Review by Rachael Clyne of "Killing Spree" by Jorie Graham

In the past I have found the work of this renowned US poet somewhat complex and impenetrable. Killing Spree, in sharp contrast, is spare and stark, in both words and layout. The book reads like a single epic poem covering all aspects of the disastrous period we are facing. How to do it justice in a short review? Many of the poems are thin columns covering several pages, reminding me of an image from the Matrix when streams of data pour down – known as digital rain. Graham manages through her fragmented approach and anaphoric rhythms to shower us with the impact of climate, disease, war and slaughter. We get the full picture through these fragments. Many of us, while still sheltered from the worst impacts, are bombarded daily with images of genocide, floods, fires, oppression, division and hatred. She does not shrink from an apocalyptic view.

A key poem for me is "The Falling," with the image of dice tumbling from the sky, as contagion, war, and slaughter that rain on random targets. And yet the words are more of a broad sweep, allowing us to fill the gaps with our own references and making the whole thing readable without it being a telling rant: "all the new & / improved / viruses shook out their mutations."  Graham talks of "famines, like / bunched veils, reeling with / their new contagions." She audaciously attempts to articulate her vision of the aftermath and how people will survive or not, with poem titles: "When The World Ended," "Tomorrow" and the final poem "Suddenly":

           – what thou lovest well
           remains – it says nothing
           but forgiveness.
           It says repeat after me. And I do.
          

          What have I done.

          Who will I become.

This is an impactful take on the most critical time in history.

About the reviewer

Rachael Clyne is a retired psychotherapist. Her collection Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams) is about eco-concerns. Her Seren collection, You'll Never Be Anyone Else, explores themes of identity and otherness, migrant heritage and LGBTQ+. She's currently building a collection that comments on the world state and challenges of ageing.

Review by Martyn Crucefix of "Ethnology: A Love Song for Connemara" by Cathy Galvin

Some poems use form and language to weave gold from the ordinary stuff of life; others take extraordinary (even extreme) topics and much of the interest may lie in their subject matter; others engage with what used to be disparagingly called "local colour" – especially of place or identity – and Cathy Galvin’s debut collection is in part of this sort. Her great grandfather built a cottage on Mason Island, Connemara, after the Great Hunger (1845-52). She remembers visiting it as a child, but it now lies in ruins. Her wish is to preserve and empathise with what it represents of landscape, nature, the people, their culture and language. Her desire is contrasted to the cold impersonality of those who once studied these peoples on the edge of Europe as an inferior species, to the extent of stealing skulls from graves for closer analysis.

Much of the interest in Ethnology lies in Galvin’s representation of these (extra)ordinary lives, in learning their language, archival research, and imagining their day-to-day existence. The opening poems are rather fragmentary and one feels the "willed" pressure of pursuing her admirable aim. "Ethnology" itself is a fine poem in which an island child, having been studied by an ethnologist, recounts the kinds of human experience that he (definitely a "he") could never be party to: "I searched for seals, their singing / making me pause." Poems about Galvin's own mother, Bridget, are replete with familial emotion and are the better for it. In "Waters Break" and "Caoineadh," a freer lyricism breaks from Galvin, giving rise to a heartfelt keening or lamentation: "I stand on the granite, a flawed empty vessel // I pull you towards me, I shelter your body."

The third section of the collection is dotted with allusions (to Hughes, Heaney, Murphy, Synge, Friel – though most are linked variously to the Connemara landscape), yet it also contains a marvellous address to the personification of the ruined cottage itself: "Crossing your threshold, time after time, / I believed your buried mouth, / its falling walls and gaping hearth, had lost its tongue" ("Belly of the House"). The personal is political here as the point is made that these "marginal" lives – this is how the educated, observing "elites" (Galvin’s word) viewed the "peasants" of Connemara – were rich in language, culture and passionate life. The same idea contributes to Galvin’s concluding keening for her own son (who died in 2021). Her grief and sense of guilt are almost unbearably painful to read. After an autopsy, she buries his heart on the ancestral island, and we sense her anger that his difficulties in life were never taken seriously enough by the "elite" authorities, such as the DWP, the medical MDT, and those administering PIP payments, the termination of which "set him free / to die alone." If the poems struggle at times to compass the flood of feelings, this remains a book rich and painful in its portraits of lives lived over a century or more.

About the reviewer

Martyn Crucefix is the author of eight original collections of poetry, most recently Our Weird Regiment (Shearsman Books, 2026). His most recent translation is of Jurgen Becker’s Foxtrot at the Erfurt Stadium (Shearsman, 2026).

You can read more about Ethnology by Cathy Galvin on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

 

Review by Anna O'Sullivan of "Humankind: A Hopeful History" by Rutger Bregman

In Humankind: A Hopeful History, Rutger Bregman critiques society’s accepted view that humans are innately selfish and immoral beings, instead arguing with candid optimism that we are intrinsically kind. He dismantles ideas of human nature, famous psychological studies and real-world events, exposing misinformation that has been long accepted into the fabric of our society, giving reason to believe humans are hardwired for selfishness. By the end, this brilliant book completely transformed my view of human nature, and gave me a sense of hope about the goodness of people. 

