Review by Rachael Clyne of "Janus" by Catherine Ayres

This is a thoughtful and beautifully crafted collection. Like Janus, Catherine faces both directions as she dips into memories. The months are in order, while the years skip back and forth. In her title poem, "January 2015 - a new sofa arrives":

          What might happen, never did.
          My heart’s a holloway, a healed wound
          but January’s naked on the lawn –

In February 2014, the narrator visits a Louise Bourgeois exhibition in "Spider" – a skilful villanelle circling around Bourgeois’ giant spider sculptures in her attempt to heal childhood trauma by "weaving her woman’s body into art." Ayres shifts from classic form to sharp imagery in "Ignoring Alicia":

          If I were you
          I’d have swollen eyes,
    a flick knife fringe

In March 2020 lockdown: "streetlights weep like snowdrops." Ayres delivers groceries to her mother who is gradually revealed behind the garage door, like Darth Vader wearing Sketchers. In May, she is a mother in a witty prose poem in Geordie dialect,  when her kids are berated by a neighbour for "hoying clemmies" (throwing stones). The poet then deftly shifts to June and a childhood friend in "Odbods," describing their bedrooms, "like conches, delicate and full of whispers." 

Ayres's poetry is grounded in love of landscape. September has descriptions of Gateshead’s "Dunston Staithes," and Ambleside’s "Dove Crag." October 2019 brings a recurrence of breast cancer and a second mastectomy, followed by a clifftop walk to a castle, where there is "no turning back from your wind-sucked gate, the grimace of its antlered mask." As we move through different spaces of her life, we glimpse it through Ayres' eyes. The book ends on Christmas Eve 2014 with "The single woman and the lights," as she untangles the mess of lights (and marriage breakup), then "slow dances" them round her tree. This is a book of courage, tenderness and subtlety.

About the reviewer
Rachael Clyne from Glastonbury is widely published in journals. Now retired, Rachael was a professional actor, then psychotherapist. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams 2014), concerns our lost connection with nature. Her pamphlet, Girl Golem (4word.org 2018), explores her Jewish migrant heritage. Her latest collection, You’ll Never Be Anyone Else (Seren 2023), is a journey of reconciling identity and otherness through childhood, relationships, LGBTQ and ageing. 

You can read more about Janus by Catherine Ayres on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "New Uses for a Wand" by Fiona Theokritoff

Fiona Theokritoff has a wonderful way with words that beguile, enchant, and beg for answers to so many questions. Science, myth and fancy intertwine in her poetic world, a world of warrior queens and sad aspiring mothers who mourn their loss, searching for an answer to their quest for motherhood. Then there are the shoes of all types and fashions, old and used, newly formed, hidden in walls, each with a fascinating tale to tell. 

A world of wonder is brought to us in perfectly curated poems in all shapes and sizes that show Fiona Theokritoff’s talent for words. From the Big Bang to Brian Cox, the pamphlet takes us on adventures in science, asking questions, demanding we investigate further as all good word-detectives should. Unknown words and phrases pique our interest, demand that we look further, her words drawing us into mysteries that we must unravel. Then there are poems of dancing, and motherhood: at last motherhood is achieved, the beauty of the child juxtaposed with the tawdriness of real life. 

We end with a mother’s death. A child was carried, a child was born, and "Cartographer" truly maps the matrilineal life of a family where the mother's flame is passed on to the new matriarch. Life goes on as it does, and words go on too, demonstrating the completeness of the family - completeness in just ninety words. In the words, we read of dreams and reality, past, present and yes, future - a future where words mean everything, where cultures clash, where dreams are dreamt and reality is faced. Indeed, the beauty of Fiona Theokritoff’s New Uses for a Wand is that her poetry allows us space as readers to magic up our own reality.

And finally: a huge shout out to Five Leaves who are introducing us to so many wonderful poets through their positive recognition of talent.

About the reviewer

Jonathan Wilkins is 68. He is married to the gorgeous Annie with two wonderful sons. He was a teacher for twenty years, a Waterstones’ bookseller and coached women’s basketball for over thirty years before taking up writing seriously. Nowadays he takes notes for students with Special Needs at Leicester and Warwick Universities. He has had a work commissioned by the UK Arts Council and several pieces published traditionally as well as on-line. He has had poems in magazines and anthologies, art galleries, studios, museums and at Huddersfield Railway Station. He loves writing poetry. For his MA, he wrote a crime novel, Utrecht Snow. He followed it up with Utrecht Rain, and is now writing a third part. He is currently writing a crime series, Poppy Knows Best, set at the end of the Great War and into the early 1920s.

You can read more about New Uses for a Wand by Fiona Theokritoff on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Interview with Louise Powell

Dr Louise Powell is an award-winning working-class writer from Middlesbrough. She is the winner of the Sid Chaplin Northern Writer’s Award 2023 for her novel-in-progress and was jointly awarded the Peter Lathan Prize for New Playwriting 2022 for a one-act play. Louise is the author of the Coal Face collections of verbatim poetry, published by Redhills in 2023 and 2024. Her scripts have been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 Extra and performed at nine theatres, including Live Theatre, The Customs House and The Tristan Bates Theatre. She has written short films and podcasts and her memoir essay was published in Kit De Waal’s acclaimed Common People anthology. Louise has a PhD in English from Sheffield Hallam University, and her research is widely published in journals and educational magazines. She also holds a Professional Greyhound Trainers Licence from the Greyhound Board of Great Britain.

Louise’s latest podcast project can be found here. And you can find out more about Louise and her forthcoming projects by visiting her website here. 

Interviewed by Kathy Hoyle

KH: Hi Louise. It’s a real pleasure to speak with you today. You describe yourself as a working-class writer. Although I also describe myself as such, I often find it quite a tricky thing to define. What does the term ‘working-class writing’ mean to you? 

LP: It’s a real pleasure to speak to you too, Kathy; thank you for having me! 

That’s such an interesting opening question. When I was on the Common People Professional Development Programme, Kit de Waal gave a talk about her writing and class identity. She said, ‘I’m working class, I feel it in my bones’ – and for me, the same sentiment applies to working-class writing. It’s writing which speaks to my life, whether through the characters, the turns of phrase or the setting. It’s writing with a truth to it; writing which doesn’t exoticise or denigrate the subjects. Writing which could be about characters who are in work or out of it; picking up a wage or receiving long-term benefits due to ill health.

I know that some writers, who grew up as I did in a family in receipt of benefits, like to use the term ‘benefits class.’ While I understand and respect that decision, I don’t use that term about myself because I strongly believe that class identity is about more than work. It’s also about values, communities; solidarity in the funniest and the grimmest of times. 

It’s about that feeling in the bones.

KH: Your work is fascinating, and it spans almost every genre, poetry, fiction, playwriting, podcasting and filmmaking. Do you have a preference for a particular creative outlet?

LP: I think it’s not so much a question of which form I prefer, but rather which form best fits the story to be told. If I’m working with a community, then I’ll think about forms such as verbatim poetry or audio, which foreground their voices and render me much less visible. If it’s a story which needs to be encountered in real time, I’ll think about theatre. More complex stories lend themselves to prose, while strongly visual stories need to be filmed. 

