Description

Book Synopsis
Quiver is a book of reckoning, a book of ghosts, a book of lineal fracture and generational fatherlesness. It’s a visceral guide through boyhood into fatherhood. One that yields witness to trauma, erotic shames, brutalities and toxic masculinity, and in so doing, emerges with a speaker beginning to free himself. Patricia Smith said it best: “Quiver will change the way you see.”
“floodghost”
Mother couldn’t manage
what sated me, so she prayed:
sought in silence
a substance that’d soothe,
something familial with grace.
I groaned. Broke bodies
over blacktop’s pane, a bottom-
less well of blood. At seven
I smothered a frog and fed each leg
to my quivering sister
laughed while she choked out its skin. At twelve,
I pulled a pistol from under
the vacant shed and shoved
its shudder to a schoolboy’s temple, teased
while he wept in his piss.
And yet all along a Psalm, a satchel
of prayer: song. Mother making
contracts with the sky, while I
tore its pages to light a fire, warm
my hands around it. Radiant blue. Red
from a faraway pine.

Quiver: Poems

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    £19.76

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    RRP £21.95 – you save £2.19 (9%)

    Order before 4pm today for delivery by Tue 14 Jul 2026.

    A Paperback / softback by Luke Johnson

    1 in stock

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      Publisher: Texas Review Press
      Publication Date: 31/10/2023
      ISBN13: 9781680033205, 978-1680033205
      ISBN10: 1680033204
      Also in:
      Poetry

      Description

      Book Synopsis
      Quiver is a book of reckoning, a book of ghosts, a book of lineal fracture and generational fatherlesness. It’s a visceral guide through boyhood into fatherhood. One that yields witness to trauma, erotic shames, brutalities and toxic masculinity, and in so doing, emerges with a speaker beginning to free himself. Patricia Smith said it best: “Quiver will change the way you see.”
      “floodghost”
      Mother couldn’t manage
      what sated me, so she prayed:
      sought in silence
      a substance that’d soothe,
      something familial with grace.
      I groaned. Broke bodies
      over blacktop’s pane, a bottom-
      less well of blood. At seven
      I smothered a frog and fed each leg
      to my quivering sister
      laughed while she choked out its skin. At twelve,
      I pulled a pistol from under
      the vacant shed and shoved
      its shudder to a schoolboy’s temple, teased
      while he wept in his piss.
      And yet all along a Psalm, a satchel
      of prayer: song. Mother making
      contracts with the sky, while I
      tore its pages to light a fire, warm
      my hands around it. Radiant blue. Red
      from a faraway pine.

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