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In part a chronicle of misfortune and
heartbreak, The Dark Months of May tells of life on the run. With
his characteristic bawdiness and sonic aplomb, Pickard seeks refuge
in the geography of British border ballads, accompanied by eighteenth-century
horse thieves and “desperate reprobates.” There, he
finds only cold consolation: “leave me now and let me sleep
/ your thieving words are all I’ll keep.”
“I love the way each pulse of the indivisible sentence, here
in The Dark Months of May, echoes Hardy, when bitterness referred
to a virtue, and the strict ticks of a mind hearing what it sees
makes syntax as saintly as it is. It reminds me of an old romantic
recording, static and dry and incorruptibly noted.” —Fanny
Howe
“Through the heart and mind and a concoction of senses, the poet attempts to distill everything down to word, visually, rhythmically, and sonically. In this way the poem speaks a new language of the soul. Allowing us to enter through a new portal of consciousness perhaps, or at least, giving us a moment’s pause for reflection. To try to describe Tom’s poems would be pointless. They speak for themselves, in the most powerful and uniquely personal way. So without much ado I would like to introduce you to a collection of poems by Mr. Tom Pickard otherwise known as Tam O’ Red Shirt.” —Annie Lennox