An ode to fish and chips, corn dollies and driving Ringtons tea vans, Wendy Pratt’s seventh poetry collection is a greasy but glorious celebration of the coastal working class. Her deliciously joyful outlook on life oozes gratitude and a sparkling sense of humour, hitting as sharply as the salty ocean breeze.
Pratt grew up in Scarborough on the North Yorkshire coast and once worked in a cake factory before discovering her taste for poetry. In Thirteen Ways of Listening to a Blackbird, I am moved by her account of labouring in windowless basements as “the dull beat” of a conveyor belt keeps time like a dismal clock. But while money is short, laughter is plenty. My heart leaps as she barrels down a hillside pretending “to be a dog. I was a dog. I willed myself to canine.” I’m amused when she lets a blackbird poo on her washing, refusing to spoil its song. It is a warm and welcome prelude before her poetry takes a darker turn.
