Monthly Archives: September 2026

Psalmbook by Laura Walker (Apogee Press), Saints of Little Fish by Megan Pinto (the 87 press), Vespers by Jane Lewty (Uni of Iowa Press, Hide Me Under the Blood and I Shall Be Satisfied by Keith Jarrett (Bad Betty Press)

Psalmbook by Laura Walker (Apogee Press), Saints of Little Fish by Megan Pinto (the 87 press), Vespers by Jane Lewty (Uni of Iowa Press, Hide Me Under the Blood and I Shall Be Satisfied by Keith Jarrett (Bad Betty Press)

One of the things that seems to have happened in the poetry world over the last few years is the adoption of religious and liturgical forms and ideas for authors’ own secular ends. Laura Walker’s Psalmbook from a few years ago reimagines the Biblical book of Psalms as a series of meditative prayers addressed to the world around her. The poems focus on presence and the present, work to try and capture moments of wonder and incidental thought as the author walks and tries to remember. The detailed observation is in tension with the abstraction of seeking, and the absence of, the ‘you’ the poems address.

Megan Pinto’s poems in Saints of Little Faith feel much more spiritual but is also more earthbound, with parts of the book dealing with the familial, including the author’s father’s illness and decay. Overheard sex, a flasher on the night train, and hospital food, smells and  routines are contrasted with more abstract ruminations on wonder, love, heaven and ‘the vastness of space’. There is a sense of dreaminess overlaid upon the realities of human life: the author prays – to ‘a female God, a kind of God // who radiates light / that does not blind’ – and knows she ‘must learn to live in this world’, but remains restless and uneasy throughout, aware that ‘Obsession is a godless place. I go there every day.’ In the final poem, ‘Harvest’, Pinto turns her spiritual and human desires inside out, regarding herself as desired rather than desiring:

     I think of those late summer walks
     through the meadow and the neighboring
     meadow, where I 
     was not longing but the one
     who was longed for.

Vespers are evening prayers, and in her book of the same name, Jane Lewty turns these into reflective poems about creativity and making within daily life. Getting up times, routine (or lack of), make-up, worries and ecstatic moments are woven into poems full of both abstract questioning and stream-of-consciousness memories and moments. I would have liked the poems to have been more rooted in the world around the author, soon tired of the nervous engagement with the world and self-negation. In ‘Vesper #1117: Triptych’ she contradicts herself, saying

     I think you should not
     say or write a single word until you have made some terrible mistake.

as if only error or wrongdoing can provoke a poem, which seems as questionable to me as sitting around waiting for a fictional muse to inspire. Although the final poem, ‘Oxen’, self-consciously references ‘these gross nightletters, this vespers, husssh’, there is little quiet or contemplation here, only restless, fidgety self-awareness and doubt.

Keith Jarrett’s book, Hide Me Under the Blood and I Shall Be Satisfied, is the book I most enjoyed reading here. He lives in a world I know, a rough and tumble urban environment, and struggles with a gospel background derived from a church upbringing. Despite the fact he is 

     bored of God and his insufferable mother-
     in-law jokes           his magic tricks          clumsy
     sleight of hand    we laugh because if we didn’t

     hell would break loose

he is ultimately ‘thankful to be spared / another day’. These poems are tough, taking faith and doubt, colonialism, being black and queer in their stride, whilst drawing upon performance poetry alongside the mystical, experimental and canonical. There are poems after Edwin Morgan, Walt Whitman, William Blake and John Latham; songs of praise, anger, resistance, love and lust; family stories, ‘origin stories’ and lists (‘partial index’s) of ‘Some Gods’; contemporary fascinations, prophecies, warnings and addictions. The remnants of spiritual engagement underpin Jarrett’s poems, yet he is weary and resigned:

     If we must pray, then let this be our prayer:
     If we must live, then let us live sincere.

There is sincerity by the bucketload in all these books, each author struggling to shake off and abandon, or appropriate and make use of, religious forms and concepts that were once everyday. Sometimes, the notion of prayer, praise or deity sits uneasily within the work, at other times a sense of wonder, attention and love underpins and informs the writing.

Rupert Loydell 24th September 2026

Mapping Broken Roads by Roger Bloor (Barnard Press)

Mapping Broken Roads by Roger Bloor (Barnard Press)

Roger Bloor’s second collection explores Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and is mainly in first-person narrative. In case a reader is tempted to read ‘I’ as autobiographical, Kahlil Gibran’s epigraph reminds us: ‘I am not what I seem’, and it is also worth bearing in mind that the poet is a former psychiatrist. The title refers to Danielle Schaub’s work on trauma theory, whereby one’s inner world consists of a conscious mind with accessible past experiences and a dissociated part of the mind holding an inaccessible traumatic past. Bloor attempts to map these broken roads ‘home from the house of silence’.

