The city is dead, and yes, the country too, / and probably, beyond, the grey wide world, he declares in Seasons. Womack, the author of three previous books of poetry, wrote this collection in the shadow of climate crisis and the pandemic, which is why it oozes with anguish.
The narrator makes bold proclamations that bounce between banal and menacing. Beloved, the city wakes up after the weekend / Beloved, the city eats and shits its citizens. It's a poem for our times.
Womack generates a landscape of rich visuals that satisfy all the senses. The expansivity of language is an ongoing theme, exploring how different perspectives and languages can yield distinct images.
Glimmers of absurdity cut through the more sombre ruminations about war, ruins, and poverty. Still, there's always a pessimism buried.
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