The poems in Nick Laird's fifth volume, Up Late, reflect on the
strange and chaotic times we live in. Reeling in the face of collapsing
systems, of politics, identity and the banalities and distortions of
modern living, the poet confronts age-old anxieties, questions of
aloneness, friendship, the push and pull of daily life. At the book's
heart lies the Forward Prize-winning title sequence, a moving and
profound meditation on a father's dying, the reverberations of which
echo throughout in poems that interrogate inheritance and legacy,
illness and justice, accounts of what is lost and what, if anything, can
be retrieved.
From "Up Late"
You could never let anything go, a trait
I also suffer from, and kind of admire, but
this is not a possibility. The tick of the clock
is meltwater dripping into the fissure.