There is only this, through intermittent rain and flarings of sun, through the alpha and beta layerings of daydream, my words falling away as the words of my father rise over a plateau, rinsed and singular, his voice weary with knowledge and guidance, and I drive towards it.
Anthony Lawrence’s stunning new collection, Bark, begins in the shadow of a rockspill, then moves into something new – like a flourish of air in the path of the owl.
‘Anthony Lawrence, one of our finest and fiercest poets, writes a poetry that is punning, lyrical, memorialising, angry and political.’ – Lyn McCredden
‘Lawrence’s outstanding poems are skilfully made artefacts and intensely experiential. Brute reality’s brutishness is balanced by the artfulness of artistry. There is form, wit and evidence of a marvellous ear.’ – David McCooey