There’s so much to learn from working across different forms in terms of craft and audience. I like to have multiple projects in different forms on the go at any given time. I enjoy the variety and find that if one project gets stuck, immersing myself in a different projects in a different form really helps me to find the solution to it.

KH: My own research delves into oral history and regional dialect. I use oral histories to ‘capture’ authentic dialogue and use it in my work. You’ve also been involved in several oral history projects. Tell us about those. 

LP: I’ve recently worked on two substantial Arts Council-funded oral history projects: Dogpeople and Coal Face. Dogpeople uses oral histories to build a social history of flapping (greyhound racing at independent tracks) in County Durham. I grew up racing dogs at those tracks with my family, and the world has inspired a lot of creative work, including a novel which I’ll discuss later. Yet I wanted to carry out a project which allowed other people from within the community to tell their stories about the tracks. I worked the raw oral histories into an 8 x 20” podcast series. I also developed a Project Blog with Guest Writers, held a Community Exhibition at Wheatley Hill Heritage Centre and hosted Listening Parties, where participants could come together and listen to the podcasts.

Coal Face, meanwhile, uses oral histories to preserve the stories of coalfield communities in the words of the people are part of them. I take the raw interviews and weave them into a series of verbatim poems. Some of the poems tell an individual’s story, while others bring together all of the interviewees in order to present a wider narrative about such themes as the development of Washington New Town, the 84-85 Miners’ Strike, or what it felt like to work down the pit. These pieces have then been published by Redhills CIO in two books, in which my poetry sits alongside Sunderland photographer Andy Martin’s stunning portraiture. The writing and images have also been exhibited at Washington F-Pit Museum, and we’re due to exhibit new work at Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens from 1 February – 15 March. Redhills will also publish a third book of writing and photography in time for the exhibition, and there will be a 6 x 20” series of podcasts featuring some of the oral histories, as well as a programme of community events.

One of the loveliest things about working with oral histories is getting to speak to such a wide variety of people. Each participant has a different – but equally fascinating – story to tell, and it’s a privilege to give them the space and the time to tell it. It’s also incredibly rewarding to see their enthusiasm for the finished outcome, be that a podcast, event or poem. There’s a great deal of trust involved in working with oral histories, and that’s something I’m always conscious of honouring when writing with them. 

KH: How important is a regional ‘voice’ to you and do you think publishers / theatre practitioners are becoming more open to dialect and regional narrative voices in stories?

LP: I’m certain that if I’d had access to regional voices growing up, I’d have found a much more direct path to being a writer myself. Pretty much everything I encountered was Standard English and middle-class, which meant that I didn’t know that someone from my background could be a writer until I was in my very late 20s. Even though I now work as a professional writer, I still struggle hugely with believing that I deserve to be in this space. So much of my energy has to go into battling anxieties about not belonging and not being good enough, and that’s energy that would be much better spent on creativity. I share this because lack of regional voices has a deep and long-lasting impact, especially when it intersects with other forms of under-represented identities.

My 70,000+ word dialect novel has only been out on sub to editors for a week, so it’s too early for me to comment on publishing. In terms of theatre, I think that practitioners are becoming more open to telling stories in the voices or dialects of communities, especially in co-created work. I do still see an imbalance of representation within my home region of the North East, though. There’s definitely a preference for Newcastle-based stories, with much less interest in plays from places like the Tees Valley. Part of this is down to the fact that there are no Tees Valley producing theatres (theatres which can fund and commission new writing) for adult work, but it’s also down to a perception that Tees Valley stories are somehow of lesser value. 

t's a point which was being made to me again and again while I carried out my research for a project called ‘First Stage.’ I spoke to writers, theatremakers and other cultural professionals in order to explore the consequences of a lack of new writing and talent development in the Tees Valley. Going back to my earlier point about the deep impact of a lack of regional voices, my research found that Tees Valley creatives took longer to find out that they could have creative careers, and experienced significant geographic barriers as they tried to build those careers. I put forward a series of recommendations to address the issues and am hopeful that at least some of them will be implemented. 

KH: You hold a Professional Greyhound Trainer’s Licence and Greyhound Racing is the theme of your novel-in-progress. Tell us a little about the novel and why it’s so important to you to tell this story.  

LP: My novel is a work of literary fiction which tells the folk legend of a former miner who’s a big name at the ‘flapping’ or independent greyhound racing track of Easington. It’s set in the late 90s and written totally in the East Durham dialect. The opening 6,000 words won the Sid Chaplin Northern Writers’ Award 2023, which led to representation by my lovely agent Elise Middleton at YMU Literary, and on 13th November 2024 we sent it out on submission to editors. I can’t go into too much detail about the content at the moment, but it’s a celebration of community and family, as well as an exploration of post-industrial masculinity.

I’m incredibly nervous about the book going on submission because I’ve worked on it for almost six years, constantly experimenting, drafting and redrafting in an attempt to improve my craft. This novel also means a lot to me because I was born into the flapping community, but there’s only one track left in all of the UK now – Thornton in Scotland. The loss of our independent tracks has been devastating for our community, and I wanted to write a book which is worthy of the brilliant people who were part of it. I’ve had so much encouragement from people within my community, as well as my immediate family and organisations like New Writing North, and I really, really hope I can repay that by getting the book published.    

KH: You work closely with a variety of both regional and national groups to support emerging working-class writers and have been incredibly successful yourself to have received funding and support for several of your projects. What advice can you give to emerging writers about where to find support, both financially and creatively?

LP: That’s an incredibly kind thing to say; thank you. In terms of financial support, I’d advise emerging writers to keep an eye out for small pots of funding, often known as ‘seed commissions,’ which can give you the opportunity to try out an idea. If you get the funding and find that the idea doesn’t have legs, that’s absolutely fine, but you may find that the seed commission can be expanded into a bigger project, which may be eligible for a larger funding pot. A seed commission can also be a good opportunity for you to try out working in a new form (e.g. audio rather than flash fiction), or to test a collaboration with another writer or creative which may then bear fruit in a longer-form project. 

In terms of creative support, I’ve found X (which is still ‘Twitter’ in my mind) to be a really useful platform to connect with other writers. Networks formed through professional development opportunities or creative writing groups can also be incredibly helpful, as you’ll often find writers at a similar career stage to you. Emerging writers should also look towards their regional literature development agency as a means through which to find support, whether that’s through career advice, workshops or opportunities to meet other writers. I feel very, very lucky to live within the area which New Writing North covers, as I wouldn’t have a creative career without the brilliant team there. That said, all of the literature development agencies are doing brilliant work to support writers in a difficult climate. 

I also think it’s really important for emerging writers to know that there’s a huge disparity between the ways that organisations and institutions behave towards you when you’re commissioned or funded. Some organisations are absolutely brilliant, paying you on time and treating you like the professional that you are, while others pay you late and make you feel much less valued. I don’t say this to be negative, but because when I was starting out, I didn’t know about this disparity – so when I was treated unprofessionally, I thought it was ‘just me.’ It wasn’t until I spoke to other emerging creatives that I realised it’s sadly all too common to be undervalued and to go unpaid. 

