Wendy Pratt has a diverse range of poems in this collection and what draws them together is a combination of loss, stunning imagery (which is at times breath-taking) and the sense that ghosts of the past always rear up, refuse to be forgotten. For me, the beauty lies not just in the words and stunning last lines, but also in the way Pratt shows each part of the book as a “room” and each poem an “exhibit”. I was compelled to follow as she guided me with ease into her private landscape.
She invites us into a magical world where the first Mrs Rochester is “Tongue-tied/ and wearing two continents/ like ill-fitting shoes”, a plastic bag is a “single billowed lung”, and bored God creates a dog that finds itself in a forest where “the wind played the Dog’s body like a flute”.
Pratt’s collection is split into sections in…
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