Dominoes, Connor Allen (Lucent Dreaming, price: £10)

Dominoes, another book by Connor Allen, the current Children’s Laureate Wales, is a collection for adults (please see last month’s column for a review of Allen’s collection for younger readers). It’s not every writer who can pen suitable poems for all ages, but here and in Miracles, his children’s book, Allen proves that he’s one of the few who can. Again, as with that other book, many of the poems here are lyrical and make good use of rhythm and rhyme to propel the poem forwards, lending an aural richness to proceedings, and rendering the pieces even more effective if read or performed aloud. The use of slang and dialect in some poems also brings the voice(s) within them to life, and adds to this soundscape sense.

In terms of topic, Allen is refreshingly direct on subjects which are personal and have no doubt proved challenging in his life, including his mixed race heritage: “So, my mum is white / My dad is Black / Let’s just dismantle that”. Love and loss, typical topics for wordsmiths everywhere, are also addressed, Dominoes veering from personal history and recollection to observations and relationships, with the poet’s tendency towards self-analysis – words like ‘mind’ and ‘thoughts’ are amongst the most common in the collection – apparent, and yielding some interesting conclusions: “Let’s take a dive into the depths of my mind / The age-old story of Jekyll and Hyde”.

Our own mixed natures, and propensity and potential for good and evil, are thus made apparent in poems which are accessible, unpretentious and reflect the full spectrum of human life.

You’ll Never Be Anyone Else, Rachael Clyne (Seren, price £9.99)

Imagination, creativity, and wit abound in You’ll Never Be Alone‘s poems by Rachael Clyne, which are full of vibrancy, as well as poignancy, of theme and topic. There are big subjects here, as in Allen’s book: identity is one topic, although here that identity is Jewish and lesbian; ageing is another; abortion is the theme in one piece; and domestic violence occurs in some, the brutalism of which is very powerfully and directly conveyed: “…a naked man / kneeling on her chest / forcing her to look / as he pissed on her”.

Denial of the self in Clyne’s early life, and her poems addressing that time, leads to self-acceptance in later poems. Irrespective of this, there is generally a vibrant, quasi-lyrical, often visual style which is very appealing – although, where this changes or is pared back (the excerpt above, for instance), it is extremely effective. Clyne wields words with scalpel-like precision, meaning the result might be sharp and shocking, but ultimately healing: her honesty and humour play a great part in this, I feel.

The title poem is also the final poem in the collection, and offers a lesson to us all: “Stop drinking the poison / labelled Hate me. It’s that simple. / I didn’t say easy”. Through a character, ‘Girl Golem’, Clyne explores how we are ‘made’ – and how to ‘un-make’ this. A creature now completely herself, these are snappy, spicy, sometimes saucy poems, which tell the story of that undoing – and becoming – quite brilliantly.

Self-Portrait As Othello, Jason Allen-Paisant (Carcanet, price: £9.35-£12.99)

I love how poets use characters to explore aspects of self, and in this second collection Jason Allen-Paisant takes that of Othello to dig inwards and evoke identity, in a search that has the poet proclaim “I am dismembered / I look for the different parts of myself” and which, in a poem within this same section of the book, leads him to reflect on the objectification of his body: “just this oversized / penis on a life-size black doll”. 

As in Clyne’s collection, who are are, what we are, and what we are not are subjects at the heart of the work here. A long-gone father, however, also looms large, a presence that is created by absence, leading the poet to conclude that “Disappearing is part of our way in the world; we understand this world through disappearance”. It’s a zen koan, of sorts, or perhaps a Buddhist ‘not this, not that’ conundrum. Either way, this search – for father, as well as fatherland – runs through the poems, and gives a sense of voyage and movement, as if on an adventure. The portrait on the front cover, of a handsome man in modern dress holding a cutlass, framed by gilt and gold flowers, with the look and manner of an explorer, seems very fitting.

Later, the loss of Allen-Paisant’s mother likewise ignites a search – this time for her lost voice, that may be “in Dropbox / and old devices, anywhere / I may have inadvertently / captured the sound”. Again, absence and presence intertwine: “back when I didn’t think / her voice would be everywhere / and yet nowhere to be found”. This searching for the unfindable is heart-rending in the best sense, translating that same feeling to the reader; altogether, Self-Portrait As Othello is a book which intertwines threads that seem opposite, to create a work which is powerful, original and thought-provoking.