It's a horrible situation for any writer, but particularly for one who is part of an underrepresented group. We struggle to feel like we belong to the creative industries at the best of times, and when our time and roles are undermined, it magnifies those feelings of impostor syndrome and low self-esteem which so many of us struggle with. It also puts working-class writers, many of whom are already in precarious financial positions, into real jeopardy with regards to paying the bills or covering living expenses. All of this has a knock-on effect on our mental health, our ability to create our best work and advance our careers – but often, we’re so grateful to be given any opportunity in a competitive industry that we don’t dare to say anything. I know I didn’t, for a long time.

Until I realised that by speaking up against unprofessional practices, I wasn’t just advocating for myself, but for other writers from under-represented backgrounds. If I’m unhappy with the way that I’m being treated while working under commission or receiving funding, I’ll now explain why, and work with the organisation not just to resolve the issue, but to ensure it doesn’t happen again. So my best advice for emerging writers who find themselves funded or commissioned is not to be so grateful for the work that you’ll put up with being treated badly. You – and your craft - are worth so, so much more than that.

KH: Finally, could you tell us about some of the regional writers who inspire you.

When I was sixteen, I read D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers, and it was like a match had been struck to light a fire inside of me that I didn’t know was ready to burn. It was the first time that I’d ever read a book which chronicled that fierce familial love which has underpinned my experience of working-class life, and did it in a way which was both poetic and prosaic. 

I saw something of my soul and my vocation in the first half of that novel, but I never caught another glimpse of it through A-Levels or all my seven years of University. While I studied modules on literature from the Renaissance until the present day, I was never set a text which showed the realities of working-class life that I could recognise. I’m absolutely certain that if I’d had a module which looked specifically at class, or even been made aware that such books existed, I would have found that spark before last year.

That fire was relit when I started reading the novels of Sid Chaplin. There’s such a mixture of strength and delicacy, of warmth and horror, in Chaplin’s writing, and his sense of voice is utterly remarkable. There’s a swagger and directness to the narration of The Day of the Sardine, and yet there’s a passage towards the end which is so raw and affecting that it gave me chills. I love how The Watchers and the Watched plays with the reader’s expectations of where the story will go, and I also love Chaplin’s short stories. They’re like sitting at the kitchen table, listening to an old friend tell a tale – and with oral storytelling being such an important part of my life and craft, that’s one of the highest compliments I could pay a writer.

Some of my other favourite regional books include Walter Greenwood’s Love on the Dole, as it’s one of the very few books that emotionally nails what it means to live below the poverty line, and you can tell that Greenwood was writing for his life. I’ve also enjoyed Jack Common’s Kiddar’s Luck and Thomas Callaghan’s A Lang Way to the Pawnshop, which remind me of stories I’ve heard growing up. I really admire Catherine Cookson’s The Gambling Man for how it plays with expectations of class and gender, and deeply appreciate how the dialect infuses TV adaptations of Cookson’s works. 

In terms of contemporary regional writers, I admire Benjamin Myers, whose novel Pig Iron made me realise that it was possible to tell stories in County Durham dialect. I also loved his book Cuddy not only for its stylistic ambition, but for the warmth and love which underpinned the whole work. I also love Kit de Waal’s beautiful, lucid, pinpoint-accurate prose, and deeply admire her for everything that she has done to help me and other working-class writers to develop. When Kit selected my memoir essay for publication in Common People, she set in motion a chain of events which has led to the development of my creative career, and I’d love to be able to one day pay that forward for other working-class writers.

About the interviewer
Kathy Hoyle’s work is published in literary magazines such as Northern Gravy, The Forge, Lunate, Emerge Literary Journal, New Flash Fiction Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and Fictive Dream. She has won a variety of competitions including The Bath Flash Fiction Award, The Hammond House Origins Competition and The Retreat West Flash Fiction Competition. She was recently longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions and The Pushcart Prize. She is currently studying for a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester.

Review by Kathleen Bell of "The Iliad" by Homer, trans. Emily Wilson

Some months ago, when I was half-way through Emily Wilson’s new translation of The Iliad, I had to set it aside. This is not a criticism of her work but a tribute to its effectiveness. The accumulated violence and grief appalled me as it had never done before. I was sharply aware of the individuality of so many dying men, of the agony they suffered and the anguish their families would endure. I might attribute this in part to the accumulation of contemporary violence brought to our daily attention via TV, computers and smartphones, but I do not believe any previous translation would have had the immediacy that Wilson’s iambic pentameters offer.

When I first read Homer, it was in E.V . Rieu’s prose translation published by Penguin – a decent and accessible enough account. But I was not particularly moved by his account of the prince Asius, whose death is one of many recorded in Book 12: "He was a fool. He was not destined to evade his evil fate and drive back his chariot and pair in triumph from the ships to windy Ilium. In the spear of the sublime Idomeneus, Deucalion’s son, abominable doom was waiting to engulf him."

By contrast, Wilson offers: 

           Poor fool! He was not destined to escape
           his own black doom or ever leave the ships
           or ride back home again to windy Troy,
           proud of his horses and his chariot.
           The spear of splendid Idomeneus,
           Deucalion’s fine son, would bring him down
           and shadow him with death that dims men’s names.

The combination of the metre with clear language drew me far closer to the battle than Rieu managed. Through instances like this – and often more painful and much gorier – Homer takes us close to the details of war. Meanwhile the warriors exult in killing, crave loot as proof of merit, and long for a victory which will involve massacre, wholesale destruction and the enslavement of those few allowed to survive.

At times, as when the gods decide to involve themselves in battle or quarrel over the conduct of the war, The Iliad can seem very distant from our own time – until suddenly a river which is also a god enters the battle and becomes a great flood with effects familiar from reports of current ecological disasters. Meanwhile the macho boasting and posturing of the warriors who often take women as trophies has uncomfortable echoes today. Yet there are moments when a warrior might recognise and almost understand the horror in which he is involved, In Book 18, mourning the death of the man he loves most, Achilles says to his mother:

           If only conflict were eliminated
           from gods and human beings! I wish anger
           did not exist. Even the wisest people
           are roused to rage, which trickles into you
           sweeter than honey, and inside your body
           it swells like smoke …

Inevitably in a translation this long – the book with introduction and notes runs to 750 pages – there are occasional phrases and words which jar slightly. However, I have never read a translation of The Iliad that gripped and moved me so much. I was also delighted by the insights offered in Emily Wilson’s introduction and wished I had found something as clear and illuminating as this when, as an undergraduate, I studied Book 1 of the Iliad for one of my first-year exams.

About the reviewer
Kathleen Bell’s most recent poetry collections are the chapbook Do you know how kind I am? from Leafe Press and the collection Disappearances published by Shoestring (both 2021). She is currently preparing a manuscript that might be another collection while continuing to research and write poems about the engineer James Watt and his times. 

Review by Mike O'Driscoll of "The Study of Sleep and Other Stories" by Brian Howell

What a pleasant surprise to find that Brian Howell is still writing and publishing fiction. I first came across him years ago in UK literary journal Panurge, and he had at least one story in The 3rd Alternative. We both appeared in Nicholas Royle’s two-volume anthology Darklands, as well as in a best of Elastic Press anthology. That story, ‘The Tower,’ was the last time I encountered his fiction. His latest collection is a timely reminder of just how unique and obsessive—in a good way—a writer he is.

