Review by Kim Wiltshire of "The Granite Kingdom: A Cornish Journey" by Tim Hannigan

 

Tim Hannigan is Cornwall born and bred and, like many of us brought up in ‘picturesque’ tourist destinations, he spent time working in the hotel sector as a chef before managing to ‘escape.’ In Hannigan’s case, this escape took him to academia and a life as a writer, living in and writing travel books about Indonesia, before he felt able to revisit his childhood home and look afresh at the whole county of Cornwall.

For me, this is definitely a settle down somewhere comfy and immerse yourself in a different world type of book. Each chapter takes us through the geological specificities of Cornwall, the historical elements that have contributed to the folklore of the area, alongside a walking travelogue that takes the reader through the county. With pictures, maps and personal anecdotes, this book has a range of elements to engage with, which bring alive this diverse and interesting area.

Starting out at Cornish poet Charles Causley’s terraced house near Launceston, Hannigan walks along the Tamar, considering the idea of borders: who sets them, on what conditions are they set, and how / why are they important? That link to literary Cornwall carries on, unsurprisingly, throughout the book, exploring the old myths and folk tales, those writers and artists who made Cornwall their home, and those who visited – often with some very strange prejudices around the ‘native’ people and the ‘beauty’ of the area, or not as some more romantic artists seem to have decided.

There are some lovely images included, but I still found myself using my map app to find some of the areas being described, especially Causley’s little cottage. Having been an occasional tourist to the area, it was great to be able to delve a little more into the area on so many different levels. This is clearly a labour of love for Hannigan and, as you read it, his generosity at sharing this area he knows and loves so well can be felt. So, as mentioned above, settle down and immerse yourself in this world of piskeys, smugglers and the actual reality of an industrial landscape where real, actual people who may not be surfers (although it seems many are) live, love and work – for, with and often despite the tourists. Oh, and if you’re lucky enough to get the hardback version, the cover is also a beautiful artwork in its own right!

About the reviewer
Kim Wiltshire is a writer and academic, Reader and Programme Leader for Creative Writing at Edge Hill University. She writes scripts, short stories and was a British Academy Innovation Fellowship researching ways of embedding arts into healthcare settings during 2022 and 2023. 

You can read more about The Granite Kingdom by Tim Hannigan on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Lee Wright of "Father's Father's Father" by Dane Holt

Father’s Father’s Father, the debut poetry collection from Dane Holt, explores the shaping and eventual disillusionment of masculinity, as well as the lingering effects of tragedy. The opening poem, titled "John Cena," delves into the predictable patterns of professional wrestling, where audiences anticipate the familiar rise-and-fall of matches that provide the structure and comfort many of us craved as adolescents. Cena represents a scripted form of heroism—akin to figures like Superman or John Rambo. But what if we looked beyond that manufactured persona? Could the image of the all-American hero have become stale? Is Holt suggesting that Cena’s image is tied to a version of America that overlooks its own complexities and contradictions? Rather than a "fallen" hero, perhaps Cena is one who’s now on his knees, wrestling not just with opponents, but with his own myth. 

Holt belongs to a dynamic new wave of Northern Irish poets, and the collection gives the impression of him wandering, collecting fragments, and observing what causes them to bend or break. In the poem "Humphrey Bogart," the speaker begins by recounting tales passed down by his grandfather, describing a time when men were characterised by a rugged, almost invincible self-sufficiency. Holt uses an image of a man striking a match with his thumb, waking up to a lit cigarette, and performing daily tasks with a cigarette in hand, evoking an idealised version of masculinity—one that is calm, composed. The grandfather’s memories of the past are a source of nostalgia, and The African Queen (the film referred to in the poem) fills the absence of verbal confirmation as part of their understanding of love. There’s also an image of birds filling the sky, a striking conclusion to the poem, which suggests an omnipresence of the departed, both in film and in life. All the poems contemplate a form of sadness (though not without comedy). They look at the consequences of a life that doesn’t get the chance to be redeemed, expendable people of deep emptiness, those who struggle to pick up their lives. As Holt writes in the poem, "Seven Esenin Versions": 

         I cannot deceive myself: something 
         heavy troubles my heart.   

This reader feels it too: poetry is where attention to the tender and the brittle began. 