I was captivated from the beginning, and especially interested in the chapters that critically examine famous psychological studies by Zimbardo and Milgram, which I studied as a Psychology A-Level student. I also had a pessimistic view of human nature, as these studies have worrying real-world implications, and demonstrated what harm humans are capable of. Seeing the studies through Bregman’s refined lens, with the inaccuracies exposed, gave me an entirely new perspective, and made me wish this book had been published a few years earlier. Alongside this, Bregman uses history, biology and anthropology to build a strong argument for the goodness of people. It was eye-opening to learn about the ways in which humans have fostered values of co-operation and kindness – saving strangers in a crisis or putting others first – in contrast to the darkly depressing media we are used to consuming on a daily basis due to availability bias. This can skewer one’s perspective of society, as it did mine. 

Now more than ever, this insightful book is an essential read. Just as the media continues to add fuel to the fire of cynicism, so too does the circulation of fake news and misinformation. In one of the book’s chapters, Bregman delves further into the true story of the murder of Kitty Genovese in 1964 – a story which brought a spotlight over the bystander effect when a flood of articles claimed that "38 witnesses" had stood by and done nothing as she was murdered. A refined analysis of this tragic event found that this claim was yet another example of fake news. Bregman demonstrates how mistrust in others can and will lead to negative impacts in politics and the economy.

Humankind was outside my typical comfort zone of non-fiction, and it surprised me by becoming a new favourite. The writing is extremely accessible, explaining complicated ideas in an engaging way. It had the ability to change my mind and make me believe more in the innate goodness of the people around me. 

About the reviewer
Anna O’Sullivan is a University of Leicester graduate with a BA in English and MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Creative Writing. She enjoys travelling, and recently returned from five months of backpacking across Latin America. Anna’s predominant passion is books; she is an avid reader, BookToker, attendee of literature events and employee at Hachette UK.  

Review by Rowan Gromocki of "Stag Dance" by Torrey Peters

A gender apocalypse, cross-dressing lumberjacks, a boarding school romance, and a Las Vegas sexcapade: Stag Dance was a blind pick in a local bookstore. I knew little about the author and was lured in by the chaotic cover and blurb. I was half expecting a light, smutty read. What I found were three short stories and a novella, each unique but tied together by themes of gender performance, the human need to be desired, and social hierarchy. 

"Infect Your Friends and Loved Ones": set in a gender dystopia, the opening story brought to mind The Handmaid’s Tale and The Power, but with a more futuristic and sci-fi backdrop. A frustrated trans activist releases a rather original form of biowarfare: a contagion that halts the human production of sex hormones, making society reliant on HRT and fertility treatment to survive. What I found almost satisfying was observing how every member of society is forced to confront their identity and make decisions about their body in a way that trans people do every day. I appreciated the creativity and research behind the writing, as grotesque genetically modified pigs are bred and traded so that humans can pump themselves with testosterone and estrogen. I enjoyed the way Peters set up the apocalypse, following the dating lives of trans men and women and detailing the fatigue of having each moment "monitored and mocked," which led to the start of the pandemic. I almost wish this book had been a standalone piece so that she would have had the space to build on the world further.

"The Chaser": the narrator sneaks into a laundrette, steals a silk nightdress, and allows his gender-questioning roommate, Robbie, to wear it for him. What I found saddening was  Robbie realising it was purely an act of lust and that their connection would never leave the confines of their bunk beds. Watching their relationship unfurl, I found myself left in two minds about whether the narrator only ever sees Robbie as a fetish, or if external judgment is stopping him from pursuing a romantic relationship. What I found especially compelling was watching the narrator become the target of Robbie’s jilted emotions, and I was surprised to see the narrative take such a disturbing turn.

"Stag Dance": a sexually frustrated band of axemen throw a dance where some may attend as women. This triggers an awakening in Babe Bunyan, a giant, brutish-looking man who I couldn’t help but root for, as he begins to yearn to be treated with softness and care by the other men around him. For me, this novella portion of the book felt a little drawn out and awkwardly placed in the middle, but I did not expect myself to be so invested in the hypermasculine world of lumberjacks.

"The Masker": this was a short and wonderfully uncomfortable read. Sally, an older trans woman who feels she has "earned" her womanhood through years of surgery and social sacrifice, finds her identity is exposed and threatened by Felix, a raunchy masked cross-dresser who saves his hyper-feminine sissy persona for kinky nights away from his wife and children. Through their clash, and throughout the book as a whole, I found that Peters artfully reveals many intimate anecdotes and reflections on the transfeminine experience.

About the reviewer
Rowan Gromocki is a graduate of the University of Leicester, holding a BA in Journalism and an MA in Media, Culture & Society. Their postgraduate dissertation explored evolving social standards through the lens of historical fashion and etiquette magazines. Rowan has worked in both the beauty industry and for charities aimed at raising literacy worldwide. Outside of work, they are an avid reader of gothic and historical fiction, particularly the works of Daphne du Maurier and Sarah Waters, and enjoy attending music festivals.