The title story, a novella, is the intricate and elliptical four-part portrait of Martin, a performance artist and aspiring writer, told from the perspective of Philip, a childhood friend, Martin himself, and Lenka, the latter’s former wife, but filtered through the narrative perspective of Julie, Philip’s wife, and herself possibly a former lover of Martin’s. The competing stories, as in Kurosawa’s film, Rashomon, both overlap and contradict each other, so that our take on Martin remains ephemeral and incomplete. This is the case even in his own narrative, where seven photographs of his abused lover, Chiara, at different stages of her life, also seem to offer an oblique commentary on his previous relationship with Lenka, which story unfolds in the novel’s third section, ‘The Decay,’ and which is itself Julie’s written interpretation of their marriage. In other hands, such intertextuality might appear an exercise in cold formalism, but Howell never loses sight of his characters, and in particular of their foibles. It’s the desire to learn the truth behind their yearnings and vanities that keeps us enthralled.

The intertextual play between the The Study of Sleep’s four parts is echoed in the remaining five tales, all of which, in their preoccupation with visual art—in particular the paintings of Vermeer, but also with cinema and the means of visual representation—seem to be engaged in a dialogue with each other. Some of them, particularly ‘The Vanishing Point,’ share the same unsettling mood as Martin’s self narrated tale in the title novella, and like it, lean more toward the macabre. Others—‘The Window’ and ‘New York Movie’—explore the extent to which art suffuses memory, how what we remember of specific works not only colours our memories, but shapes the narratives we create about our own lives. The final story, ‘The Counterfeit Smile,’ tells of Vermeer’s life, and of his search for the elusive face that has haunted him throughout his life, and of how it came to appear in one of his most famous works, ‘The Music Lesson.’ Not only is the story full of fascinating technical and biographical detail, but it offers a powerful and heartfelt representation of the artist’s motivations and desires. Just as Marquand, the protagonist of ‘Dutch Interior,’ finds himself falling into the rooms depicted in a mysterious viewing box, Howell’s elegant prose pulls us deep into the worlds of his characters and their obsessions.

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 Sally Shaw of "A Physical Education" by Jonathan Taylor

A Physical Education: On Bullying, Discipline & Other Lessons is a book of memoir, interwoven with literary, film, drama and social sciences, by Jonathan Taylor, published in 2024 by Goldsmiths Press. 

When I started reading this book I wasn’t sure what to expect or even if I would be able to fully understand what Jonathan Taylor is discussing. As I read on and paused to consider what had been written I discovered how literature has tried to record or unveil bullying, how it has the power to aid individuals that are being bullied, and also Taylor’s skill in his examination of this subject. His writing enabled me to consider the many forms and complexities of bullying and bullies. Taylor’s bravery in sharing his at times harrowing experiences of being bullied will, I’m sure, enable others to identify bullying either of themselves or others and, in doing so, reduce it in educational and work settings, or deal with it. 

By providing literary examples, the book exposes, in a non-threatening way, the many different forms of bullying within education. For example, Taylor discusses the example of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, in relation to issues of classroom democracy, after he has been beaten down by the other children for standing up for the rights of a character in a drama the class are watching: "The problem, of course, with apparently individualistic behaviour is that it doesn’t come from nowhere. Individualism is never simply itself. Rather, it is made - and often made for, rather than by - the pupil or pupils at the centre of it. In The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, the so-called individualism of the 'Brodie set' is obviously made, in part, by Miss Brodie herself, forged by her 'as the leader of the set … as Roman matron.' 'I am putting old heads on your young shoulders,' she declares, when her favourites are eleven. 'I would make you the crème de la crème.' Later, she proclaims: 'You are mine … of my stamp and cut.' Miss Brodie’s stamp and cut are what 'set them apart' from the other pupils, and ultimately, 'it was impossible to escape from the Brodie set because they were the Brodie set in the eyes of the school.' This puts them in an 'enviable’ position,' such that 'everyone thought the Brodie set had more fun than anyone else.' All too often, though, being set apart in 'the eyes of the school' is much less fun, more a matter of ostracism than envy." I think that most people can relate to a drama, novel or film and for me this book has made me aware that it is a legitimate form of support for people affected by bullying.

I can only say what I discovered by reading this book. One thing is that it can sometimes take years to realise bullying has been, or is, taking place. Reading this book I did think about my past and present. I knew I was bullied by teachers, work colleagues, and I have also started to uncover bullying from individuals close to me. And I have found the book contains further reading to enable me to explore this in greater depth. In fact, as I read on, I started to acknowledge that I think I could have been a bully at times in my earlier life, but I’m unable to recall the details. Taylor examines how the bullied have the potential to become the bully. I happened to watch the film The Joker (2019), starring Joaquin Phoenix, an extremely dark and disturbing film, that to me demonstrated a possible consequence of when the bullied become the bully. As Taylor discusses, the very term "bullying" is almost impossible to define, as it can range from teasing to domestic abuse and more. 

This book is worth reading by everybody as it is relatable to all areas of society and may lead to readers identifying bullying, so enabling greater awareness and understanding. There may not be one single method of stamping out bullying, but this book shows that greater understanding can reduce the risks for future generations. The more we can talk about it, reduce the shame, the more people will be helped.  

About the reviewer
Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson. She has short stories and poetry published in various online publications including The Ink Pantry, AnotherNorth, Roi Faineant Press. 
Sally lives in the countryside. 

You can read more about A Physical Education on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by James Nash of "Remembering" by Julie Gardner

This is a tender and moving collection celebrating and memorialising two lives, the poet’s mother and her own husband, but succeeding, as all good poetry does, in finding universal truths about our common humanity and shared experience of loss.

Deftly constructing a history for her mother who died at forty-seven, and recording the emptiness after her husband’s death, these are quiet but truthful poems that bind us into the ordinary, but somehow extraordinary, emotional textures of human lives, and show us how we survive in the aftermath of tragedy.

This is from ‘Moving On’:

          After the van had gone
          I mopped the kitchen floor
          then went upstairs, stood awhile,
          as empty as the house itself.

Julie Gardener is a fine poet, content to let her readers ‘join up the dots’ if you like, but also happy to acknowledge the influence of other poets like Grace Nichols and Jacob Polley. She is playful in terms of form in ‘Rondo,’ riffing on nursery rhyme (a motif which appears in several of these poems), but ultimately what we have in this fine collection is a poet using simple and gracefully chosen words to explore the territory of memory and grief. The almost Wordsworthian reliance on everyday language gives these poems an emotional reach and power that is refreshing and unusual.

This is from ‘For Arthur’:

          Widow sounds so sad and slow
          and I am neither, though I will
          forever wish you here.

The photograph on the front cover of the poet’s mother is blurred; the poems inside reclaim the misty lives of those who have gone before, mother and husband, and prove again and again that art can construct great memorials. The gift of this brilliant collection is that it allows us to connect to our own loss and mourning, our own ‘remembering’ if you like.

About the reviewer
James Nash is a poet based in Leeds. He often writes in the sonnet form and his next collection, Notes of Your Music, will be published by Valley Press.

