An empathic glimpse into animal suffering lyrically expressed through stark nature imagery. Gillian Prew writes sensory-rich, word-dense stanzas translating vivid, and at times surreal, images of pain into the natural world. Each poem builds on the one before creating an overall effect of relentless intensity. A strong, distinct and experimental collection of deeply felt tightly-knit poems.

Marion McCready

Nature is often the muse of poets and Gillian Prew is no exception, but no paean to the daffodil here. Prew explores and embraces the experience of grief through the natural world in all its cruel beauty. She eschews romanticism for a language that is in turns viscerally dark ­ red blood, bones, fire, black earth ­ then tender, casting light on ‘the soft skitter of small things… bursting green’, the three colours creating a narrative of loss amid life. Precise, anatomical and unflinching, this is a journey through the cyclical nature of our existence, the eternal making and unmaking of the world. From the violent ‘fist­buds’ of renewal in spring to the ‘bone­clean’ air of winter, Prew reminds us, in all seasons, life is no gentle thing.

Angela T. Carr 

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Zoomorphic Magazine

I’m very pleased to have a small bird poem, imaginatively titled ‘Small Bird Poem’, in issue 6 of Zoomorphic Magazine. They’ve held onto it for quite a while and can be found in my collection, A Wound’s Sound (Oneiros Books, 2014). Many thanks to editors, Susan Richardson and James Roberts.

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