I’ve read so many good books of poems this year. So much good poetry is being written in and about and for this ghastly time. I cling to it.

Letters Against the Firmament by Sean Bonney gives a shit, loudly and with extraordinary versatility. It reaches deep into London’s toxic gut and into the sham of our democracy, and the lie of our history, and the farce of our daily deeds, and finds there a raging funny letter to be written. It’s lethally good.


Best Book of 1943: ­Love In A Fallen City­ by Eileen Chang
Best Book of 1967: Ice by Anna Kavan