Review by Tracey Foster of "The Gallows Pole" by Benjamin Myers

Much has been written about the pros and cons of using slang in fiction. It's a difficult act to pull off, if your audience cannot understand or interpret the meaning behind the text. I had also heard about the strange phenomenon of how the brain can interpret written phrases even when the key vowels are removed, an exercise that is fun to do, but not something I would attempt to do in fiction. These doubts were in my mind as I started Myers's book The Gallows Pole. His protagonist and narrator speaks directly to us in Yorkshire dialect, written as heard and without punctuation. The first few words were hard to transcribe, but then it was like a lightbulb had gone on and I could suddenly, fluently read the strange words: "In the fyres of the forges in the Black Cuntry was where I first herd tell of coinin where I learnit a little bout chippin and clippin swimmers where I learnit bout the yeller trade and the work of them men that darest do."

Myers delves into the true history of the Cragg Vale Coiners, led by David Hartley, a notorious rebel who enlisted a gang of weavers and land workers to clip coins and defraud the Crown. An offence punishable by death, they worked in secret and avoided detection because of their remote settings in the Yorkshire hills. Using historical facts and court transcripts he weaves a narrative about a group that unleashes a reign of menace onto the local communities, who are caught up in their practices. The events that lead up to the capture and resultant hanging of the gang leaders is fast paced and gripping and involves a cat-and-mouse chase with an excise man and the law.

Dark and gritty, Myers's novel uses a wealth of guttural language to convey the destitution and desperation that led to the necessity for an illegal trade. Clipping real coins and shaving off small particles, they would melt down and repress the metal to create forgeries, passing them off in trade within the local communities: "The night came in like a bruise of purple and blues and then finally griped so tight that the sky was black and broken by the weight of time pressing upon it. Dawn would melt the night in fading yellows but for now the sun seemed like an impossibility; a dead concept. A foreign country."

Myers's skill for evoking place with pathos and descriptions of the dark vales led him to be awarded the Roger Deakin Prize in 2017 for writing about "natural history, landscape and environment." It also secured the Walter Scott prize in 2018, leading to a TV adaptation by the director Shane Meadows. Critics described the book as "a roaring furnace of a novel." The author's childhood in suburb of Durham was uneventful but allowed him the freedom to explore and, as he described, he "spent a lot of time climbing up trees or trespassing on roofs." This familiarity with nature seeps through the novel as his excise man roams the valleys in the dark, catching whispers from taverns and firelight from hidden forges. He keeps his narrative in tune with the earth, that eventually gives up its secrets: "Autumn arrived like a burning ghost ship on the landscape’s tide to set the land alight. The fires of the trees’ turning spread far across the flanks and the ravens took flight to the highest climes as leaves fell like flung bodies. September had long slipped away. It was a charred thing now. Gone."

Myers is no stranger to beautiful prose: his poetry collection Heathcliff Adrift from 2014 also used the moors to ground human emotions, allowing them to resonate with our earthy instincts:

To the sky

we ran
and fell
the heather our mattress
the worms our witness –

young lungs burning.
Wet-backed,
soil soaked
mulch-coddled, copper puddled.
Dirt giggled and dizzy.

Fists of earth
raised, thrown –
fecund confetti
for a future union.
The rustling of life.

Several passages of The Gallows Pole could also be read like poetry, finding a turn of phrase to turn the ear. I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical fiction but also relishes beautiful prose and is loath to sacrifice one to suit the other. Myers’s visceral novel pays due homage to the trope of dark novels from God’s own country. 

About the reviewer
Tracey Foster started off in a long career as an Art and Design teacher but wanted to refocus her creative energies into writing poetry and prose. After helping others find inspiration in the world around us, she took an MA course in Creative Writing at Leicester University and has not looked back. She finds inspiration in the past and the events that shape us. Previous work has been published by Comma Press, Ayaskala, Alternateroute, Fish Barrel Review, Haiku Foundation, Mausoleum Press, Bus Poetry Magazine, Wayward Literature, The Arts Council and she writes on her own blog site  The Small Sublime found here.

Review by Debasish Lahiri of "Endless Present: Selected Articles, Reviews and Dispatches, 2010-23" by Rory Waterman

Criticism, like poetry, cannot be written at arm’s length. At least not the best. The critic has to suffer the imperilment of the artist: enjoy a brief triumph, endure a trudge through morass. Not full of platitudes, yet not bereft of sympathy either, the critic must realise that the poet’s plod can become a flight at the turnpike of the next sentence, or a flight can slam into a ‘concrete’ end, just as easily. Rarely do critics keep the faith with poets, all the way. Nor do they often take a step back to roll their eyes and have a good laugh, about poetry and attempts at the ‘poetic.’ 

By contrast, Rory Waterman does take a step back, and he also keeps the faith. An accomplished and distinct voice in poetry himself, Waterman takes to criticism with the same honesty, courage and an eye for the original and powerful that characterises much of his own work. 

Endless Present is Waterman’s selection from fourteen years of engagement with the craft and art of poetry. One should consider the introduction to the collection as the sixty-eighth essay in it. It moors his art of reading and criticism in the vicissitude of his life, the vagaries of time, the lucky breaks and occasional epiphanies of growing up. Waterman shies away from being the omnipotent absence in his criticism. Rather, he puts himself right in harm’s way as a poet and reader while writing about the poetry of others. In a way his introduction chimes, uncannily, with the text of the eulogy delivered at his father’s funeral (later published in the PN Review). 

Waterman emerges as someone who is prepared to wrangle with his own choices and preferences, to be refreshingly not sure, and to let it all play out, in public, in his reviews and longer essays. An expanse of writing that has Philip Larkin and Daljit Nagra, the late 1950s and the second decade of the new millennium as its landmarks of space and time, Waterman’s collected criticism is endlessly present. It offers a view of where he sits (when critical writing about poetry has elsewhere become an anonymous exercise in intellectual generalisation) and writes words neither salaried, nor pensioned. 

About the reviewer
Debasish Lahiri is an internationally acclaimed poet. He has published eight collections of poetry, the most recent being Legion of Lost Letters (Black Spring Press, 2023). Lahiri is the recipient of the Prix du Merite, Naji Naaman Literary Prize 2019.

Review by Peter Raynard of "After the Rites and Sandwiches" by Kathy Pimlott

 

Kathy Pimlott’s heart-breaking pamphlet, After the Rites and Sandwiches, portrays the impact of her husband’s sudden death from falling down the stairs of their home. In the aftermath, the reaction and readjustment is immediate and ever-present.

In an early poem, "No shock advised," short, punchy lines put you under no illusion as to the enormity of the event.

          It’s cruel work
         To kneel down
         and hunch over
         a so-familiar body at the foot of the stairs

But even then, when the defibrillator says, "no shock advised" and it’s apparent that there is nothing to be done, "still the sweet mad hopeful brain insists it will be okay."

The pamphlet is both a portrayal of grief and biography of a marriage. Tears become the episodic outpouring of emotion, almost carrying the weight of a seizure: "It’s impossible to foretell what will provoke tears, the sort that well up and tip over while you hold onto the kitchen sink waiting for them to subside."

Grief is also full of surprises, one of which is guilt: 

         Forgive me, I’ve laughed,
         glided lightly round garden centres, sipped fizzy wine
         with friends, sorted out edge pieces of puzzles.

