Publisher Spotlight: Pavilion Poetry
22nd May 2015
Small Hands by Mona Arshi
Mona Arshi’s debut collection, Small Hands, introduces a brilliant and compelling new voice. At the centre of the book is the slow detonation of grief after her brother’s death, but her work focuses on the whole variety of human experience: pleasure, hardship, tradition, energised by language which is in turn both tender and risky. Often startling as well as lyrical, Arshi’s poems resist fixity; there is a gentle poignancy at work here which haunt many of the poems. This is humane poetry. Arshi’s is a daring, moving and original voice.
My daughters have lost
two hundred and thirty-six teeth
They possess so many skills: they can
craft sophisticated weaponry such as blow-pipes,
lances and slings and know what the sharp end
of a peacock’s feather is for.
– from ‘The Daughters’
And She Was: a verse novel by Sarah Corbett
A soul’s journey through the night, a missing woman: time and narrative bend and interlock across a play of poetic forms and voices to make one story of love and loss. In And She Was, Sarah Corbett combines the fictional spell-making of Haruki Murakami with the filmic neo-noir of Atom Egoyan (Exotica) and David Lynch (Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive) to push the boundaries of poetic genre, asking us to renegotiate the way we encounter and reconfigure ourselves through trauma, in desire, or as we seek to reassemble ourselves and our past. And She Was demands our attention: its startling and dazzling writing asking us to be carried away as we read, but returning us by its end to a place both resolved and transformed.
His skin chills then pricks warm.
I love … have loved her …
what is love’s tense? Can it last without the memory of days out, nights in? Is it its own being or does it live within? Felix examines spaces of hips, guts, chest, finds plenty of emptiness.
Does the body remember? Just then, it was like I held her. Don’t think, Felix, feel, is some kind of answer. There is the box she gave him, a feel of something almost inside him.
– from ‘The Fit’
Blood Child by Eleanor Rees
In her third full-length collection Blood Child, Eleanor Rees hones and extends her startling use of language and imagery to enact the many aspects of change – fleeting, elusive, or moored in a negotiation of the material world as she roams through the landscapes of self and city. The idea of generation is explored in all its possibilities, the ‘child’ and the ‘girl’ are recurrent motifs, immanent and on the threshold of a magical or imaginative transformation. Landscapes are crossed, swum, burrowed under or flown above; skins and edges are sheared or lost, new coverings found and remade. Rees’s poems ask how new routes can be forged across shifting terrain and she offers the emergent space of the imagination as the only answer.
On the stained-glass window of the empty hall
red flecks fall, become ice as hail chimes angular
to grey pebble-dash and dripping blood begins to take a form:
of a red-ice-child-creature, gleaming like a ruby
standing silent at the wind-opened door.
The storm glowers behind the outline like a tiger.
It roars but she cannot hear him.
You are not there to listen for her.
The hallway is an empty blue. Books rattle in their case.
Outside she stands like death. The door closes in her face.
Pavilion Poetry have two sets of their three debut titles to give away to two of our lucky readers! For your chance to win, simply email your name and address to email@example.com with ‘Publisher Spotlight’ in the subject line by Friday June 5 2015. Good luck!!