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Paying the Land by Joe Sacco review – a triumph of empathy [02 Jul 2020|06:30am]

The painful history of the Northwestern Territory’s indigenous people takes the celebrated cartoonist away from AK47s and mortar shells, and into a different kind of war

There is a moment, in his 2003 collection Notes from a Defeatist, when you can see Joe Sacco finding out exactly what he was meant to do. The pieces have been competent enough so far – satires of office grunts and nerdy librarians, of a “cartoon genius” trying not very hard not to sell out; exercises in a familiar kind of knowing autobiographical bathos. And then he interviews his mother.

Carmen Sacco grew up in Malta, and was a child when Mussolini went to war in Abyssinia, bombing the highlands and gassing civilians; the Maltese, fully expecting to be next, bought gas masks and drilled for raids. In the event, bombing began five years later; Joe, who was born in Malta but grew up in Australia, tells his mother’s story from her point of view. In one series of drawings, Carmen, walking home from school, is caught alone on a country road, and strafed by a Messerschmitt; the reader is down on the ground with her, next to the sole of her shoe, looking past her torso, past her head, up to the empty sky above the empty road – empty, that is, except for the plane, turning to come back. It is a triumph of empathy, of detail, of perspective.

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Four new collections up for the Forward poetry prizes – review roundup [02 Jul 2020|11:00am]

Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz; Citadel by Martha Sprackland; Magnolia 木蘭 by Nina Mingya Powles; and The Air Year by Caroline Bird

When the toxic legacies of US racial politics boil over into mass protest, as now, it is always worth remembering how one person’s state of emergency is someone else’s quotidian normality. “The war never ended and somehow begins again”, writes Natalie Diaz in the opening poem of her remarkable collection Postcolonial Love Poem (Faber, £10.99), which has been shortlisted for the Forward prize. Building on her striking debut, When My Brother Was an Aztec in poems of blasted landscapes and fierce desire, rivers and snakes and basketball (which she once played professionally), Diaz unfolds a poetry of radical embodiment and embodied radicalism. An inscribed member of the Gila River Indian Community, Diaz commands a cosmic-mythic range (“I carry a river. It is is who I am … This is not metaphor”), while also writing poems of rare intimacy (“Ode to the Beloved’s Hips”). Seldom since Allen Ginsberg’s Howl has British poetry had more to learn from a US import.

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