The Blood House is the debut pamphlet from Bristol-based poet Sarer Scotthorne. The cover is graced by the poet’s artwork, followed by a transparent page with blood blots which give me a first impression of what the poetry will be: an investigation, a look beyond the veil.
First poem ‘The way seagulls fly’ gives a curious introduction:
Blown like a dishcloth,
bish bosh into the wind.
I wanted to scream and shout.
It’s like my life too, you know.
Scotthorne’s poems and prose weave an unconventional – almost indie film –depiction of a survivor of sexual abuse. It isn’t graphic: Scotthorne, like a true writer, only gives glimpses and need not undermine her reader’s intellect. For instance “… dance to your Daddy…” (Daddy’s Dance), and the father’s drunken behaviour are shown, but the narrative is not dedicated to describing the perpetrator. It’s about the journey of the survivor.
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