The Poet Spells Her Name Paperback – 24 Aug. 2023

In my copy of 'The Poet Spells Her Name' there are so many page corners I folded over where a poem or phrase took my breath away because of its beauty, poignancy or brilliance, that the page-marking exercise became pointless.Simply put, Sarah Connor is one of the greatest poets I have ever read. And I have read a lot.She pulls together an almost shamanistic connection to nature, her experience as a woman, and her detachment from - yet identification with - her body as she lives with metastatic breast cancer in this powerful and shining collection.The images and phrases are profound yet precise. This book took my breath away and I was left under a spell.What is there in the end but 'Dead things woven out of life, a memory of movement in the wind...'

This is writing that is deeply human, interwoven with the natural world, inside and outside reflecting one another, as in the predominant winter settings seemingly as expressions of Sarah's journey through illness and absence. Genuinely poetic she reveals strength in vulnerability, wounds exposed yet eyes and heart still wide with wonder. A great writer, a great book.

A beautiful and moving collection. Wonderful writing, wonderful imagery, wonderful poetry.

Sarah Connor's new collection 'The Poet Spells Her Name' flows from the outset with a lyrical language that pulls us deep into a swirling confluence of human vulnerability, nature and myth.Throughout its arc of quietly arresting poems, one is struck by an elegiac beauty. A consciousness that contends open heartedly with identity, love and loss, infused with glimpses of hope and reclamation. One is led across a sublime landscape that maps the vagaries of the ecological world with the complexities of the human spirit – "As if the future is a story we can tell ourselves." Sarah paints a vivid tribute to both the fragility and resilience of life through artful portrayals such as "Three eggs….each so blue, they must be made of sky or some glorious truth –"..."swirling into galaxies and constellations, hurtling and spinning out and out…"Whilst startling and sensorial, the poems also breathe with a remarkable duality: one of genuine introspection delicately poised against the supernatural. Such conversation elevates us to a higher awareness and empathy for everyday cameos. From the inquisitive voice in "What do the children dream of?" to the evocation of fresh yet cautious beginnings in 'White: Snowdrops' which "cling to the edge of the field the way snow clings to a window frame." we are presented with haunting images of things often overlooked through the passage of time.Beyond its sharp and breathtaking vignettes of the natural world, also lies a commitment to larger existential issues. The poem 'You try to photograph the moon' and its subsequent lines which close with a repetition of the poem's title, is a subtle allusion to our futile attempts to capture the elusive dream. A contextualisation of our smallness in the grand design of the cosmos. On a social level, the collective, somewhat selfish desires of society are distilled through sonorous scenes of gannets who "are greedy wild plunging and plunging – every one a blade – and nothing gentle, just mad hunger - death streamlined…"These lines, like many in the book, are often dark in substance - justifiably portraying a desperation for survival - but are also profoundly carved with an allure that pulls us closer to examine our own persona and anima amid the "chaos of white and whirling wings".Through the journey, there is a binding that roots us organically in a universal sphere. One that addresses an entangled nostalgia such as an ordinary rowdy pub night in the west of Ireland that culminates in strangers spilling outside observing and almost bewitched by the lunar eclipse. At the other end of the spectrum, with stark realism, Sarah also takes us "away from the party" with poems of jarring isolation, personal illness and rupture. No matter where we walk with her, one never leaves the poet's vision to empower with enchantment and mystery.The collection's closing is no different. The haibun 'The Owl' reinforces the sense of duality with masterful precision. Lines like "She is part of this chill night – the soundtrack to winter." and "We don't see her often, though we hear her." evoke a godlike otherness – one that leaves a faint yet palpable trail of footprints in our mind. It speaks of an ending that avoids absolute closure, but rather echoes what its earlier fragments set out to reveal — a realm left triumphantly open to the glory of the wild and the faculties of the "otherworld".'The Poet Spells Her Name' is a book to accompany the soul through uncertainty and flourish – a mosaic of choral voices, faith and luminous wonder that honours the fleeting light we are made of.