DOUGLAS FIELD relishes the hard-boiled language, satire and humour of the third and last of the Harlem trilogy
Underwater Acoustics
Sam Burns
Sound carries better beneath the waves.
We drifted to your side as you choked
on your neck fat; shattered your sleep
with a chorus of stories of drought
and war and hope, and little
brackish footprints on your sheets.
You heard. We thought you were deaf.
It’ll take us a lifetime to tell
you our names. But we’ll do it.
We’ll gurgle them into your waterlogged ears
whenever you swim, when it rains,
when you shower, like air bubbling out
of a poorly-patched lifeboat;
a calving iceberg; like whale song.
The bard invites readers to a gig, raps for Clacton, and lays out the Burnham-Hurzeler conundrum
by Rosie Jackson
ALAN MORRISON recommends a consummate, heart-warming collection about a working-class upbringing in the industrial north-east


