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 Rachael Clyne of "Lamping Wild Rabbits" by Simon Maddrell

Simon Maddrell is such an accomplished poet with an assured voice, it’s hard to believe this is his debut collection. He writes about growing up as a gay man on the Isle of Man, drawing from its natural landscape for his themes: "even a stone has a soft spot / a worn through hole after years / of attrition, a heart whose emptiness / is its strength." He refers also to the hag stones in Derek Jarman’s famous Dungeness garden; both Jarman and his garden provide a motif for Maddrell’s exploration of his own journey through the devastating losses of the AIDS epidemic and the added shame of being diagnosed HIV positive. Maddrell uses the analogy of wild rabbits as his central theme, successfully exploring the queer body in nature: whether feral, wild, hunted or ravaged by myxomatosis, it is easy to draw parallels. 

Maddrell plays skilfully with form, offering cleave poems and a redacted form using [      ] with only a scatter of words. He does not shrink from subverting an iconic biblical passage in his rewrite of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. In "1 Queerinthians 13," he takes the verses and applies them to queer men, drawing a counterpoint between love and shame, thus completing the sentiment with its shadow: "three things remained: love, hope, shame, these three. / The greatest of these was shame. // Shame is a darkness with no darker shadow / it does not envy, does not puff up, is not proud."

The genre of "queer poetry" is about disruption of form and subversion of poetic expectations. Maddrell is a poet who does this again and again, without falling into the trap of flippancy. His voice springs from a history of shame, struggle and painful loss and he emerges courageously and unapologetically himself.

 

About the reviewer
Rachael Clyne is a retired psychotherapist. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams 2014), concerns eco-issues. Her latest (Seren 2023) is You’ll Never Anyone Else, which explores identity, migrant heritage, LGBTQ+ and relationships. She is on Bluesky @rachaelclyne.bsky.social and on Substack here.    

Review by Rachael Clyne of "The Postcolonial Flâneuse" by Ramisha Rafique

I am attracted by flânerie, the random wander in cityscape, and was intrigued by the postcolonial aspect. While I anticipated the gauntlet of sharp political comment, I found myself immersed in Rafique’s gentle reflections on gender, race and religion as she tours street cafes. As a Muslim woman she already disrupts the white male origins of the genre.

From lockdown in Nottingham to Paris and Marseille, from Istanbul and Syria she offers vignettes. She wants to be part of the flow, rather than a labelled stereotype: "She has become part of / the mass. She is him, and her, / and them." Rafique vividly engages our senses with "Café Soundtrack" – music, chatter, accents, clink of cups, adding visual notes – a man fiddling with his ring, a passerby’s cloud breath. 

One minute we are on a Nottingham street, the next we are in Paris where statues of past empire become sleeping places for the current homeless. "For Those Lost in The Kashmiri Diaspora" concerns her own heritage and continuing impact of a region divided by the British then recolonised by Pakistan and India. The book covers many themes: conversing with God through a foreign language, social decline in the face of climate change and the joys of girl-chat setting their world to rights over coffee and cake.  A museum visit hints at how its art treasures reflect colonial tastes and cultural plunder. 

With the poet’s light touch we are offered a smorgasbord of tastes, customs and meditations, that stimulate food for thought. She eventually takes us into her familiar comfort zones, e.g. "Arab Quarter, Marseille," where her uncovered head is disapproved of by an older woman and she is comforted by "the fusion of black tea leaves, mint, and sugar." All in all, this is a pamphlet well written and worth reading.

About the reviewer
Rachael Clyne is a retired psychotherapist. Her prizewinning first collection Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams) concerns eco-issues. Her pamphlet, Girl Golem (4Word) and her latest collection, You’ll Never Be Anyone Else (Seren Books), explore themes of identity and otherness, including migrant heritage, LGBTQ+ and relationships.    

Review by Rachael Clyne of “maybe i’ll call gillian anderson” by Rhian Elizabeth

If I find myself reading a collection from cover to cover in one go, it’s a sign of enjoyment. I relate to Rhian’s witty and conversational style and admire her honesty about her shortcomings, which she does with flair. The title poem opens the book with her daughter leaving home: "sometimes i find myself standing / in the empty room, screaming: / alexa, what the fuck am i meant to do now?" The shock lifts the lid on her own Pandora’s box of youthful chaos and disastrous liaisons – a familiar journey to me. The poet does not shrink from sharing her dysfunctions and excesses and finds herself becoming a single mother aged eighteen. Although hard, it provides an anchor for her love. It seems a stable relationship is beyond reach, as in her poem "lobster" in which a lover tries to engage her in a conversation about the soul: "i felt like a lobster drifting / in a restaurant tank / watching you popping / the champagne / while i waited to die." The book carries a tone of unfulfilled longing and wading through broken glass. The poet’s use of "i" as her personal pronoun hints at an incompleteness of self.

Inevitably, a daughter cannot permanently fill the gap, which the poet must learn to fill with herself. Gillian Anderson is a fantasy crush, representing a longing to be made beautiful by love. Fantasy can get us through, but will not heal us. Perhaps finding ways to love and forgive our brokenness is what makes us feel beautiful. I enjoyed Rhian Elizabeth’s first book, girls etc, but this new collection digs deeper. Rhian’s self-exploration in maybe i’ll call gillian anderson is a milestone on that journey and her generosity is a gift to those of us on the same quest. 

About the reviewer
Rachael Clyne is a retired psychotherapist. Her first collection Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams) concerns eco-issues. Her latest collection, You’ll Never Anyone Else (Seren Books), explores themes of identity and otherness including, migrant heritage, LGBTQ and relationships.    

You can read more about maybe i'll call gillian anderson by Rhian Elizabeth on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

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 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.