ISLANDS IN THE BLOOD

GGEOFF STEVENS

Publication Date June 1st 2010

Read Poetry Scotland's Review of this book

In 2009 Geoff Stevens received the Ted Slade Award for services to poetry and he is a figure well known for his editing of Purple Patch Magazine over many years.

But like many of the figures who are known for what they do for other poets it is sometimes worthwhile being reminded what good poets they can be in their own right.

In this timely collection there is such a reminder. Here Stevens writes of islands, both metaphorical and real.

For this reviewer it is when Stevens is writing about the real islands that he knows or has visited that the poetry becomes exciting and evocative, as here in his poem SHEPPEY;

an oatmeal biscuit
dipped in milky tea
rises out of
the estuary
the flat mushy cereal fields
of breakfast Sheppey

He has an ability to show the familiar in an unfamiliar way, to make it new, and bring insights into his poetry that makes each poem fresh and innovative. Here again in ON BRYHER WITH RICHARD PEARCE Stevens writes;

Rushy Bay and the shadows run indigo
like brushed paint making bladderwrack shapes
on the beach by the deserting sun

the whole scene viewed as though
through a windscreen wet with rain
and cissing cat's eyes

If you decide to buy a copy of this collection then make sure you have a lot of time free because after reading it, such is the power of Stevens to evoke images of the places, you will be filled with the desire to travel and experience them places for yourself.

Jim Bennett
Poetry Kit

STROMNESS

(Mainland, Orkney)

Here the old man makes his postal round
out there the Old Man climbs
into the pinnacled sky.
Stone flagged narrow streets
pavement-less narrow divides
wind between thrown dice of stone
made red and green and pebbledash
while harbour mates have piers
leading to their individual sea
from which to launch their boats.
Herring gone they pick up crab
and lobster creels
put their red sails up
into those bleak mountain isomers of sky
frowning clouds that reach down
to touch their land-based cousins.
Flat farm fields outside the town
match the vertical green frontage
of the Flattie Bar
where a man with pointed chin
and bracken hair
sits dark-duffled
wears an almost Aston Villa scarf
and sups Orkney pints to his heart’s content.
No Bukowski he
he lost his mail-sorting job early
when contacting T.B.
and spends his time mulling poetry
within his lantern head
illuminating the alleys where
others go to sea
while he stays on dry land
content to fish the landscape
of his mind.