‘Siren Calling’ is a collection which explores embodied landscapes, both external and internal. Whether Linda Jackson is evoking ‘red-gold’ Uluru as it ‘pulses with colour’, the ‘chalice of iced sunlight’ which a glass transforms to, or to the potter’s kiln which recalls and replaces the flames of a war-torn country, all of them are alive with the sense of what it is to be human.
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A first collection of poetry by George Gibson, a writer who writes about musicians and other literary influences in a way that carries their language through his own. From Jazz to the Doors, they are all here.
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Allan's poetry never fails to surprise and delight. In Memory of Waves. he uses the imagery of the sea to invoke intense feelings about ' our eternal now'. He portrays compassion in a range of poetic forms. 'Cloth' is a favourite of mine as he asks 'weave me new' in an extended metaphor. In Lost 'you are the light on the other side of hope' is a beautifully evocative ending.
On the other hand, his prose poems on diseases show his dark humour as they are insinuatingly menacing as he takes on the personas of the diseases and warns us 'I'm not dead yet'.
This collection of poems shows his versatility and skill in the use of language as well as his humour and compassion.
(Ann McKinnon, poet)
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‘There is straight-shooting political comment here…but there are also meditative and lyrical moments.’ (Judy Taylor, writer)
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'What a welcome second collection from Lesley Benzie. Fessen is a total delight. She melds her native N-east Scots with English in writing which is a keen observation of both the outside world and a close scrutiny of human behaviour and relationship. Her language is muscular, strong, yet tender.
She is interested in everything we know of life...walking on the high cliffs of Catterline remembering Joan Eardley, guillemots...perched on tiny ledges facin intae the scarp/like they hiv come tae worship/at the wailin waa...burnt umber plumage/like oiled velvet...and that final homage... a wee prayer for the coastline/that pressed itsel intae Joan's hairt.'
(Sheila Templeton, Poet)
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