Grief may not have feathers, but it does have a long tail; for although her husband is gone his presence remains, in objects, memories, as well as his ashes, and knowing what to do with them. In "Death Admin I," "Your demise constitutes a quarter off council tax, removal of a vote you seldom cast." Then in "Death Admin II," when collecting his ashes, 

        It shouldn’t be a surprise, the weight, the quantity.
        Not knowing what to expect, I take a pink rucksack, 
        carry you again, all down Holborn on my back.

Pimlott beautifully crafts the poems, with a matter-of-factness laced with incisive metaphors, which detract from the possibility of being overly maudlin. 

There is also dark humour as she almost parodies self-help, in titles such as "How to be A Widow," "Death Admin I & II," and in the final poem, "Coda: Tips on avoiding the offered consolations of Religion and Therapy": "If it’s Religion, it’ll spot you, even when you’re crouched low behind the credenza," or: "Therapy requires acuter acting skills. Better pretend you’re a dog (a Dalmatian, the least intellectual)." Also in the poem, "What I do with you now you’re dead," Pimlott writes: "in a laughing panic, [I] dumped a quarter of your ashes and ran away, the illicit thrill exactly what you would have wanted."

After the Rites and Sandwiches is a stunning biography of a marriage and its aftershock, that will stay in the reader’s memory long after the book is laid to rest.

About the reviewer

Peter Raynard is an independent researcher, poet and editor of Proletarian Poetry. His three books of poetry are: Precarious (Smokestack, 2018), The Combination: a poetic coupling of the Communist Manifesto (Culture Matters,2018), Manland (Nine Arches Press, 2022). A debut pamphlet (a heroic crown of sonnets), The Harlot and the Rake: poems after William Hogarth, was published by Culture Matters in September 2024.

You can read more about After the Rites and Sandwiches by Kathy Pimlott on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Christine Hammond of "Citizen Poet" by Eavan Boland

Last week, Trinity College Dublin announced plans to re-name its main library after the highly acclaimed Irish poet, Eavan Boland. Consequently, it will be the first building on Trinity’s city centre campus to be named after a woman. This is a fitting tribute to a pioneer in literary feminism, whose relentless pursuit to revolutionise poetry would go on to provide countless opportunities for previously unheard women’s voices. 

This re-naming comes the month following publication of Citizen Poet (Carcanet). This collection of new and selected essays reveals the extraordinary commitment to writing Boland undertook over decades to argue the case about the artistic and cultural tradition of Irish poetry. Specifically, why it rendered women "the subject, rather than the object of the poem." Exposing the inherent bias and shortcomings of prior structures and formats, she showed how the literary culture, role and existence of poets, as well as the poetry itself, could not facilitate women who wanted to give expression to their everyday lives and experiences: "The Poet’s vocation – or, more precisely, the historical construction put upon it - is one of the single most problematic areas for any woman who comes to the craft. Not only has it been defined by a tradition  which could never foresee her, but it is construed by men about men, in ways which are poignant, compelling and exclusive" (from "In Search of a Language"). 

Boland writes: "I was still short of the exact words, the accurate perceptions. I still talked at night and listened with real excitement. And yet I was beginning to feel oddly stranded. Something was obstructing me, throwing me off course. I was between a poem – there, at home on the tablecloth – and the idea of the poet. I could control the poem, even though it was with half-learned and hand-to-mouth techniques. I could listen for, and understand, the idea of the poet I picked up at night in the conversations I heard around me, But the space between them filled me with an odd malaise. Something about it seemed almost to have the force of an exclusion order" (from "Turning Away"). It is almost impossible to equate with today’s Ireland the impenetrable landscape these compelling essays portray. We take for granted that women now have the intellectual freedom to write and publish poetry but for that, let us never forget the immeasurable debt of gratitude we owe to Eavan Boland.

About the reviewer 
Christine Hammond began writing poetry whilst studying English Literature at Queen’s University, Belfast. Her early poems were published in The Gown (QUB) and Women’s News where, as one of the original members she also wrote Arts Reviews and had work published in Spare Rib. She returned to writing after a long absence and her poetry has been featured in a variety of anthologies including The Poet’s Place and Movement (Poetry in Motion – The Community Arts Partnership), The Sea (Rebel Poetry Ireland), all four editions of Washing Windows and Her Other Language (Arlen House) and literary journal The Honest Ulsterman. She has also been a reader at Purely Poetry - Open Mic Night, Belfast.

Review by Geoff Sawers of "Pain Sections" by Paul Ilechko

Ilechko's first chapbook, Bartok in Winter (Flutter Press, 2018) was, as one might expect from the title, taut and spare with few words wasted; a book of clean lines and compressed, even drilled, language. Pain Sections is looser, more expansive – the larger paper format suiting the frequent use of very long lines – but continues the poet's searching investigation into the nature of the body as an unreliable medium, as both cage and vessel. A series of unspecified medical procedures are undergone; perhaps inevitably there is a yearning to escape at times, moments of panic, of surreal reverie, of frailty and fear. A poem that starts "A body drenched in joy / thicketed / and bruised / overwhelmed with pollen" ends with the lines "the iron-tasting leaves that still / eclipse / the lamp-lit room" ("Marrow of Purity"). If it was important for the reader to know the nature of these investigations, presumably we would have been told. But since that information is withheld it gives a weird, dislocated feel that I suspect is deliberate, since the very unreliability of the interfaces between mind and body seem to be the crucial site of much of the work's focus. Cancer is mentioned, but that appears itself to be a metaphor for something else.

At this point in the book there seems little escape: "and I wonder if / inside of each of us / there is only pulp / as inside each other / we liquefy ..." we read a few pages later ("Bruising"). The body is as tender as fruit; the natural world is a constant metaphor, with the erosion of coastlines mimicking the potential disintegration of a human body. But soon the possibilities of communication, especially in "Breath as Wave and Breath as Particle," begin to offer a way out of this stifling trap. At times we find what may be whispered lovers' dialogues, though the voices are unspecified and unsettling. Just as Bartok in Winter frequently switched voices within one poem, this book expands upon that technique and ends with a lengthy dialogue poem. If I have a real criticism to make it comes at this point as this fourteen-page dialogue, which seems to want and perhaps be able to resolve the tensions set up earlier in the book, is at times abstract or unfocussed. The most overused word – "leakage" – is still important however as it comes to emphasise the many unsoundnesses of the body. Even though this dialogue section contains memorable lines ("as light that flows through the cracks of our investment / I sold my waters for profit / I sold my light for kicks") it slips at one or two moments into bathos and could do with further careful editing.

Nevertheless, Ilechko's unflinching attention to detail is at times startling; little curls of the romantic or lyrical never distract from his serious purpose. Small touches of very dark humour come through too at times. Looking back once more at his earlier book the themes were all there, but the language was archer, more stylised. References to various artists – Ryman, Borges, Hopper – seemed unnecessary when, in the latter two cases at least, their influence was quite plain to see. In Pain Sections, Ilechko's voice is much more assured, biting without being sarcastic, and unafraid to tackle the most difficult of themes.

