V. Press is very very delighted to launch James Davey's How to Parallel Park, our first poetry title for 2018.
"Stark, poised, precisely observed, James Davey’s poetry well demonstrates how much more emotion is conveyed the greater the restraint. The poems also exhibit an impressive musicality, from the lilting to the percussive. Each poem rewards rereading." Carrie Etter
"Stark, poised, precisely observed, James Davey’s poetry well demonstrates how much more emotion is conveyed the greater the restraint. The poems also exhibit an impressive musicality, from the lilting to the percussive. Each poem rewards rereading." Carrie Etter
"These poems by James Davey are vivid, articulate
and entertaining. They evoke the peculiar intensity of childhood fears, the
angst of adolescence, the tremors of first loves. Davey has a gift for
clear-eyed dramatic presentation, as well as an often-humorous take on human
condition and a true empathy for the various characters he comes across, be
they ‘pyroman’ a down-and-out who accumulates trash to burn, the terrified
child taken on a hunting trip, or the lover discovering the ‘colours’ of a
girlfriend. This is a promising and well-wrought debut." Amy Wack
"Davey’s work is confident, crafted, elegant in
its simplicity. The poems are full of moments of recognition for the reader,
subtle emotive power balancing understated humour. I trust him to show me
something worth seeing with no fluff around the substance." Anna Freeman
Set in England and Italy, the poems of How to Parallel Park are very emotive,
very molto a pelle.
How to Parallel Park is James Davey's debut poetry pamphlet. A sample poem can be found below.
BUY How to Parallel Park now using the paypal link below. (How to Parallel Park is published at the end of January 2018. Pre-orders are dispatched in the week of publication.)
Hand-puppets
I am ten,
slouched on a kitchen chair,
staring
through a television set
on which the
presenter is talking to hand-puppets.
Sitting on
the back step, Dad pulls a dead rabbit
from a
plastic bag, calls me over. Watch
carefully,
he says. He
cuts a surgical incision in its belly,
spoons out
its viscera with his fingers.
Intestines
slip from its gut. I shiver.
A
delicacy,
says Dad, smacking his lips.
The carcass
lolls over his hand – eyes enamel.
He splays it
on the stone step, severs
its head,
legs, presses down on his blade,
cracking the
pelvis in two –
a sound like
splitting wood.
He rips free the pelt, presents it to me.
I hold it in open hands.