More than 30 years in the making, Frank Davey’s careful archaeology of the catalogue of innocence his youthful imagination assembled growing up in and immediately after World War II is a work of astonishment.
This is no lyrical work of sentimental nostalgia, no attempt to return to a romanticized “simpler past,” no rediscovery of “the child within,” but rather a careful reconstruction of “the child without.” The reader moves through these poems, neither sanitized nor updated by their passage through experience, as one would through a gallery installation of intensely personal epiphanies, both frightening and ecstatic, lucid and obscure. They are stripped of any cultural preconception, a Blakean vision of the good and evil men and women do as they engage the other in a world at war—a world where the war is always somewhere else, but where the enemy, unseen, is everywhere present in the invented surrogates of combat.