 

About the reviewer
Lee Wright holds an MA in Creative Writing and is currently pursuing a PhD, focusing on the coming-of-age memoir and film analysis. His fiction and nonfiction have been published in Fairlight Books, Headstuff.com, époque press, and Cigarette Fire Literary Magazine.

Review by Jonathan Taylor of "Wish: New & Selected Poems" by Maggie Brookes-Butt

In his ‘Ode on Melancholy,’ John Keats famously suggests that ‘Ay, in the very temple of Delight / Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.’ And perhaps it works the other way round too: in the temple of Melancholy, there’s a shrine to Delight. 

Maggie Brookes-Butt’s life-affirming collection, Wish: New & Selected Poems, encompasses both alternatives: her poems are sometimes temples of Delight which house shrines to ‘Veil’d Melancholy,’ sometimes temples of political Melancholy, which open up to reveal Delight, Joy, Beauty. As many have pointed out, contemporary poetry is – as far as it’s possible to generalise – not always on home ground when it comes to delight or happiness or joy. Joy is all-too-often left to birthday card rhymes, seen as naïve in an age of end-game capitalism, political polarisation and climate disaster. 

The poems in Wish, though, are far from naïve: this is a grown-up, fierce, brave joy that can thrive in the teeth of political realism. In the opening sequence, Brookes-Butt stages imaginary conversations with her infant granddaughter, which are both celebrations of shared love, and honest appraisals of the future the latter has been born into. In the poem ‘Realities,’ for instance, she writes:

                    The whine of chainsaws
          plagues the forests, while glaciers silently drip. Missiles
          land on another hospital, another school. And the people 
          we love go away and we never see them again …

          But let us not go there today. Better by far to hold my hand
          and look for bears in the woods, mermaids diving
          from the rocks, Father Christmas landing on the roof, 
          dance the hokey-cokey and sing “that’s what it’s all about.”

This is what Brookes-Butt’s poems do so beautifully: they dance the hokey-cokey, find the bears in the woods and mermaids on the rocks, while still facing up to the ‘realities’ of the modern world. A dawn chorus, for example, is ‘a technicolour / torrent-of-sound, reminding, insisting, in spite / of everything – there is joy in the world, / there is so much joy.’ Even in a Second World War prison camp, the downtrodden inmates find ‘unexpected peace’ in an allotment, where they ‘grow gifts / of vegetables or flowers to give on visit day.’

Like the inmates, Brookes-Butt's poems often find 'unexpected peace,' miniature utopias, in a wider context of turbulence and degeneration. Hers is not an escapist joy, though, that turns away from horror. Rather, it’s the kind of visionary and radical joy that Friedrich Schiller and Ludwig van Beethoven might have understood – a joy that challenges present and future ‘Realities.’ Even if, in that particular poem, the poet ultimately declares ‘let us not go there today’ to her grandchild, the implication is that such realities will have to be faced in the future. And the collection as a whole holds onto a radical and joyful optimism for that future, in spite of fear, in spite of melancholy, ‘in spite of everything’:

For now leave
fear about the drowning and scorching of your world
to me. I have enough for both of us. When I’m too
voiceless to protest, too old to carry a placard, 
I’ll hand it to you like a baton or perhaps a fiery
sword, and you can run in my stead. We will defy
the politicians with lies for hair, shout down
fearfulness itself with tongues of flame. 

About the reviewer
Jonathan Taylor is director of Everybody's Reviewing. His most recent book is the memoir A Physical Education: On Bullying, Discipline & Other Lessons (Goldsmiths, 2024). He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. His website is here. 

Review by Mike O'Driscoll of "Remains" Magazine, Issue 1, ed. Andy Cox

If the visual layout and content seem familiar, it’s because Remains is the welcome new venture from Andy Cox, the publisher and editor of Black Static, the superlative and much-missed magazine of contemporary horror fiction. It features a gorgeous cover and interior artwork from Richard Wagner, whose work also graced the pages of the former magazine, but the real test of Remains resides in the quality of its fiction.

There are seven stories, including ‘Cockatrice,’ a novella from Stephen Bacon, that starts out on familiar ground—an inquisitive child more taken with the monsters of his imagination than with the real ones much closer to home—before morphing into vengeful time travel tale with echoes of Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys. The shifting perspectives in a narrative that touches on infidelity, the power of the imagination, childhood sexual abuse, and the struggle to unsee the horrors one sees, are handled with great skill and compassion by Bacon.

