I am drawn to Natalie Rice's writing in a way that is difficult to describe or explain: her explorations complement my own, in my better moments. Nature and loss; a disoriented, divided self; what it means to exist in a place; the search for peace in a place.
I also find it confoundingly difficult to talk about poetry, perhaps especially so when I am moved by it – when it variously comforts and unbalances me. Certainly I had an easier time with her previous collection, Scorch (one of my favourite books of the year). The sequences and images in Scorch were clear and loose, with room to breath, while Nightjar is dense, layered, less accessible; Scorch is a mountain pass, Nightjar like moving your way through dense undergrowth. And yet there is a confidence in the writing here, an intention, a cohesiveness that makes me just as compelled to spend the necessary time with it. It is dreamlike, haunted; quiet yet forceful. I am compelled to pause and listen.