence of discrete units of inheritance (genes), rather than blended characteristics. The significance of his work was not recognised until 1900 after which he became known as The Father of Genetics.
Karin Koller
Charlotte Gann: I love the cleanness of this short neat poem, Karin. I like the way you invite us/me in with that word ‘Observe’, then paint a picture of the man kneeling at his work, working ‘tenderly’ and with such ‘care’. Then, after the stanza break, you zoom out a little, take in the broader context. You end on a rhyming couplet that makes its own rich pronouncement.
I like the simplicity and precision of your language, each word, and their ordering, perfect. I picture that ‘quiet monk’ and his ‘legacy of notebooks’ and, in a poem so beautifully wrought, can’t help also picturing this poet – you – the writer at work (it’s interesting too that it looks like a sonnet but, if you look closely, is in fact only thirteen lines…) There are glorious lessons in this portrait anyway for any of us toiling away, over years, at any skill, including writing? Not least, of course, the attention to detail, as you so accurately and quietly observe this scientist’s dusting process…
I know this poem’s been one you’ve mulled over and reworked for a long, long time. Can you say a little about why? What is it about Mendel and his peas that so draws you?
Karin Koller: I’ve been interested in the interface between science and poetry for a long time. As a teenager I would have loved to study English and Biology at A-level, but in those days you had to choose the Arts or the Sciences and I went down the science route. I studied pharmacology (the effect of drugs and chemicals on living organisms), and became particularly interested in the effects at the cellular level. So for many years I was immersed in lab work, looking down microscopes, using microelectrodes to record the voltage difference across membranes of individual cells as they responded to hormones and drugs. Very far from poetry!
My interest in poetry started with the Liverpool poets in the 1960s, and was reawakened in the 1980s when Neil Astley founded Bloodaxe Books. I feel I’ve been learning about poetry in a catch-up way ever since.
As you can imagine, my ears always prick up when I hear mention of science alongside poetry. Is it possible to write about science through poetry? Can scientific language be used as a metaphor for wider issues? In terms of writing about science through poetry I feel it needs to go beyond the descriptive, and that’s hard to do well. Poets I admire include Brian McCabe with his playful collection Zero exploring the world of mathematics, and Pippa Hennessy who uses quantum theory to explore what it is to be human.
For me it’s always been the field of genetics. My father, Peo Koller, was a geneticist who lived through the early days of cytogenetics (genetics at the cellular level). He loved talking about genetics, and was totally immersed in his work. I find it a fascinating area too, not just because of the huge advances in the last hundred years, but also because of its controversial side, including gene therapy, cloning and the ethics of genetic engineering.
For a long time I’ve been quietly reading about it, and working on a sequence of poems linked by genetics. ‘Mendel’s Peas’ is one of the first I started, again, at least partly because of a link with my father. He was an ordained Benedictine priest for a number of years until he left the Catholic Church to pursue his interest in science. So for me he was a kind of Mendel in reverse.
My aim in the poem was to recognise the painstaking research work Mendel did; and the importance of a ‘legacy of notebooks’. The last two lines came to me only recently, but they feel right. I wanted to end with a provocation. (They also echo my own non-theist stance and deep concerns about the power of religious dogma and organisations.)
CG: I hear all this, I think – and the meeting of science and poetry. Also the ‘meeting’ of Mendel and your own father. So, you’re spending time and energy recording (meticulously!) the value you perceive in Mendel’s work…you don’t want him to be forgotten?
You also acknowledge the close of the poem is your view. In fact, I hear from you, the poet and scientist – I hold that image of you, in the lab, looking through the microscope – throughout this poem. It starts with a direct instruction, for instance, from speaker to reader…
As well as a scientist and a writer of poetry and prose, you also run a small press, Quirky Press; and you’re a wonderful artist. I’m curious, and trying to find the words to ask, in this Understory context: what might your ‘legacy of notebooks’ look like? What would you like it to be? Is the message of care that I take so strongly from your poem a central ‘creed’, if you like, for you?
KK: I like the idea of care being a central ‘creed’, in the widest sense of the word. Caring for family and friends and others, but also caring for myself and my own need to be creative and leave a legacy, whatever form that legacy may take.
I’ve always felt pulled in different directions and have never become an expert in anything. A Jill of all trades, mistress of none. I’m now in my seventies, and when I look back at my life outside of work and caring for my family, I realise I’ve fairly seriously dabbled in woodwork, bookbinding, publishing, writing, painting and drawing. It’s as if I’m constantly searching for a way of expressing myself, pulled between the logical rational ‘scientist’ and the more unsettling but liberating world of the imagination.
A few years ago I bought a piece of textual art by Simon Sonsino, called ‘What is a Person?’ It caught my eye because it’s made up of inscribed and painted repeats of the phrase ‘What is a person if not the marks they leave behind?’. It hangs on the wall beside my desk, and embodies not only what I believe, but also beautifully combines two disciplines. (I’d always assumed these were Sonsino’s words, but have just discovered they come from a fantasy novel published in 2020 by the American writer VE Schwab. So now I want to read the novel! This is how my brain works… I keep wanting to dig deeper, and am always going off in different directions.)
Recently I’ve become kinder on myself, less critical when I don’t complete something. This brings me back to leaving things in notebooks being as important as getting a poem or a book published or a drawing framed. It’s a legacy for others to discover.
CG: So, you’re habitually following threads, and seeing the bigger tapestry. Making marks across disciplines and around their edges? Appreciating the works of others as much if not more than putting energy into generating your own? Interested in playing your instrument in the orchestra rather than seeking a solo career? (If I’m not mixing too many metaphors!) And you enjoy the process of creativity more than the idea of some end ‘product’?
I like the Simon Sonsino artwork very much – and to learn it’s hung above your desk. And I definitely like the idea of being kinder to ourselves.
‘What is a person if not the marks they leave behind?’ It makes me think of my own father – who, though he died thirty five years ago this month (much over half my lifetime), has a daily impact on me in ways I can’t begin to quantify.
KK: What you say about your father’s continuing impact is so true for me too; mine died when I was in my twenties. Because I feel I never had the time to get to know him well, I’ve been left with far more questions than answers. We all have our own Understories, and for me it’s about searching for answers, and being open to different ways of sharing my quest with others. And one of those ways is poetry.
You talk about ‘seeing the bigger tapestry’ which I like very much. Humans all share a genetic tapestry, with infinite overlaps, yet each of us is unique because of the ways in which our individual genes express themselves.
CG: A search for answers? Ah, that’s really interesting, Karin. I too feel strongly I’ve spent my poetry ‘life’ puzzling things out I couldn’t fathom otherwise. I like your word ‘quest’, and your talking about the openness to share. Sharing is such a big, strange part of poetry, isn’t it? I’m drawn back to your Mendel poem’s closing couplet:
A legacy of notebooks, time and care
far greater than the call to prayer.
The bigger genetic tapestry we’re all a part of; and our uniqueness, each one of us, in offering our own ‘legacy of notebooks’. I have to mention, before we close, that I love peas too! And there’s something very tender, for me, about that combination of weighty science, Mendel’s project, and the humble pea.
Thank you, Karin – for your poem and thoughts.