I see no great flaws in the tech­nique of Donna McSkimming’s Beware the Bougainvillea, indeed there is a taste of sensuality in a lot of her work which is pleasing, some skilful imagery and interesting thought processes. Reading this collection, the feeling grew that the creative process had not been thought through, I felt enclosed in a vacuum, lined by wailing sirens. The sword being constantly waved, was not honed by humour, thus the point did not pierce, rather grated on the nerves. For my own taste negativity is the fast lane to… so what.

Before cries of sexist and other similar deposits land on the editor’s desk (hopefully not head), I would state that I believe the majority of the more interesting work being published recently is by women. Work built around their anger and frustration with the status quo, as they perceive it. I suggest, apart from obvious writing skills, they encompass an ability to laugh at themselves, with compassion for the total human condition. Perhaps not entirely to the point, but as my old mum used to say, ‘I don’t know much more through growing ancient, except life just gets funnier.’

Neal Paech has produced for a first collection, the bitumen rhino. The more I read these poems, the more I got from them, I believe he is a writer of tremendous potential. With the odd exception, he has a consistency not yet apparent in Ms McSkimmmg’s book, and a compassion for his fellows, both male and female. He is able to see the joke and make something of it.

Within a number of these poems is a marvellous sense of the landscape, of the uniqueness of this land, his imagery is subtle, the more powerful for this. The section entitled ‘and fathers are the riddles of children’ is the highpoint for me. One is little moved these days by the shock tactics of a number of our poets, too many loud noises off stage, the competing lines of inane songs and advertising jargon vie for our attention, in these days of ‘everything is poetry’, man. Without getting into the minefield of what poetry is or isn’t, this last section for me is poetry of the highest order. The section takes the reader through the developing illness of the writer’s father, as the man’s condition becomes more critical leading to his death, the author explores the growth of his own under­standing of the relationship. Through this understanding, one is privileged to witness the writer’s own inner growth. I feel that good writing leaves one with a sense of shared experience, something added to one’s own understanding. This section did just that for me. Thank you, Neal Paech, I enjoyed your book.