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Tonight the Summer's Over

Rory Waterman

Cover of Tonight the Summer's Over by Rory Waterman
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Paperback
ISBN: 978 1 847772 07 7
Categories: 21st Century, British, First Collections
Imprint: Carcanet Poetry
Published: November 2013
216 x 140 x 5 mm
66 pages
Publisher: Carcanet Press
Also available in: eBook (Kindle), eBook (EPUB)
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  • Excerpt
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  • Reviews
  • Family Business

    The boatman stares through million-pock-marked waters,
    tapping a cigarette, shying from the rain
    in mac and wellies, beneath a London plane
    that rustles and drips. He turns and tells his daughter
    to bolt the hut. Tonight the summer’s over.
    He heaves the skiff to the boatshed, ties the lines
    and double-locks the door. She fits a sign:
    CLOSED FOR SEESON. They load a battered Land Rover
    with cash tin, radio, stools, as fast as they can,
    for it’s raining harder. Lightning blanks the dark,
    and then they’re away, the wiper thwacking its arc.
    She glances at this ordinary man
    then shuts her eyes: she’s damp and tired and bored.
    He drives more gently. Neither says a word.
    The poems in Rory Waterman’s debut collection Tonight the Summer’s Over explore belonging and estrangement with precise resonance. Born in Belfast and brought up in rural Lincolnshire, Waterman turns an unblurred eye on his own childhood, caught between two countries, two cultures, two parents. Yet his poems are never mere autobiography: they are rooted in a broader concern for the inconsistencies of human experience. Tonight the Summer’s Over becomes a book of love and hope: ‘Lift the purest feather from the wreck. / Ignore the seagulls laughing against the sky.’
    Navigating
    Family Business 
    Visiting Grandpa 
    Retrospect 
    What Passing Bells 
    Rebirth Island 
    In the Avenue of Limes 
    An Email from Your Mother 
    Two 
    Growing Pains
      1. Distance 
      2. For My Father 
      3. Ireland, 10 
    Access Visit 
    Seeing Him Off at the Station
    Craigmillar Castle at Dusk 
    Faroe Islands: Notes for Three Photographs
    Nettles
    Reverdie
    Seeing Baby Emrys in Gwynedd
    Salisbury, After the Argument
    For R.S. Thomas
    Coming Home
    From a Birmingham Council Flat
    Broadland
    Where Were You When...
    The Outings
    A Suicide
    West Summerdale Ave
    53° 09'33.17" N, 0° 25'33.18" W
    To Help the Birds through Winter
    The Lake
    Shrine for a Young Soldier, Castle Drogo
    On Derry City Walls, 1992
    Unfolding
    Marstrand
    Winter Morning, Connecticut 
    A Wedding Photograph 
    Back in the Village 
    Compulsions 
    The Fields over Winceby Battlefield 
    Spring Shower, Metheringham Fen 
    The Beck 
    Keepsakes 
    ‘You’re a shower of bastards’ 
    Note to Self: Chip Shop Battered Sausage and Other Meat 
    Stopping for a Moment on Exmoor 
    Back 
    Infant 
    Stranger 
    Sendai 
    Fall 
    Hallowed Turf 
    The Shipwreck Memorial a Mile from Town 
    Over the Heath 
    Out to the Fen
    Rory Waterman was born in Belfast and grew up mostly in rural Lincolnshire. He was a Hawthornden Fellow in 2012. His poems have appeared in the TLS, New Poetries V (Carcanet, 2011), Poetry Review, The Best British Poetry 2012 (Salt, 2012), Stand, Agenda, PN Review and various ... read more
    'Rory Waterman writes poems of the kind there’ll always be a need for – poems that require skill to make but don’t insist on it, that  combine keen-eyed observation and immediately graspable shades of feeling in a memorable way. Waterman’s is a very appealing voice, laconic, unillusioned and vulnerable. His world is a recognisable and convincing one, his rueful, sometimes harsh sincerity is palpable, and he deserves to be read by anyone to whom these things still matter.'
    Alan Jenkins
    Praise for Rory Waterman 'Waterman is at once restrained and assured. He has a fine eye for a poem'€™s architecture, playing with symmetry, taking pleasure in the shape of the page, and he demonstrates a remarkably good ear.'
    John Greening
     'By just picking his words with an almost scientific exactitude he makes a poem that is meditative and unforced.'
    The Irish Examiner
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