This is a fearless, clever, at times breathtaking, collection of poetry from Paterson, a Scottish poet. The title poem is of course ironic, but also heartbreaking and yet merciless, with echoes of a Christ complex and a setting in the dirty streets where women are commodities. I was profoundly moved and lifted by this uncompromising poem.
The title echoes through this collection. Though Paterson does have it wrong about the Shahrázád story - it was the ruler's Grand Vizier not the ruler who had the job of killing each virgin after her deflowering. No matter, all of these poems have at their heart a strong sense of the desperate straits into which we humans have got ourselves. Our relationships are barely worth the words that describe them, we are in Plato's cave, our world a tattered curtain on a broken window frame. We are powerless, damaged and damaging. Nothing comes of our struggles beyond the merest survival.
Very bleak, this vision, but such searing honesty, such burning truth within.