There are many contenders for the British poetry book of 2011 - certainly, Roddy Lumsden's Terrific Melancholy is a runner-up - however, the collection I keep returning to, in my mind, is Clare Pollard's Changeling, from Bloodaxe. The poems are startling, formally inventive, the diction never less than astonishingly varied - it is a passionate, angry, moving, alarming, splendid book. Reading it inspired me to think of new things poetry could say and do; in this collection Pollard moves into the front rank of British poets.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
Comments
Two more titles for my Christmas list which is growing rather long. I hope that Santa (aka Rusty) finds herself in a generous mood!
Best wishes from Simon