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Winner of the Forward Prize for Best Collection of Poems
In this, his first volume of original verse since the award-winning Landing Light, Don Paterson is found writing at his most memorable and direct. In an assembly of masterful lyrics and monologues, he conjures a series of fables and charms that serve both to expose us to the unsettling forces within the world and to offer some protection against them. Whether outwardly elemental in their address or more personal in their direction, these poems—addressed to the rain and the sea, to his young sons or beloved friends—never shy from their inquiry into truth and lie, embracing everything in scope from the rangy narrative to the tiny renku. Rain is Paterson’s most intimate and manifest collection to date.
“Rain is a truly important book, not only in the development of this must-read poet, but because it engages with the rough and tumble of life in a way we recognise as true. Read it now, before it becomes famous.”—Fiona Sampson, The Independent
“The master of shadowplay demonstrates again that he remains clear-eyed about the representations he so artfully contrives.”—Adam Newey, The Guardian (UK)
“Don Paterson's poetry collection Rain contains some great–and I do mean great–poems. He comes very close to Yeats at moments; Yeats without the hocus-pocus. First time through, I reread ‘The Day’ three times, just to confirm it was as astounding as I suspected.”—Toby Litt, The New Statesman (Best Books of the Year)
“Paterson is simply one of the best living poets in the UK.”—The Observer (London)
"Readers of Scottish poet Paterson (Landing Light) have come to depend on him for well-crafted poems, often in traditional forms, that present a dark-humored but unfailingly high-spirited and challenging perspective on conventional themes (love, death, identity). His latest collection—winner of last year's Forward Prize—doesn't disappoint . . . The book's second half showcases some of his finest work, including a glorious extended elegy for poet Michael Donaghy, and the beautiful, bleak title poem, which closes the collection on a purely Patersonian note: we rose up from the falling waters . . . and none of this, none of this matters."—Publishers Weekly