Released on August 20th.
Downloads as an .epub and a PDF.
Scottish poet Morag Anderson explores relationships and the damage people can do to each other in her debut chapbook: concealed violence, love and everything in between.
About the Author
Morag Anderson is an emerging Scottish poet based in Highland Perthshire. The relationship between land, sea, and people influences her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Popshot Quarterly, Skylight 47, Finished Creatures, Fly on the Wall, and The Scotsman as well as several anthologies. She was shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize 2019, won Over the Edge New Poet and the Clochoderick Poetry Prize. As part of Hamish Matters, she performed at StAnza Poetry Festival 2020. She is a member of the poetry collective, Poets’ Abroad.
"Morag Anderson writes bold poems of survival charged by constraint and release. Here are lived realities of escaping abusive patriarchs and pious cruelties. Yet these honest, unsentimental poems find joy and lyricism in unexpected places: a defiant note left on a pew, a cherishing of the private 'width of my skies'. 'Pour me over ice smashed / like fallen birds' instructs one speaker to those who will bury her. Reader, drink in: this intimate, invigorating gathering is a tonic to savour." - John Mccullough, Winner of the 2020 Hawthornden Prize for Literature
"Stark, raw & devastatingly honest, these confessional poems will thunder like a night train through the darkest tunnel of your heart." - Ali Whitelock, Author of ‘the lactic acid in the calves of your despair.'
When the breadth of your back
is no more than narrative
beneath the tailored twill of your shirt,
when your fingers, gone to driftwood,
rattle and clack against the ancestral
crest of old gold,
when you cannot rise to greet
the changing seasons that slant
across your vaulted ceiling,
when cataracts cloud the clarified sky
and your intended ascension
seems less assured,
may your daughters labour with language,
give birth to books that punctuate
the end of your line.
A Thirst for Rain
after Rosemary Tonks
I have lived them, and lived them.
Swollen afternoons of seared skin
when nothing mattered more
than the crow’s love of bone
or the damselflies’ tangled rise
above idle water.
Powdered nights of smeared facts,
bending to wring a braid of notes
from throats of fat, white cats
who could buy my time
but never the width of my skies.
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