Giselle Leeb’s story ‘Inclusions’ is a subtle and suggestive take on the haunted house theme. It maintains a certain distance from its human characters—the last of a group of writers gathered for a weekend workshop—allowing us to observe their interactions through the indifferent gaze of the house itself.

‘Her Little Ray of Sunshine’ is the story that most clearly evokes the tone of Black Static—no surprise considering it’s written by Neil Williamson, a regular contributor to the former magazine. It’s an unsettling and thought-provoking piece, reminiscent of much Slipstream fiction of the 1990s, with its quiet sense of outrage, even despair, at the extent of the psychological and physical harm men perpetrate on women, and even more so the lies and excuses we deploy to justify our weaknesses to ourselves. 

Also recalling 12 Monkeys, but this time more explicitly, is Jolie Toomajan’s ‘A Heartwarming Tale of a Girl and Her Monkey.’ The tone here is elusive, even somewhat disjointed, such that protagonist Karyan’s motives in unleashing an apocalypse are never quite clear. Yet perhaps that sense of disconnection leads her to bond more closely with the monkey she liberates than with her human co-workers, which may be precisely the point.

The remaining stories range thematically from the delusion of overweening ambition (Rich Larson), to the peril of one’s life being exploited for fictional purposes (Anna Tambour). The final story, James Cooper’s ‘Nothing Special,’ offers a particularly bleak, noirish variation on the cynicism and self-loathing engendered by succumbing to the Hollywood dream.

About the reviewer
Mike O’Driscoll is a writer living in Swansea. His work has appeared in Black Static, Interzone, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous anthologies. His story ‘Sounds Like’ was adapted for a TV movie by Brad Anderson, as part of the Masters of Horror series. Mike blogs on different aspects of genre writing and film here. 

Review by Mike O'Driscoll of "In the Garden" by Brian Howell

Like the central figure of Hieronymous Bosch’s triptych on St Anthony, the protagonist of Brian Howell’s In the Garden is subject to his own mix of erotic and demonic temptations. In what the publishers term a plaquette, traditionally a small bronze relief, but here a chapbook illustrated with reproductions from Bosch’s work, Howell explores both the meaning and effect that the artist’s works, particularly those of a more apocalyptic bent, might have on the viewer. Anthony, our not entirely reliable guide to the paintings, a self-confessed Bosch fanatic, has come to the artist’s home town of  ’s-Hertogenbosch for a rare exhibition of his work. For reasons that remain obscure, Anthony has left his wife and daughter, Angela and Helen, at home in the UK, though he’s at pains to assure us that he has their blessing, if it’s what makes him happy. This last comment hints at Anthony’s need to justify the pursuit of his own interests, interests that are not as purely artistic and intellectual as they first seem. 

On his first encounter with one of the works—The Wayfarer—Anthony has a sort of premonition, "a shimmer of light whose provenance he could not explain," that gives him the permission he needs to stray from his purposeful travels and sink "into a hedonistic stage of life." An accomplice toward that stage appears in the form of Lajla, an expert on Bosch. She offers Anthony a glimpse into the possibilities inherent in The Garden of Earthly Delights. The world of the painting stands in contrast to the mundane, sexless reality of his life with Angela, though his nightly phone calls to her, as well as specific memories which prompt moments of guilt, appear to contradict this interpretation. His supposed surprise at Angela calling him "lover," doesn’t exactly sit with his self-depiction of their relationship. 

Through keenly described scenes from different works, Howell returns again and again to contrasting what Anthony tells us about himself, with a recognition of the more earthly desires that the paintings prompt in him. Lajla, who, because of her preoccupation with the Cathars, one might expect to be sexually reticent—she makes a point of telling Anthony of their disapproval of sexual congress—responds to his latent desires by drawing him into a world where he can indulge both his pleasures and pains. The quiet, understated ending finally allows the protagonist the first real moment of insight, albeit one that comes too late. 

In the Garden follows on from Howell’s superlative collection The Study of Sleep, in exploring the work of specific painters to illuminate the struggle between our desires and delusions, and the contradictions between our false self-perceptions and those moments when we get to see ourselves as we really are.

About the reviewer
Mike O’Driscoll is a writer living in Swansea. His work has appeared in Black Static, Interzone, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous anthologies. His story ‘Sounds Like’ was adapted for a TV movie by Brad Anderson, as part of the Masters of Horror series. Mike blogs on different aspects of genre writing and film here.