Antonia Pont

I am reluctant to divulge for how long I deferred reviewing Meredith Wattison’s Terra Bravura. It languished with me during the later months of the first half of 2015, then, as I left the country in late June it joined the other analogue reads in my suitcase. Before my departure, I’d plunged in, but was unable to assemble for myself a sense of the individual poems and their relation, with the purpose, of course, of saying something about them that would do the work justice. Like a stern and observant child, the work insisted on a ‘doing justice’. Perhaps rather than opinions, what was gathering for me was a series of unrepresentables; atmospheres.