Butcher by Natasha T. Miller
Published by Button Poetry, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
This collection of poems centres around Miller’s attempts to navigate grief after the loss of her brother, her mother’s alcoholism, and the everyday struggles she faces as a Black, queer woman in modern America.
Miller’s experience as a performance poet and activist really shines through, even as her voice is condensed into text form. There’s a directness to her writing style that makes the pieces at once approachable and impactful. There’s no hiding behind complex rhythms or elaborate imagery here; the themes laid bare with gut-punch clarity. Given the scope of the topics at hand – racism, homophobia, love and loss – I’d argue they’re all the stronger for it.
The poems are divided into a few sections, named after different cuts taken from the body of a cow. Beyond the obvious raw, brutal connotations, this initially suggests the idea of breaking ourselves down into constituent parts; acting as metaphorical “butchers” so we can cut away the viscera and confront the very “meat” of our lives. The device/imagery isn’t used to any real effect, however, and ends up being somewhat superfluous. It’s the one area I felt would have benefitted from a little more depth of exploration.
Still, the immediacy and power of Miller’s words are sure to resonate widely, and I’m glad to have discovered her work.
Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.
No Shame by Tom Allen
Published by Hodder & Stoughton, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Tom’s wit, warmth, and honesty shine through in this charming yet poignant memoir. It centres around the idea of shame, with Tom sharing formative moments from throughout his life in which he was either cowed by the shame inflicted upon him by society, or when he actively defied it by embracing his own path.
It’s a book about his journey to self-acceptance, particularly his long struggle to come out and feel comfortable in his own skin. Whilst nothing hugely revelatory, this means it does serve as a lovely “I see you” to anyone else who may be wrestling with internalised shame for simply wanting to be themselves.
There’s also a particularly nice focus on the importance of good teachers in providing safe spaces for children to explore their identities. (Big love to the drama teacher who encouraged Tom to see through his plan to perform a dramatic monologue in full drag at his school show; providing him with a dress and wig, and even helping him with his makeup. ❤ Especially considering this was during the time of Section 28, meaning it could have cost her the job, it’s a lovely tribute to the key role of good allies in nurturing queer youth.)
Following the huge success of their previous collaboration, The Lost Words, poet Robert Macfarlane and artist Jackie Morris have created another ode to the beauty of the natural world, and the importance of preserving the language we use to describe it.
If Morris’s collaborations with Macfarlane hint ever so subtly at something magical, here she leans fully into it. A series of vignettes crafted in text and watercolour, The Unwinding is best described less as a short story collection, and more as a series of dreams rendered on paper. You shouldn’t expect a rounded narrative arc or in-depth development, but you certainly can expect stunning artwork that evokes enchanting worlds, enigmatic characters, and an ethereal atmosphere. This elusive beauty is perfect for stimulating the imagination.
This was a bit of a sleeper hit in that it didn’t immediately stand out as a contender for this list when I read it, but it has stayed with me strongly ever since. We follow a not-quite-human father and daughter who use their strong ties to the earth to cure sickness and injury among their neighbours. Though things remain a little more elusive than I would have liked, the striking imagery, visceral prose, and otherworldly atmosphere kept me hooked. A startlingly singular read, it manages to balance several fascinating themes, including the language used to describe women’s bodies, the vilification of feminine power, the magic of the natural world, the cost of intimacy, and the folly of sacrificing our own desires in an attempt to please or change others.
This richly evocative historical fiction novel follows a black woman facing the death penalty for the supposed killing of her white master and mistress. Serving as her testimony, the book takes us all the way from her birth on a plantation in Jamaica to her incarceration in London, as she attempts to make sense of the life she has lived and prove her innocence.
This is proving the be a real marmite book, but fortunately for me, I’m one of the ones who loved it. A masterclass in delayed tension, it follows two families who must seek to overcome their differences and survive what may be the end of days. Though I can understand and appreciate the thematic implications behind both creative choices, the dense prose and ambiguous ending will definitely alienate some. Meticulously paced and punctuated by striking imagery throughout, however, Alam creates a singular atmosphere that is as discomfiting as the plot itself. Tense and anxiety-inducing, even the quietest moments simmer with an undercurrent of threat; the book asking critical questions about trust, race, family, and control.
Told from four perspectives that weave together towards an inevitably tragic conclusion, this is primarily a look at the concept of loyalty in its various forms, and the moral dilemma of breaching someone’s trust when it may be the best thing for them.
I picked up this collection of narrative poems on a whim and I’m so glad I did! From stories of ghosts, witches and doppelgängers, to tales of selkies and changelings, the poems draw on Scotland’s rich tradition of mythology and storytelling to explore themes of heartache, revenge, and transformation, often focussing on those who are vilified by society for their differences. I love Robertson’s use of language. It’s lyrical yet always so readable, with hauntingly macabre imagery that is perfectly suited to the dark nature of the subject matter. Simple yet haunting illustrations – provided by Robertson’s brother, Tim – are peppered throughout as well. Compared in the blurb to cave paintings, these striking images do indeed possess an eerie timelessness that enhances the impact of the book as a whole.