About the reviewer

Geoff Sawers (he, him) is the author of several books including a collection of linked short stories, Friends of Friends (Diehard, 2024). He is a lone parent of a disabled child and lives in Reading, UK. You can read a review of Friends of Friends on Everybody's Reviewing here. 

Review by Rennie Parker of "Maps of Imaginary Towns" by SJ Bradley

I wanted to review this book because I’m particularly interested in new work which comes from my ‘home district’ in West Yorkshire. The author has evidently worked in Leeds for a time, because one of the districts is mentioned by name, and some of the cityscapes are oddly familiar. In fact the location described in her standout story ‘Discrepancy Matrix’ sounds / looks pretty much like where I grew up, and it’s a pleasure to read how the accuracy and empathy depicted throughout is at once both beautiful and empowering. 

And that’s the thing about this collection; no matter how clueless or downtrodden her citizens may be, there is always someone, somewhere or something which makes the struggle worthwhile. These characters are not being written about from the outside: they are sat along with, interacted with, and lived through. Take, for instance, the hapless council workers in ‘The Gordon Trask,’ who are having their premises and jobs wrestled away from them by costcutting bureaucrats. Everyone knows that the game is up, but they hang in there grimly until the end because they fundamentally believe in what they are doing, with ‘all of it together and nothing lost, and equipment staying where you had left it.’ Now, as someone who’s had jobs similar to the one in the story, I can tell you it is so believable and on-point that it could have been me in the office.

Bradley’s clarity of style and naturalistic dialogue hides a substantial talent in the ‘less is more’ department. She hits on the exact word for describing how a neglected child takes an apple core from a bin -  the picture is completely there in the word ‘draw,’ from the slowness, the concentration and the delicate picking motion. After all, you wouldn’t want your apple to touch the bin on its way out. Meanwhile, the entire background to Tan’s life in ‘The Stonechat’ is indicated with an admirable brevity just by mentioning his robes, the name of his former cult leader and his agricultural work. We know, by the end of three short paragraphs, that he was enticed away from a shopping centre when he was very young, but this information is delivered casually in passing, and from his point of view, as though yes this is what happens to people round here. On the surface, this lost / found young man might seem vague and unprepossessing -  but at the end of three pages I was rooting for him as he attempts to rescue a live bird being used as a prize on a fairground stall. 

The author’s vision of the near future is only a continuation of the broken-down present, according to this collection. No, it’s not a world of whizzy gadgets, flying cars and unlimited media - it’s a grungey land of unwilling house shares, allotment co-operatives and low tech, definitely post-industrial and without any competent system in charge. I expect she’s right. At times, stories might have been continued past their natural closure - ‘The Stonechat’ mentioned above being a case of this, although I can see why the lower-key ending would fit alongside others in the same collection. 

And Bradley is very good indeed when hinting at darker overtones without going all out to depress the reader. For instance, domestic violence and coercion lies behind ‘Dance Class,’ but the protagonist and her daughter find redemption and care through the escape mechanism she initiates for herself. The focus is ultimately on the happiness of the child, who can at last run free in the garden. The same theme runs through ‘Harmony Grows,’ where a seemingly impossible situation for Harmony’s Mum becomes more bearable as she discovers her wider network and reaches a point of transformation by the end. In ‘Coming Attractions,’ the would-be actor runs the risk of being ground down by his job at Cineworld, with the claustrophobic presence of his fast-tracked partner Alan being part of the problem. But no, the fella wins out, packing his bags at last and heading for uncertain lodgings in London. He’s going somewhere, unlike the similarly trapped northerner Billy Liar, who never actually leaves. Bradley gives us hope under the desperate lives. It is possible, no matter where you come from.

About the reviewer
Rennie Parker is a poet living in the East Midlands, and she is mostly published by Shoestring Press. Her latest collection Balloons and Stripey Trousers, a nightmare journey into the toxic workplace, came out earlier this year. She works in FE and blogs occasionally here. She is also on Twitter/X and Bluesky.

You can read a review of Balloons and Stripey Trousers on Everybody's Reviewing here. 

Review by John Goodby of "Friends of Friends" by Geoff Sawers

Friends of Friends is a series of connected, overlapping, parallel and divergent tales. These are narrative fragments - though without the bittiness that might imply. They range from single sentence flash-fictions to three or four page short stories. Each has its own coherence and narrative logic. Occasionally, two or three are related to each other in sequence. Usually, the linkages are more fugitive. A number of named characters re-appear – 'Sandra' and 'Nush' are in two tales, 'Nicky' in three, 'Mabel' in four, and so on. Recurring themes range from trivial to sublime: rain, buses (or forms of public transport), libraries, apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic landscapes. Scenarios repeat themselves, too; perhaps the most persistent is that of people who were separated in early adulthood, meeting up in middle-age, and trying to deal with the odd mixture of knowing and not-knowing, intimacy and distance, which colours and shapes such encounters ('The clutch bag' is one example). Ours is the age of Friends Reunited, Facebook, social media. This is now a common experience; we have become used to it, but it is relatively new and unprecedented, and no writer, as far as I know, has responded to it as variously or as imaginatively as Sawers. 

Friends of Friends is not set in the present; it is not 'set,' in any fixed sense, anywhere. In historical terms it jumps about, particularly at the outset, with tales in eighteenth- or nineteenth-century settings ('The Ticket' is explicitly set 'in 1859'), recounted in vaguely appropriate pastiche styles, as in 'Constance,' 'Green Eyes,' or 'Home from China'; socially, we could be dealing with countesses or beggars; territorially we might be in MittelEuropa, Spain, the USA, although it is predominantly England. The pastiche is a little contrived, deliberately it seems to me, because Sawers is concerned at all times to prevent us skimming, slipping into the complacency induced by naturalistic styles. In generic terms Friends of Friends is more wide-ranging; the first tale, 'The tree half in flames,' takes its title from the episode of a half-burning, half-verdant bush in The Mabinogion, there are Märchen elements in 'City Air,' and Irish legend in 'Yoss and Finn,' a brief, wittily-told encounter with the Salmon of Wisdom, while 'The Translators' reads like a parable by Zbigniew Herbert. 

Like the styles, the generic mix is often unstable; the nineteenth-century mode of 'City Air,' for example, has a counterfactual history in the form of an invasion of Britain by Russia and France, and 'The Ticket,' in a quasi-SciFi aside, tells of colliding galaxies. 

As all this may suggest, the liberties taken with fiction verge on poetry. Prose poetry in English, as many critics have observed, can tend towards pawky charm and rather voulu symbolism. Sawers's semi-disjunctive framework and disconnective practices mitigate against these dangers. The tales are often dreamlike, and hardly ever explicit - dénouments are partial or ambiguous, but always precise. The temptation is to use adjectives like 'Borghesian' or 'magic realist' at this point. But for one thing, so many stories are rooted in specific British realities: a student union building, a number 17 bus, Oxford Road. For another, the pieces often break into 'real' poetry; there are moments of genuine metaphorical power and originality, as in the close of 'In Blue': 'An electric river runs through her and it circles us now like a halo around the moon on a frosty night, and an odd delight begins to burn in my fingertips. I am caves of ice, I am the sun cracking ice in mid-afternoon, I am the jostling, lacerating glassy plates pressing up against the lock gates. Rivers never reach the sea. You haven’t heard me before.' 

