I wanted to love this. I really did. I was waiting for this book for a while – it was on reserve by other people (when does that happen with a poetry book, ever?) so I was excited to get it (perhaps I had built it up in my head, or it was the fact that it, as a collection, won the 2015 Guardian First Book award, beating out novels and other books).
Anyway, Andrew McMillan can certainly write well, and rather beautifully. Split into three sections, Physical, Protest of the Physical and Degradation, the book starts out well, with the first section containing the best poems, with some lines that blew me away, which had me re-reading them over and over, such as:
“ (…) or not giving a name because names would add a history
and the tasting of the flesh and blood of someone
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