Anthony Thwaite's new collection is both moving and funny, elegiac
and playful. The personal poems span a life-time as Thwaite relives
moments of childhood, or reassesses his role as son to a dying
mother, or gets told how to behave by his grandson. Elsewhere he
laments his old cat and conjures up a Sumerian Anthology of poets.
The principal concern of the collection is what lasts and what
vanishes: dreams, memories, people and objects. In this quest, he
takes us with him to Italy, Siberia and Syria, and is haunted by
the mystery of places 'where there are no words'. It is, however,
the very craft of his finely wrought poetry and its sudden moments
of sheer beauty which make palpable for the reader 'the shape of
the invisible soul'.
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