Even the titles of the tales can be poems in themselves: 'After you die, you will never have loved me.' Sawers is a poet, too, in his ability to quickly conjure up mood and atmosphere, but lest this seem an over-Romantic definition, he is alert to the weight of words in a contemporary, experimental way. It's no coincidence that the opening sentence has mayflies 'sawing in the air,’ in a play on his own name, or that we find Sandra waking up to find herself 'a pear. Maybe a bear. She felt comfy in her new pelt ... she didn't miss having a waistline.' The humour of the waistline line is evident throughout; Sawers is a gifted comic writer when he wants to be. It is a sign that Sawers is a genuine writer, not a re-treader of old ground. This doesn't apply simply to mainstream fiction, but to modernism; a woman who wakes up and finds herself a pear is clearly a descendant of Gregor Samsa, but her metamorphosis does not lead to the angst and anguish in Kafka.

Angst and anguish there is, however, as in any genuine art, but it's of what we used to call the postmodern variety. This is a term that was overused for a long time. But it's wholly applicable to Friends of Friends, which ticks all the boxes; along with stylistic pastiche, generic hybridity, ontological uncertainty and linguistic self-consciousness, we get explicit finger-pointing, as when a 'panning camera comes to rest' on a discussion at a nineteenth-century dinner-table. The criticism of such writing was often that it was heartlessly playful. But that isn't the case here. Despite its fragmentariness, Friends of Friends has real heft: the whole is more than the sum of its brilliant parts. Large issues are raised, subtly yet powerfully, occasionally outcropping as questions - 'How can we resist the marketisation of ourselves?' – but usually by implication. At its heart is that old universal, namely a keen awareness of the brevity of life, and hence the urgency to connect, create,  be aware of others and other life-forms. Mayflies, traditional emblems of the brevity of life, 'swarm in the morning' in the opening story and return to 'swarm in the evening' in the penultimate story. The very final tale, a coda (we have passed through the wood to a mythic sea-shore), is another reverberating miniature which punches many times above its weight, an enigma I won't ruin, except to say it finds the words that 'don't mean anything' but are nevertheless, 'a path, a boardwalk,' for its readers.

About the reviewer
John Goodby is a poet and critic, and Professor of Art and Culture at Sheffield Hallam University. His new biography of Dylan Thomas, co-authored with Chris Wigginton, has just been published by Reaktion Books. 

Review by Rachael Clyne of “Identified Flying Objects” by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs

The poet draws on the prophet Ezekiel to help him make sense of his situation, having been immobilised by a broken leg. He searches both himself and society for understanding. Ezekiel is best known for his wild visions, like the valley of "Dem Bones" resurrecting themselves and a possible Alien landing (as in the title poem). Written during the period of the Israelites’ captivity in Babylon, Ezekiel blamed their plight on corruption and lack of faith in God. Not one to mince words, he railed against the people and their leaders. 

Bartholomew-Biggs uses quotations from Ezekiel to create contemporary narratives. He too comments on corruption and politics, with echoes of Eliot in his scenes set in London. "Maiden Speech" draws on Ezekiel’s admonishment of the ruling factions of his era. "Internal Exile," "Migrant" and "Bitter Almonds" suggest both refugee experiences and also illness as a form of exile. Images of scorpions and almonds evoke biblical and Middle Eastern origins. "Bitter Almonds" is set in English lanes and churchyards and opens with: "He didn’t know they grew in England." The almonds, while found by a church, are seen as malign, foreign and not to be touched.

The poet explores many routes for answers: flat earth theory, social injustice, refugees and  climate collapse. "Forthcoming Events" describes how pessimistic prophecies are repeatedly ignored and influencers opt for self-preservation, rather than taking unpopular measures that could avoid catastrophe: "We arrive where we have never been / and find ourselves still there."

I find his collection skilfully written in a spirit of human enquiry, which never strays into didactics. I enjoyed its range and wit. I know Michael as the editor of London Grip, an online journal that is generous in its support for poets and am glad to be introduced to him as a poet.

About the Reviewer
Rachael Clyne is a retired psychotherapist who also published self-help books. In her youth, she was a professional stage and television actor. In later life she began developing her poetry and has since been widely published in journals and anthologies. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams 2014), concerns our broken connection with nature. Her pamphlet, Girl Golem (4word.org) explores her Jewish migrant heritage, and, in her latest collection, You’ll Never Be Anyone Else (Seren Books 2023), she expands on themes of identity to include childhood heritage, relationships and LGBTQ+.

You can read more about Identified Flying Objects by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Jane Ramsden of "Untangling the Webs" by Joy Pearson

There could not be a more perfect title for Joy Pearson's debut novel than Untangling the Webs, as a sign of what the reader can look forward to.

The spider's spinning ability has long been linked with our weaving, knotwork and net-making history and so, by extension, with creation myths and story-telling, because they all weave their own artistic world. Joy Pearson exemplifies this analogy through the skilfully woven, multi-stranded tale of her characters' inter-connected relationships and dilemmas, with a mystery at its heart. 

Symbolically, spiders and their webs exhibit many traits, including resourcefulness, cunning, intrigue and deceit; but also fortune, feminine patience and wisdom. It's all in here. This is a novel that extols the value of strongly-wrought (particularly feminine and feline) friendships, and pair-bonding in all its partnered and familial forms, but there are also less pleasant "trickster" characters too. As in African folkloric "spider tales," their inclusion can teach a moral lesson.

The romantic entanglements range from blossoming, flourishing, kind, caring and sexual love to splits, misunderstandings, naivety, downright deception (including "bits on the side"!), a smattering of fetishism, callousness and even brutality, and the sadness of absence, loneliness and loss. Pearson has mastered the art of reader engagement by creating not just a convoluted plot and sub-plots, but characters you care about and can identify with. You want to know what will happen to them next and ultimately (I couldn't guess!). This is the author as the spinner and weaver of destiny. The novel is a literary dreamcatcher, the symbol styled on a spider's web. 

Did I mention there are mysteries in this book? I especially like how seemingly small details are incorporated into the book - seamlessly woven almost in passing - but born of the author's observation of environment and nature, and her experience of life. There are some lovely incidental descriptions - she is clearly a gardener - but watch out for the occasional pithy one-liner summation of a situation, such as: "Emotionally, disappearance was a powerful weapon." "The one who leaves is not the one enduring the silence."

As the novel closes, some things seem to be working out ... or do they? No spoilers here! The reader is left suspended like a spider, hanging by a curious thread. But it is a thread connecting this debut novel to its eagerly awaited follow-up.

About the reviewer

Jane Ramsden obtained a BA French/German Combined Hons from London University, with a strong vocation to put something back into her own city. She retired as an LGO after 30+ years at Bradford Council. She assisted her partner, David Tipton, in the running of his small poetry press (Redbeck). He was a published poet and novelist. Her claim to fame was editing Cat Kist, the Redbeck Anthology of Contemporary Cats. She and David also produced Spirit of Bradford,  Poems for the City's Centenary and an anthology of British South Asian Poetry, as well as publishing many individual poets. She is a lifetime cat rescuer, qualified reflexologist and folk singer.