5 new poems by the acclaimed poet, Graham Fulton, work by Charlie Gracie, Magi Gibson, Jim Ferguson and many others.
A truly engaging anthology.
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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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If you want your poetry as a lulled accompaniment to whatever you happen to be doing - don't read Jo Gilbert. If you like your Doric couthie and couth, paired with a wee sepia photo - don't read Jo Gilbert. But if you need poetry that makes you 'Get aff that fuckin horse. Now!' , and opens your 'kohl clarted eyes' to garr ye greet and laugh aloud...then read Jo Gilbert. And what a titular poem. Three lines, punching hard with every word. What a debut.
(Beth McDonough, writer)
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‘More superb poetry from Donna Campbell. Looking for Mae West pulses with life. Her focus ranges from rural hardship to disappointments in love, from sensual exhortations to fierce castigation. This is what we expect from her now, after her wonderful first collection, Mongrel - in every word you see Donna’s smile, hear her confident assertion.
The thing about Donna Campbell is: she a truth-teller, as much about herself as other people. Her poems are always forceful but never brutal – it’s a good trick that, even when she’s telling brutal things.'
(Charlie Gracie, writer)
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Charles Bukowski is a master at writing in a similar fashion about the underclasses but Graham Fulton’s work is better by miles. Not a wasted word and each phrase as carefully balanced as a swaying drunk on a bus.
(Des Dillon, writer)
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