‘Motherwell’s collection is cinematic and reflective. His deep love for the natural world glisters throughout these intimate poems. Fusing geology, history, and community, Motherwell reminds us that the sting and soothe can co-exist, a footpath apart. These are poems to hunker down with again and again.’
(Morag Anderson, poet)
Book available May 4th
£9.00
The three poets in this collection have a lot in common. They’re gritty, tough, their observation is born of personal experience, not all of it pleasant. That is recommendation enough but there are many moments too of pure revelation. Donna Campbell’s pearls brimming with moonlight that are the bi-product of pain, the stark beauty of Lesley Benzie’s poem about a father’s death ‘Fan she an her sester met their faither’s unbent gaze…’ and Linda Jackson picking up ‘petals of words from smart-dressed lovers’. Such simple beauty is not easily achieved. At its best poetry can be both empathetic and transformative. This is it, at its best.
(Hugh McMillan, poet)
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‘This is a collection by four women poets: Linda Jackson, Donna Campbell, Tracy Patrick and Lesley Benzie writing about travel and dreams…Each journey is memorably significant to the speaker and evoked in sharp and striking detail.’
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'Memories of a wonderful writing retreat', 'AN emotional and inspirational trip to picturesque Barga through time, poetry, art, photography and villas. Researching families was one of the highlights for me after visiting one of their homes.. And then Pascoli's house? How could we not be inspired?'
This book contains a number of the original English poems translated into Italian, and will be launched in Barga, Italy on September 28th in La Capretz. Piazza Salvi at 7pm.
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Like nesting dolls indeed, these are poems of tender love and longing which open out to encompass a century or more of family history. They are poems of emigration and alienation, of love and loss, brought alive by the detail in Kathryn Metcalfe’s writing. I particularly liked the longing evoked in ‘Back Court’ where the patch of blue sky grows smaller every day, even ‘weeds would be welcome here’ and the young woman’s sigh is a small brown bird reaching for freedom. In Seanchaidh/Storyteller, the title character comes to life as ‘Ancient campfires burned / in his eyes as he worked / the fabric of hand me down / stories’.
The poems come to us as snapshots, scattered and seemingly random, in much the same way that family history is remembered and shared.
(Jennie Turnbull, Writer)
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