Set during the final months of WWI, just as the so-called Spanish Flu was hitting its peak, The Pull of the Stars chronicles three harrowing days on a makeshift maternity ward in Dublin. Donoghue succeeds in capturing the abject horror of a city blighted by the cumulative effects of war and disease. Though she never shies away from detailing the utter devastation racking people’s bodies, there’s a tenderness that grounds the narrative and stops it from tipping into gratuitous suffering. Thematic parallels with current events are impossible to ignore, and though it will resonate more strongly for some as a result, the book is good enough to stand on its own regardless. The narrative is gripping, and the characters endearing, but with an overall tone that is fiercely feminine, the book serves as a love letter to all the women who sacrifice themselves mind, body and soul in the name of caring for others.
For its relatively short length, this packs a hefty punch. We follow Laura, a paediatric nurse, as the physical and emotional demands of her job become increasingly all consuming. With exhaustion taking hold and her relationship falling apart, strange nightmares begin to bleed into her days. There’s such a gentleness to much of the book, but it is this distinctly quiet grace that lends several moments their devastating power.
In this horrifying gem from Argentina, a virus has made all animal meat toxic to humans. In a frighteningly short span of time, the consumption of human flesh has been legalised, with breeding centres now commonplace, the ownership of “domestic” humans not unusual, and the public largely desensitized to everything that’s going on. The world-building and pacing throughout this speculative, all-too-plausible dystopian are handled brilliantly. There’s no clumsy exposition, and every detail we learn about the degradation of society is more disturbing than the last. It’s a book about what it means to be human, and what it means to have loved and lost. It’s also a book about power, complicity, family, and mankind’s unwavering instinct to both survive and dominate.
Set in 1850s London, this wonderfully evocative debut looks at art, autonomy, love, and obsession. We follow Iris, a young woman who agrees to model for an up-and-coming artist on the condition that he tutor her in painting. But Iris has an admirer; a mysterious, sinister figure who is watching from the shadows. Macneal’s writing is lush and intoxicating; the sights, scents and sounds of Victorian London practically leaping from the page. Equally, Iris is an excellent heroine: talented, ambitious, headstrong, and determined to succeed in a man’s world. Indeed, the book has great things to say about the limitations placed on women at the time.
The divide of gender, the dark side of religion, and the resilience of the human spirit are placed beneath the microscope in this evocative historical novel, inspired by real life tragedy. Following a devastating storm that claims the lives of nearly all their men, a remote community of women in 17th century Norway must learn to be self-sufficient. But whispers of witchcraft bring new men to their home; men who are not happy to find a group of women capable of such independence. With subtlety and tact, Hargrave explores the ingrained societal roles that define and separate us, with a particular focus on the trappings of gender and religion. Through the blossoming relationship between the two female leads (one of whom is new to the village), she also touches on the delicate task of bridging class divides, the pain of forbidden love, and the quiet heroism of following your heart when daring to be different is enough to get you killed.
This playful, heartfelt reimagining of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is set in the present day. We follow George, a ten-year-old boy who lives with his father and grandmother, following the death of his mother three years prior. Overcome by grief, his father has banned Christmas and forbids George from spending time with his mother’s side of the family, finding it too difficult to face his memories of the wife he lost. When George finds a strange snow globe in Marley’s Curiosity Shop, he sparks an adventure full of magic that will take them through Christmas past, present and future.
There’s no real emotional or thematic weight to this poem; it simply follows Dorothy, sister of William Wordsworth, as she prepares to enjoy Christmas Day (which also happens to be her birthday) with her brother and their good friend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Duffy paints vivid pictures of the wintry setting with some lovey imagery: “Ice, like a cold key, / turning its lock on the lake; / nervous stars trapped there”, and deftly captures the beauty of the quieter moments of domesticity that make the season so cosy and enticing: “The kitchen table, / set for this festive breakfast, / an unseen still life”; “The cat at his feet / licks at her black-and-white fur / rhyming purr with purr.”
Two women – one who has led a life of privilege, one who has worked as a maid since she was 10, but both of whom have suffered under a patriarchal society – relay their life stories to each other when intense events lead to their confinement in a dank room together. I was sold as soon as I read that this debut is “set against four decades of vibrant Nigeria, and celebrates the resilience of women as they navigate and transform what remains a man’s world.”
This sounds like it could be such a me book! “In this addictive and spectacularly imagined debut, a female apothecary secretly dispenses poisons to liberate women from the men who have wronged them—setting three lives across centuries on a dangerous collision course.”
