I should’ve written this review directly after reading – or rather starting, and abandoning this book. Carl Phillips is lauded as a poet but Wild is the Wind, my first book by him just irritated the hell out of me. The poetry is vague and imprecise. The titles bear little to no relation to the poems, and are often the best thing about the poems. I can’t remember a single line, image or poem from the book. And worst of all, I couldn’t finish it.
Look, it might be personal taste. As a poet myself, I’m very critical of poetry collections, and when I’m reading something that doesn’t tickle me, I find it hard to continue, but I usually do, however this was a wisp of wind that I cannot recommend.
But to keep things positive – recent collections which I can recommend:
Donte Collins’ Autopsy, which I have read twice and keep meaning to review for the blog, but every time I sit down to do it I stop as I want to re-read it again and then review it straight after (soon, the stars will align)
Andrew McMillan’s playtime – the new collection from the Guardian First Book Award winner, that in my opinion far outshines his excellent first book physical
Thom Gunn’s Collected Poems – I’ve been reading a lot of Gunn at the moment, for the first time, and I can’t recommend him enough: his control of form – something almost lost to this day and age – is assured, sultry and revelatory.