Into The Same Sound Twice, Zakia Carpenter-Hall (Seren, price: £6)

The books in this particular column link together in wonderful ways. Into The Same Sound Twice includes a poem in which Zakia Carpenter-Hall’s mother “goes looking for statuettes with skin the colour of coffee / and hair like lambswool for children to see during praise / and worship”. The mother wants these divine images to mirror her children; in one of the posters she obtains, “a man stands guard outside a temple, / … he leans on his staff, / a princely warrior entirely at ease with himself”. This is a not-far-off description of the cover of Self-Portrait As Othello, and I’m interested in how these poets are exploring ‘norms’, expanding ideas, and redefining icons by inhabiting or repainting them.

The mother’s work in this poem is inspired by love, of course, but also it is revolutionary, upending culturally-ingrained racism. Carpenter-Hall, through her retelling of these acts, further cements this ‘expansion’, rendering the emotions and empathy embedded within this story with skill and tenderness: “as if by associating ourselves / with rare and beautiful things, we could relearn to see ourselves / as rare and beautiful”. Important, groundbreaking work is happening here, therefore – “the cultural burn begins” – and these beautiful poems are, in that sense, on fire.

As if this isn’t reason enough on its own to read the book, this slim pamphlet is, further, wonderfully expansive, containing not just the world but the cosmos beyond; it is finely, daringly, cleverly written; and, it is often surprising. “Delight has so many unknown nodes” – read, and discover a plethora of them here.

Hard Drive, Paul Stephenson (Carcanet, price: £9.35-£12.99)

From one upending to another: in Hard Drive, the sudden death of Paul Stephenson’s partner, aged 38, sets off the narrative held within this collection, with a literal hard drive being just one of many metaphors for this loss: 

our life is out there                  somewhere

on a hard drive                        some place

Stephenson sustains this exploration at roughly 120 pages; no wonder, when “Grief is twice the size of Texas and three times the size of France”. It is huge, and all-consuming, with the reader swallowed up in it, too, although the poet is also self-aware: “PAUL STEPHENSON, Minister for Sadness”, as he calls himself in one of the book’s final poems. Humour is just one of many notes within this multifaceted book, but worth touching upon because it may be contained ‘within’ grief. Grief is not a monolith, despite its size and 120 pages does not equate to continuous sameness, despite a focus on loss – there are shades and shades within it, as the reader will discover here.

Throughout the book, the poems are fine and thoughtfully formed, with excellent use of devices such as repetition, rhyme, and wordplay, as in The Hymn Of Him: “The app of him, the bop of him, the cap, / the cop of him, the cup of him, the dip”. Again, despite a general crystalline clarity of form, and focus upon a singular topic, there is plenty to surprise and excite the reader in these pieces; just as bikes might “become wondering” or “become displacement”, so, too, may poems. A taut, tragic, yet also inventive and inspiring collection indeed.

Kit, Megan Barker (Cheerio, price: £12.99)

Hardback poetry books are rare, but Kit‘s a beauty, with a gorgeous print for a cover and a long list of endorsements on the back, including words from Max Porter and Cynan Jones. Better be good then, I think! And, guess what? It is!

Here, poetry and prose combine to create an elegy of sorts, a eulogy in a sense, and an elegant, evocative, and honestly told story of two friends; the wild and wanton glory of their youth; and, later, the change and reconsideration of connection when the two friends find themselves in very different circumstances. Losses of various sorts occur, and

There’s the grief I felt for myself in motherhood
There’s the grief I feel for my marriage
There’s the grief I feel for you
There’s the grief for my ageing parents

Kit, a metaphor for, and mirror of, the author’s own youth, freedom, and self, sadly dies, and their ashes are “heavy as shale or scree. / The grinding teeth of grief / pour heavy as sorrowbones / into the sea”. Everything is lost, the book seems to say… However, there is, amidst this, also new life, in a birth, babies, children, and a plum tree, small and fragile but burgeoning into bright and beautiful life.
The writing in the book is honest and terse yet lush and lyrical at the same time; sonorous and superbly paced, it would be a brilliant ‘book at bedtime’ listen, I feel. Its narrative is tender, yet brutal… Full of life, but full of life’s fears, too: “The plum tree is safe. / … I shake fears about it not getting enough light. / … I flick aside a terror of leaves shrivelling”. In the end, the poet promises she “will make jam” from the fruits of the tree; and, again, if that’s a metaphor, then that is all, in our ‘one wild and precious life’, any of us can ever hope to do.