Can someone tell me how it is October already. Autumn colours arrived early this year and it seems like the nights are drawing in quicker each day. And with a new month, comes a new Poetic Voice to feature as part of The Book Bag: Poetic Voices.
This feature aims to platform and showcase exemplary work from writers I admire across the poetic landscape and runs concurrently with the regular weekly episodes of The Book Bag where I’ll still be sharing thoughts on pamphlets or collections I’ve read through the week.
This month, I am thrilled to announce that our Poetic Voice this month is the prize-winning, super-talented, Carson Wolfe.
Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet and Grand Prize Winner of The Disquiet Literary Program 2024. They will soon graduate with an MFA from The Manchester Writing School, and are currently finishing their first novel. Their poetry has appeared with Poetry Magazine, The Rumpus, The Common, and Rattle. Their new chapbook Coin Laundry at Midnight is forthcoming with Button Poetry in spring 2026.
I first read Carson’s work in The North and Northern Gravy and was blown away by their work, then I read more and more. Fast forward to now and I am so happy that Carson accepted my invitation.
I’ll be sharing a few pieces from Carson over the month. Kicking off with ‘While Wishing She Was Dancing To Kate Bush’ originally published in the Best New Poets Anthology 2024.
A little later than planned, here’s poem 2 from the exceptional Carson Wolfe. First appearing in POETRY Magazine July/August 2025, this is SILICON VALLEY, IN THE BACKSEAT OF A TESLA.
Here is the 3rd poem from Carson. Originally published in The Baltimore Review, this is ‘Strange Baby’.
STRANGE BABY
He locked his doors—
the guy who braked
at my outstretched thumb.
His name was Froggy. He drove
in the opposite direction
to Georgetown,
is the temperature ok?
he turned the radio dial,
what music do you like?
A white crab
pearled in his headlights,
he got out, knelt
on its shell. I could have
run at that point,
but his car was air
conditioned, I had nowhere
to be. He pulled a rope
from his back pocket, turned
its pincers into its own face
and bound them there.
I’ll cook you dinner, he said,
and lumped the salted moon
onto my lap. It squirmed
against my thighs,
this strange baby, looking
to me for a mother.
I don’t eat animals, I said.
It’s not an animal, he drove
on in the stink of rockpool
fizz. The island only has
one road, I told myself
we’d loop round eventually.
He pulled into a hotel,
abandoned mid-construction.
Bare cement, windows gaping
like mouths. I wouldn’t touch
the crab, was grateful
when he tossed it
in the back. I stepped out
into the evening shrill
of insects. Dizzied
by the delicate racket
of wings rubbed together
—he took out a knife
and cleared a path for me
to reach a secret beach.
The sunset is pretty, like you,
he said. Like me? I smiled.
Like you, he said,
down on one knee.
To pre-order Carson’s forthcoming chapbook, you can do so here. I can’t wait for its release. An early birthday present to me from me!
Paul
Paul Writes Poems 