Literary reviews by Tim Love.
Warning: Rather than reviews, these are often notes in preparation for reviews that were never finished, or pleas for help with understanding pieces. See Litref Reviews - a rationale for details.

Wednesday, 4 February 2026

"The infernal garden" by Gregory Leadbetter (Nine arches press, 2025)

Poems from Poetry Birmingham, Bad Lilies, Under the Radar, Poetry Ireland, Wild Court, etc.

The trilogy of Self, voice/sounds and the written word appear in several of the poems, especially at endings. Sometimes it is Nature's voice (rather than a human's) that appears from a void -

  • Then, as the river turned to flow, it was real
    and what the broken water said, I heard.
    It rose, as if a wish had kept its word,
    to breathe the earth - submerged, and let the river heal. (p.38)
  • I try to call down the contours of sound
    whose words are like those of a bird
    ...
    The air and its instrument alphabet,
    the neume that calls back to the bird. (p.43)
  • It doesn't matter who I am, nor that my lips
    speak and close before you see them move. (p.47)
  • the glass cell
    of spoken thought:
    a self uttermost
    inside a space
    as far as a human
    voice is thrown. (p.51)
  • And so, in his words, the dark
    speeds from his throat as the silence
    that breaks to surround his tongue.
    It is where he listens: the rift
    where the speaker enters his speech -
    where the I is heard and hidden. (p.59)
  • Let us slip the habits
    of ourselves and reap the silence
    that of its nothing grows (p.85)

Some other poems end with a statement about the failure to express -

  • The nests that sowed the world
    with young are empty, and the young are lost
    on wings too new to know, calling
    for the broken heaven of the speckled blue egg
    I keep as a secret and cannot let go (p.25)
  • The rain has sifted pale Saharan dust
    in desert powders ghosting water's trails
    across the sun-drowned day's midsummer crust.
    The air remembers how to move but fails. (p.27)
  • Trees half-spoken in a winter mist
    start to walk in a distant speech

    that stills again when they are seen
    a few steps nearer to the ear they reach (p.73)
  • The bunting has vanished into the art of its plumage
    but, like the cry out of sight, is nonetheless
    real unseen, for being both feather and veil.
    The man in the hide, out of reach of his language,
    is blown on the notes that rise through the reeds to the ear (p.77)

The language is usually elevated, with a wide vocabulary -

  • Those figures at work in the wound of a fen
    I see from a train have cut the skin
    of the several worlds with the same precision
    as the sacred geometry of the first propylon (p.18)
  • Weird as a withered human foot
    once held to be that of a saint -
    refuse from a reliquary pillaged
    for the jewelled slipper it had worn -
    this fallen oak, all bole, its branches
    long since lopped by the dead
    for the dead, lies like the uncut hull
    of a Bronze Age boat on the lost shore
    of its flickering field. (p.37)
  • had not been seen since human fires
    burned so low they let the night
    etch the mind with all its stars (p.74)

No comments:

Post a Comment