This is “a tense, gripping, and wholly original psychological tale of a woman with a secret admirer—who is hiding secrets of her own.”
I read Loyalties by the same author this year and loved it. I definitely want to explore her back catalogue, but this sounds amazing too. Unable to look after herself any longer, Michka has recently been moved into a home. Gradually losing her ability to communicate, she is paired with a speech therapist. But Michka has harboured a dark secret for years, and time is running out for her to unburden herself of this hidden shame. “Delicately wrought and darkly gripping, Gratitude is about love, loss and redemption; about what we owe one another, and the redemptive power of showing thanks.”
Broder’s previous novel, The Pisces, was very much a love-it-or-hate-it book. Fortunately, I was one of the people who loved it, hence why I’m intrigued to see what else she has to offer. In Milk Fed, we follow a young woman who has been raised to religiously count calories. When she distances herself from her mother, and becomes intoxicated by another woman, she begins to question her long-held, obsessive habits. Supposedly, “Broder tells a tale of appetites: physical hunger, sexual desire, spiritual longing, and the ways that we as humans can compartmentalize these so often interdependent instincts.”
I suspect this one will be cropping up on a lot of people’s lists, since it’s his first release since winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. Looking at the rise of AI and the shifting definition of what it means to be human, we follow the perspective of an “Artificial Friend” as she observes those who browse the store in which she waits to be bought. It’s “a thrilling book that offers a look at our changing world through the eyes of an unforgettable narrator, and one that explores the fundamental question: what does it mean to love?”
I wouldn’t often be drawn to nonfiction that explores parenthood, but as a nonbinary transmasculine parent who has carried a child, Belc is uniquely positioned to offer a fresh take on a well-worn theme. A memoir in essays, the book delves into Belc’s thoughts on gender, identity, and societal expectations, as he seeks to transcend the limitations of the “before” and “after” approach that so often dominates trans stories.
Thank you to Rachel for bringing this one to my attention with 
Speaking of gothic mysteries set in Scotland that Rachel brought to my attention, this follows a young woman who takes up a teaching position at a remote all girls boarding school on a craggy peninsula. Her modern approach soon clashes with the school’s traditional methods, and the abrupt departure of her predecessor begins to look increasingly suspicious. Sign me up, please and thank you.
I really liked Rainsford’s singular, otherworldly debut, Follow Me to Ground. Her new novel follows twins Anna and Adam, who live in an abandoned commune with only its controlling former leader for company. They spend their days keeping watch, preparing for the doomsday event they are sure is coming, but when a past resident of the commune returns, everything the twins know is thrown into question. “Dazzling, strange and incredibly moving, Redder Days is a stunning exploration of the consequences of power wielded by the wrong hands, the emotional impact of abandonment, and the resilience of the human spirit in the most hopeless of situations.”
This novella sounds like it could really pack a punch, as we follow a 20-year-old woman who finds herself trapped in an increasingly toxic relationship, and the damage this has on her sense of self. It “sheds light on the commonplace undercurrents of violence that so often go undetected” and “deftly illustrates the failings of psychiatric systems in recognizing symptoms of cruelty”. I love Iceland and have been keen to explore more of its literature, so this sounds like a great place to head next.
I’ve previously read and thoroughly enjoyed a couple of Fuller’s other novels. She writes quietly sinister literary fiction with keen psychological insight, and she does it so well.
This kind of does what it says on the tin, but what it says on the tin sounds right up my street. Plus, the line-up of authors included in this anthology is amazing, with several whose work I’ve already adored, like Sara Collins, Laura Purcell, Elizabeth Macneal, and Kiran Millwood Hargrave.
Speaking of Elizabeth Macneal, I adored The Doll Factory when I read it earlier this year and I’m so excited to hear she has another gothic historical fiction novel coming out soon. Set in Coastal England in 1866, Nell is ostracised for the birthmarks that cover her body. Though she suffers the ultimate betrayal when her father sells her to a Circus of Wonders, she soon finds kinship with her fellow performers. But when her unexpected stardom threatens to eclipse that of the showman who bought her, the novel becomes “an astonishing story about power and ownership, fame and the threat of invisibility.”
Though it is concerned with the same core concept of individuals who reject the roles set out for them by society, Earthlings is a far bolder and more twisted affair than the author’s previous hit, Convenience Store Woman. Frankly, I think it’s all the better for it. While the latter ultimately left me feeling underwhelmed, love it or loathe it, I can’t see how Earthlings could fail to elicit a strong response from any reader.
In this collection of poems, Bernard explores two tragedies that took place within the UK’s recent history, both of which had a disproportionately devastating impact on the Black community. These are the New Cross Massacre, a fire that killed 13 young people in 1981 and which many believed to be a racist attack, and the Grenfell Tower disaster in 2017, when a block of flats was engulfed in flames, killing 72 people, many of whom were migrants and asylum seekers.
