fled for the UK on the night of his eighth birthday, and has since become one of the English language's most limber wordsmiths.That limberness is evident here in liquid rhymes and consummate imagery (the kindly sun, "loafing around the garden" of a widow; a nine-year-old girl whose smile is "the crack/Between great landmasses of becoming") but it's history that powers these poems: great slugs of it, paying out across lengthy sequences on everything from the 1956 Hungarian uprising to the book-burning of the pungent title.
from Sarah Crown: The Guardian: Poetry in brief
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