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The Book Bag: Panic Response by John McCullough

Welcome back to The Book Bag. Last week, I shared my thoughts on Toccata and Fugue with Harp by Margaret Royall.

This week, between the wintry weather, getting a copy of Last Light (an apocalyptic poetry anthology I am featured in, published by The Broken Spine, find out more here), and dashing home from a saxophone lesson to attend an excellent writing workshop by Blackbough Poetry on time, I have been reading;

Panic Response 

  • Author: John McCullough
  • Press: Penned In The Margins
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Panic Response is a collection of poems that deals with grief, mental health and steps toward recovery. Personal themes intersect with wider social issues. The collection is dark with glimmers of light and sometimes feels like several parts of his mind clash. 

The poem ‘Flowers of Sulphur’ deals with the death of a friend head-on. The rawness of the line ‘They found you in the bath, wrists opened. No note’ hits you square in the face and the heart within the context of the whole piece. I re-read this several times out of sorrow and respect. 

In the poem ‘Comma’,  we delve into an unrelenting stream of consciousness. And just like a stream, it doesn’t end how it begins. It’s a clever piece.  

Throughout the book, John McCullough’s vivid use of colour and how it equates to varying emotions or people is incredible. In ‘Quantum’ he dedicates the colour lilac to Avril Brown, his former chemistry teacher, ‘Mr Jelly’ has several depictions of the colour of silence and obviously the piece, ‘Electric Blue’. 

‘Glass Men’ deals with relationships between men expertly and is a great opening to the collection. One of the lines, made me gasp. I won’t say which one, but it is such a perfect observation.

The poem ‘Letter to Lee Harwood’ manages to capture multiple subjects in one; loneliness, Covid, fear, an elderly neighbour’s paranoia and injustice. The form of couplets gives readers time to digest and breathe in this piece. 

I mentioned the use of colour earlier in the poem. This collection also plays with form throughout. Each of these is carefully considered and makes perfect sense for the message of each poem.

I could go on and on about how much I enjoyed this book. It is sad, tragic, harrowing and gets under your skin but there are also lighter moments. I would highly recommend this to anybody looking to get a glimpse into the mind of a great poet and how he has managed to channel experiences into such a formidable collection.  

Favorite Poem:
Crown Shyness. 

One More Thing… 

When I started writing poetry again in July 2020, Reckless Paper Birds by John McCullough was one of the first books, I read. Find more about John McCullough here: https://johnmccullough.co.uk/

And Finally…

In the poem Error Garden, Hama-rikyu Garden in Japan is mentioned. For this week’s Top Tweet Tuesday, I wrote about the Japanese Cherry Tree Orchard in Alnwick Garden.

You can read it here: The Cherry Tree Orchard, Alnwick Garden

Next Week’s Read

Looking ahead, here’s what’s in my book bag next week;

  • Title: Back From Away 
  • Author: Damien B. Donnelly

That’s it for this week’s reading roundup! If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below. 

Take it easy

Paul

The Armchair

Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric 
stained by stagnant-self
                    arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.

It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
                      like an alligator in death-roll.

                                  If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
                                 delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
                                                                                   - again.

The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
  	              ⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
                                              past despair.

The Book Bag – Street Sailing by Matt Gilbert

Welcome back to The Book Bag. Last week, I shared my thoughts on The Language of Bees by Rae Howells. 

This week, between Sax practice, attending my first writer’s circle and some bitter cold temperatures, I’ve been reading…

Street Sailing

  • Author: Matt Gilbert
  • Press: Black Bough Poetry

I was lucky to meet Matt at 2023’s Black Bough Poetry Party in Neath after reading his poetry on Twitter/X for @TopTweetTuesday. By all accounts, he is a decent, genuine chap and a very talented poet. It was a highlight meeting him. 

Street Sailing was released in 2023 and is an exquisite debut collection of poems that provide sensory portraits of daily life across a span of settings, full of imagery and texture. 

The bustling market of ‘Ridley Road’ is vividly brought to life in the pages, bringing back memories of when I spent a few months working on a market stall selling fleeces and coats (in the middle of summer – a job I didn’t excel in), is a prime example of this. 

Matt brings his emotion to the pages in the poem ‘Father’s Day’ revelling in his parenthood and in ‘I made a mess of my own pathetic fallacy’, he gives an introspection that combines tragedy and self-deprecation.

I’d highly recommend reading Street Sailing if you want to see life captured through an inventive and rich lens. Don’t just take my word for it either, it has plenty of strong reviews online and one of the poems, ‘Foxed’, was nominated for a Forward Best Single Poem prize. I loved reading this.

Favorite Poem:
‘Undercliff’. It brims with rich language, vivid imagery, nostalgia and achievement. 

One More Thing…
The cover artwork by Ben Pearce perfectly matches the urban poetry that is dotted throughout the book.

Read more about Matt Gilbert at https://richlyevocative.net/ and https://www.blackboughpoetry.com/matt-gilbert 

Next Week’s Read

Looking ahead, here’s what’s lined up for my book bag next week;

  • Title: Consolamentum
  • Author: James McConachie

That’s it for this week’s reading roundup! If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below. 

Take it easy

Paul

Autumn From The Kitchen Window

Maple leaves are falling        like          flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning 
              the last vestige of summer.

Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays 
blue tail-feathers glisten 
with every blood-spattered                     bite.

 Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly 
        their smouldering coal claws 
seem melted to the gatepost 
soul-bound guardians 
                      - a comforting presence. 

The arrival of a delivery van 
steals my view
       -      ambushes my catatonia.

Community Orchard Picking Party

pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
                                                                     sheen dulled to clay rust 

damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone                          fruit hiding
                                                                    emerald green flesh

braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
                                                                   orbs of sweet promise

the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their               treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
                                                                   spoil their bounty.

Carnivale

rum-wide spacehopper eyes 
staring up at midnight Malagan sky 
discoball stars  glistening 
like a dancers skin 
my bloodstream inferno 
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze 
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry 
the forest of ravers surrounding 
                                   will welcome the fire 

I raise myself 
but remember my legs are lost 
to strong liquor and            fatigue 
stumbling into a dance 
floating on the breeze of          second wind 
rotor blade arms almost                take me away 
and what goes up 
must come down 
I’m laughing at myself 
backing track of Faithless 
and howls and cheers 

when I wake 
I want this feeling to be            my cure 
                                                        my comfort 
                                                                  my soul.

Footy Down The Rec

To be twelve again 
drunk on the scent 
       of summer-sweated privet 
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes  
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa  
                   or fly-tipped washing machine  
and husbands fighting with wives 
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement  
                           comedy in tragedy when you’re that young 
we always took a few balls 
best to - if some of the older lads were around 
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense 
but the nights of Wembley 
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs  
ball bobbling       along the clumped surface 
bodies skimming the field like           lawnmowers 
     making outrageous crunching tackles 
 ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner 
      and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated 
           unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads 
give me that innocence back 
               - that simplicity of fun 
                          with friends.















Grains of Memory

Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.

Ryūjin

devour the sand 
plunder every grain 
horde them in your golden keep 
conquer this land fleetingly
    – rise triumphant 
spread your scales of quicksilver 
under the feathered winter sun 
retreating only 
–  at the moon’s blunt counsel. 

This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.