Synopsis
"The Poems of Andrew Waterhouse bring together the landscape, the mind and the fragile connections between people. The ambitious mixture is sometimes disturbing, sometimes extraordinarily serene, but always compelling. The few remarkable poems left to us deserve to be read well and often." - Jo Shapcott "Andrew Waterhouse's poetry reveals an absolute artistic seriousness and perfectionism… his imagination is both vivid and uncluttered… he could also be extremely funny." - W N Herbert From the hairstyles of the evangelists to mixing up the end of a relationship with chopping firewood, Andrew Waterhouse's poems move easily from the gentle and playful to the bizarre and sometimes chilling. These are poems that are finely balanced between the sensitive and the surreal, the bleak and the beautiful. Andrew Waterhouse was born in Lincolnshire in 1958 and died in October 2001. He lived in Northumberland where he worked as a teacher and a freelance writer. He won the Forward Prize for Best First Collection in 2000. These are the poems he was working on and gathering into a collection at the time of his death and stand as evidence of his talent and his sadly unfulfilled potential. Chair Facing the sea, washed out of some office or waiting room long ago; now reduced, essential, tubular; in profile, a letter, but not of our language, offering no comfort or support; the metal reddened, bruised, proud of its mild diseases, of its survival, as the wind turns again, warm air from the south fluting a note, that shifts a semi-tone and back; the chair on the longshore, singing. The Red Glove Beached on the middle shore, palm down and sand filled: the finger tips cracked, perished by the salt and the cold and the labour, pulling and cutting with its lost mirror twin and now waiting for the tide, to start searching again.
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