Stray Birds

Nobody writes small poems containing this much interconnected grief and joy better than Andrew Robin. Starting out in the bleak of winter with snow falling from the trees like nests and moving through the seasons with deftness and grace, these poems are peopled by those who have faded to memory and the many natural creatures who remain - especially birds, who pulse through these visual and auditory fields like comets.

Says contemporary master Kazim Ali, "These poems might be described as 'small' or 'spare' but I think 'miniature' is more accurate, because…these poems are rich with precise detail, and have finely tuned emotional resonances." Written and published during the pandemic, the interior and exterior landscapes match the voice of this time - both quiet, and urgent.

Not quite haiku, not quite Merwin, but in debt to both, the register here is both resignation and wonder, filled with emotional knowing, yearning, spaciousness and closure. Peppered among the pages are ministers and minotaurs, griffins, bombs, eggplants and persimmons, pastures, the heavens and so many birds - sparrows, swallows, hawks, hummingbirds, gulls, siskins, wrens. The richness of the vocabulary is part of the gift. And for a book that takes stock of so many things in flight, it is surprisingly rooted, grounded and filled with old, resonant wisdom.