       Despite such weighty content, Bloor finds space for humour. ‘A Young Boy’s Guide to Living on the Surface of the Sun and Other Difficult Things’, from the first section, recalls a young narrator’s innocence as a friend, ‘Pedley in 2B’, corrects a sketch of ‘what girls are like ‘down there’’.

       The book has three sections: in the first, the speaker grows up, experiencing first love, has hopes, then comes disillusionment and a triggering traumatic event in the heart of the book, where the poem’s title is only the time ‘20:58 (53.00, -2.21)’. Following poems explore living with trauma and roads to possible recovery.

       Key to the collection is Bloor’s employment of formal experimentation: poems are redacted, found (from medical forms), text-speak, fading font, comic-style balloons of text on black pages. These don’t make for easy reading, but are not mere play but a subtext of the emotional journey. ‘Criterion A: Stressor’ is a short, justified prose poem which conveys how someone struggling to hold onto ‘normality’ may find themselves fading in and out: ‘The person was exposed to death, threatened death, actual or’. 

       ‘Twonnet’ is Bloor’s invented form that uses the 140 characters (once stipulated on Twitter), arranged in 14 lines of 10 characters without spacing. This creates a sense of being hemmed in: ‘thesilence/runsacross/thepageand’ (‘Ghosted’). Even the Pantoum ‘Lyt’ has a Bloor-twist, employing condensed spelling, reflecting the speaker’s jumbled, circular thinking. ‘I rOt deez lines 2 mk a mark/my lov upon yr vrgn page,/ n gave 2 lot sum drk’.

       This is a journey from innocence to secrecy, shame and fear and ultimately possible healing. But if Bloor’s inventiveness makes at times for challenging reading, there is also much lyricism. In ‘All floral tributes will be removed after seven days’ the speaker burns the memories, ‘and no one knows which jade black rose/ is nourished by them now.’ 

       With mental health so much in the news, this collection should be welcomed for broadening our understanding of the experience of PTSD. 

Mary Mulholland 20th September 2026

48kg by Batool Abu Akleen (trans with the poet by Graham Liddell, Wiam El-Tamami, Cristina Vita & Yasmin Zaher (Tenement Press)

48kg by Batool Abu Akleen (trans with the poet by Graham Liddell, Wiam El-Tamami, Cristina Vita & Yasmin Zaher (Tenement Press)

Max Porter describes 48Kg. as ‘one of the most viscerally affecting collections of poems I have ever read’. I saw the young Palestinian poet, Batool Abu Akleen, at the Southbank International Festival in July 2026, when I heard Cristina Viti read a selection. The audience was mesmerised by their atrocity and beauty. The way Abu Akleen brings together war and the body is chilling. From ‘Consider 37Kg. The leaving game’

         He said:                Hold the box

                                    open it

                                    take out the scissors

                                    cut out your heart

         I touched my heart for the last time

         He said                 I’m leaving

         I cried

         He whispered:       Shhh

                                    don’t cry.

                                    You don’t have a heart anymore

         In ‘5Kg. I don’t know how to sew’ the narrator is with her grandmother:

         I hold a needle & thread in one hand

                  & your features in the other.

         I look among the doctors          who are busy with the living

         I look for someone to sew your torn face together again

         so I can kiss it

                  for the last time.

In her introduction, Aku Akleen writes how for a while she stopped writing, ‘believing that poetry wouldn’t change the world’,  then realised ‘the importance of giving a form to feelings in order to understand them’. She writes in Arabic but says it is in self-translation that she understands. ‘In Arabic [..] I was afraid of death […] but when I started to translate this book, I made peace with death.’

         In the foreword, Cristina Viti, one of the translators, says she encountered Aku Akleen’s work through an anthology dedicated to the memory of Etel Adnan. Her poem, ’47Kg. I didn’t steal the cloud’, won the Barjeel Poetry Prize in 2020 when the poet was 15: ‘I wear the clothes of those who live in their own land/ ‘refugee’ written on my forehead.’

         All poems are written in Arabic on the left and English on the right. The title refers to the 48 poems of the collection, numbered in reverse, each testament to a body under siege. In the final poem, ‘IKg’ a soldier ‘sharpens his missile by the kitchen sink’ then takes the speaker ‘to the living room./ the safest spot/ or so I thought.’ where ‘I die without a voice./ he skins me flesh from bone./ cuts me into forty-eight pieces.’

         As Jack Underwood says, ‘No one should have to write these incredible, haunting lines, but everyone should read them.’

Mary Mulholland 18th September 2026