Monthly Archives: June 2026

Until the Twilight Fails by Kristján Norge (Dare-Gale Press)

Until the Twilight Fails by Kristján Norge (Dare-Gale Press)

You couldn’t make it up, yet MacGillivray has. Manuscripts, archival documents, academic research, history, location, and a poet descending into madness or, as he believes, fairyland: the sith. Like other Norge books (this is the third and possibly final one) it is framed as a transcribed and edited version of the source material, in this case a jotter, found by an actual Shetland archivist and poet, and accompanied by an introductory essay which undertakes a number of sidesteps and sleights-of-hand to create an implausible occult web of geography, poetics, linguistics, folklore and magic spells to show how Norge ends up ‘trapped in perpetual twilight – norranta, or asleep, within his vision of the dream.’

The majority of Until the Twilight Fails shows Norge trying to deduce a way to escape from his own notebook, where he believes he is trapped as a stain on the page. So we get lists of ‘Fairy Lure Plants & Protective Tress’, brief sections on clan badges and ‘The Nine Ages of Fairy’ along with recounted dreams, journal entries and poetic reflections. In between the transcribed texts MacGillivray carefully notes where diagrams and drawings were in the original: only three are reproduced here, collected on a single page of the pamphlet.

The tone of the work is strident and declamatory, liturgical:

                                 I can only speak in the language of the dead,
               a robin in my mouth, accompanied by the wounded stone’s song

but also mystical and allusive. Norge recalls a ritualistically-induced hallucination ‘behind the pounding waterfall’ and casts wooden staves in an attempt to negotiate the ‘clot or whirlpool of meaning’ that wrong sequences or materials and erroneous deductions or assumptions produce when attempting ritual magic.

Eventually Norge recognises that there is a conflation of stars and standing stones, a wounded eagle and realises that Eilean a’ Bhàis, the Hebridean Isle of the Dead, is only a discarded flint in the grand scheme of things, although there is a suggestion that the eagle is some kind of sacrifice:

     The holy stone: the animal is an eagle
     on the recumbent altar stone

Norge may also have wished to become an eagle. He intuits the shape or essence of the island as ‘Bird Wound Man’, noting that there is ‘A constant line around the island for the journey of the dead.’

Until the Twilight Fails may be read as a personal book of the dead, a manual for what the back cover describes as ‘numinous transference’ or it may simply be what Norge calls ‘the book of dying dreams’, written after witnessing ‘a fairy death rite’. It is a shamanic, mythological and ritualistic cul de sac, a book of failed incantations and poetic last rites. ‘Nothing correlates, nothing calms in this book of dead dreams.’ 

Rupert Loydell 5th June 2026

Ghost Town Street by Kenny Knight (Shearsman Books)

Ghost Town Street by Kenny Knight (Shearsman Books)

Plymouth has become noted for its poetry scene – Steve Spence (who wrote about it in Tears in the Fence #66, #73, #78 and #82), Norman Jope (who wrote about it in #67), Mélisande Fitzsimons, Philip Kuhn and many more – but in choosing the poet most strongly associated with the city, you could make a good case for Kenny Knight. He’s lived there nearly all his seventy-plus years and his three earlier Shearsman books detail his urban adventures from its Honicknowle council estate and outwards. In a typical poem, Kenny Knight’s persona is wandering the streets like a Baudelairean flâneur or the O’Hara of Lunch Poems, while thinking about Plymouth’s past (Drake, Darwin, Nancy Astor, the Mayflower), his own past (plimsolls, bands, romances) and his contemporary concerns. The poems often take off into the fanciful, fuelled both by the general interests of his generation (rock music, America, Sixties TV) and his idiosyncratic ones (Lobsang Rampa, Llandegley International Airport, Rosemary Tonks). The local place-names and pop-cultural references get so rammed that the three most recent books provide a glossary for them. 

It should be said that we Kenny Knight readers (those I know, anyhow) aren’t there for the prosodical chrome. Lines end at phrase-ends and stanzas end at sentence-ends. There’s no insistent audio-effect or vainglorious figuration or sublime wordplay or big-dictionary words or rhythmic whizz-bang. Nor are we there for philosophical heft or post-structuralist smirk or translations from the Medieval German. The allurements, besides the sense of place and the nostalgia, are the naturalised surrealism of English whimsy and the smart-silly stand-up lines. Stuff like: ‘The best part of the Cold War/ was Ski Sunday’; ‘I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature/ in a penalty shoot-out’; ‘the literary quarter of Honicknowle:/Tennyson Gardens./ Byron Avenue./ Dickens Road.’; ‘I’m looking for a lover/ from the constellation of Pisces/ but can’t afford the airfare.’

Unfortunately, all those examples come from Kenny Knight’s first and sparkiest collection, The Honicknowle Book of the Dead. This latest one is far less lively. The quirky titles are gone. So are the quirky cover-shots, to be replaced by a grim wooden ruin under a louring sky. The themes are dark: ghosts, shadows, emptiness. The usual supporting cast (Queen Log, the Buckingham Shed Collective, Grand-daughter Grizzly, &c.) are absent.  The city is hushed. And all because – as with so many recent collections – it’s Covid Time. In this episode, the narrator is not having fun. His walks are limited by decree. He’s ‘pretty much blind’. And lonely. And ‘sleep seems to have been/ not much longer than a sigh’. So there’s a bitterness to the nostalgic wit now

          the clocks went back last night
          but an hour isn’t far enough

 along with general sadness

          As the rain starts to tumble out of the air
          it falls from your eyes in solidarity

and minor querulousness: ‘The radio […]/ doesn’t play much music that I like/ […] when do you ever hear/ any Bob Dylan […]’. Those once-ebullient flights towards the Wild West or stardom or city history are now being made as solace. The cowboy bandana doubles as a Covid mask. The Sixties TV that feels most apposite is The Prisoner. Some longer third-person poems bimble like directionless stories; in others the poet’s mind circles, flits, recircles, wobbles and plummets.

Of course, it’d be churlish of the readers to expect entertainment amidst an epidemic. And writers must needs defer to their emotions. And there are, inevitably, plenty of acute moments. A eulogy, for instance, for Nye Bevan: 

          clapping for the man who for me
          is the grandfather I never had
          the grandfather who gave my mother […]
          a place to give birth to three children 

But overall, this may be one for the hardcore fans. For Knight entrants, I’d recommend instead (or as well) The Honicknowle Book of the Dead; at least while we’re waiting with fingers crossed for this customarily off-beat and congenial poet’s next volume.

Guy Russell 1st June 2026