Frances Grace Fyfe

Laura Vazquez’s language is governed by an unusual, almost surreal logic.

Tanya Bellehumeur-Allatt’s new book of poems is striking as much for its beauty as its simplicity.

Greene’s poetic conceits – couplets of eleven syllables, shipwrecks, journeys home – harken his work to a golden age of poetry.

Huang’s collection is on a papyrus for the time being, where gaps appear less by disintegration than by degradations of memory.

For all its campiness, Solomon’s poetry is also touched by diasporic trauma, loss, and yearning.

The muse, it seems, has finally refused the conditions of its labour.

Huh’s speaker finds love in the beloved’s idiosyncrasies.

Could the Bard himself have come up with the amazing sonic description “snapping dirt-streaked asparagus”?

Bebenek paints an accurate picture of grief – how it can make you both glassy-eyed and allow you to see the world more clearly.

Avasilichioaei is attuned to what we might hear in an otherwise quiet room.