Poetry review – BREATHING : Gareth Writer-Davies reviews a collection by David Van-Cauter which deals painstakingly and intimately with some of life’s tough questions
Breathing
David Van-Cauter
Arenig Press
ISBN 978-1-999849-19-1
pp 46 £7.50
There are times in this collection that I want the author to scream and shout. But he is the passive observer, as life happens to him, which is the secret agent role of many poets. Van-Cauter is always himself, imbued with a type of Englishness that doesn’t want to make visible fuss or act too swiftly; indeed we wouldn’t have these poems of keen observation if Van-Cauter didn’t stand, or indeed sit, back whilst others take the lead. Only in extremis does he act; and then only to a stranger whose car door he has scratched.
The collection is divided into three parts, each with an illustration hinting at its contents. Part i starts with “Meerkats” those watchful creatures, beloved by the advertising industry. Here they decorate his Mother’s dustbin and the poem sets the tone for what is to follow:
My mother has stuck meerkats to her bins.
I ask her why.
She says because the butterflies have peeled off.
That makes sense, I reply.
There is much to be sorted out; the bins will be useful as the house is full of junk, strange DIY, cats. Dirt, dust and cat shit everywhere, Mother is showing signs of deterioration and Van-Cauter bravely goes where others might not:
She exists in two states simultaneously:
then, when her son was young,
and now, when he cannot love her.
("The Impossible Mother")
Mothers and cats; not a zeitgist poetry combination, but Van-Cauter makes it work, the felines mimicking the mother/son dynamic.
All flesh must pass, so does Mother and there is of course the Christmas card list morphing into a checklist of who to tell:
It's time to disconnect them.
Dear Unknown, we are very sad to let you know…
("The Unknowns" )
Van-Cauter knows where to break the line in a verse and there is a prose poem about boxing up clutter which cleverly resembles the receptacle.
Thus into Part ii where still touched by her absence, the poet-son is sensing his own mortality:
I have so many creams now-
drops and balms and unguents for every orifice
that never really heal anything, just cover up
the cuts and scratches we accrue.
("Cracks")
Now politics enters as he wraps pulled weeds in a copy of the Mail; a visit to Swindon in ‘Brexit-battered Britain’ does little to lift the mood:
"The hill of swine"-
the pigs responsible, elsewhere.
…
("After Swindon")
The house must be cleared and sold, bags taken to the tip and Van-Cauter is forced to realise that his annoyance at his Mother was part of the inevitable give and take of family dynamics:
…
I am too bulky for this life-
you seemed to make
this awkward shape
fit.
("House Clearance")
This is a theme of the collection; the untidy, haphazard, accumulation and stowage of things that both support and trap us. They may even harm us as we try to fit our shape to theirs.
Part ii could easily have been a continuation of Part i and I see no reason why it shouldn’t have been. The stuff of life continues (as it has to) even during such periods of high stress.
Part iii of this short collection contains nine poems about attempts by Van-Cauter and his wife to have a child. (The death of his wife and the aftermath was the main subject of his previous collection with Arenig Press, Mirror Lake (2019).) Breathing and the effort to do so dominate as precious IVF material is stuck in a traffic jam and full stops are small lives that do not go to term:
We are buoyant – first scan, six weeks.
In the waiting room, I am all smiles,
but you know, somehow.
When the nurse finds nothing, you start to cry.
I hear the words ectopic,
emergency, the baby will be lost.
Alone by Sainsbury’s, I jerk open the door,
scratch the neighbouring car. I slump
over the wheel – you cannot see me like this.
("August 2nd")
The poem “March 8th” takes us to a funeral service with the smallest coffin they make and an anniversary where the not-to-be Mother and not-to-be Father are at cross purposes:
– a would-be date
when our ghost-child is born.
I didn’t know
and, in my bubble,
arranged to go away without you.
When I told you,
real anger:
How could you even think…
The previously short, punchy lines become broken up to reflect crises that befall the couple. This is done skillfully in a way that does not feel intrusive.
The poems key into a similar mood from first to last, as they breathe in and breathe out. But as the novelist Janice Galloway says ‘the trick is to keep breathing’. And with an optimism that things will get better, the final poem “Chasing Sunsets” tells us
Tomorrow we travel a new road
towards another death,
only so we can say
we were there
and we saw
how it ended.
The end is inevitable and human endings pervade this book; some come after long lives and some come before a life really got started. The author struggles hard to make sense of how and when to begin even as middle-age obtrudes; and he largely succeeds in this difficult task once the reader adapts to his rhythm.
This is not a book wherein startling metaphors and thunderous declarations burst from the pages. These poems describe gently and patiently the challenges which are met in suburbs and small towns and with which most readers will be familiar. It’s relatable work. Read the lines and then read what’s written between them.
Nov 28 2025
London Grip Poetry Review – David Van-Cauter
Poetry review – BREATHING : Gareth Writer-Davies reviews a collection by David Van-Cauter which deals painstakingly and intimately with some of life’s tough questions
There are times in this collection that I want the author to scream and shout. But he is the passive observer, as life happens to him, which is the secret agent role of many poets. Van-Cauter is always himself, imbued with a type of Englishness that doesn’t want to make visible fuss or act too swiftly; indeed we wouldn’t have these poems of keen observation if Van-Cauter didn’t stand, or indeed sit, back whilst others take the lead. Only in extremis does he act; and then only to a stranger whose car door he has scratched.
The collection is divided into three parts, each with an illustration hinting at its contents. Part i starts with “Meerkats” those watchful creatures, beloved by the advertising industry. Here they decorate his Mother’s dustbin and the poem sets the tone for what is to follow:
There is much to be sorted out; the bins will be useful as the house is full of junk, strange DIY, cats. Dirt, dust and cat shit everywhere, Mother is showing signs of deterioration and Van-Cauter bravely goes where others might not:
She exists in two states simultaneously: then, when her son was young, and now, when he cannot love her. ("The Impossible Mother")Mothers and cats; not a zeitgist poetry combination, but Van-Cauter makes it work, the felines mimicking the mother/son dynamic.
All flesh must pass, so does Mother and there is of course the Christmas card list morphing into a checklist of who to tell:
It's time to disconnect them. Dear Unknown, we are very sad to let you know… ("The Unknowns" )Van-Cauter knows where to break the line in a verse and there is a prose poem about boxing up clutter which cleverly resembles the receptacle.
Thus into Part ii where still touched by her absence, the poet-son is sensing his own mortality:
I have so many creams now- drops and balms and unguents for every orifice that never really heal anything, just cover up the cuts and scratches we accrue. ("Cracks")Now politics enters as he wraps pulled weeds in a copy of the Mail; a visit to Swindon in ‘Brexit-battered Britain’ does little to lift the mood:
"The hill of swine"- the pigs responsible, elsewhere. … ("After Swindon")The house must be cleared and sold, bags taken to the tip and Van-Cauter is forced to realise that his annoyance at his Mother was part of the inevitable give and take of family dynamics:
…
I am too bulky for this life- you seemed to make this awkward shape fit. ("House Clearance")This is a theme of the collection; the untidy, haphazard, accumulation and stowage of things that both support and trap us. They may even harm us as we try to fit our shape to theirs.
Part ii could easily have been a continuation of Part i and I see no reason why it shouldn’t have been. The stuff of life continues (as it has to) even during such periods of high stress.
Part iii of this short collection contains nine poems about attempts by Van-Cauter and his wife to have a child. (The death of his wife and the aftermath was the main subject of his previous collection with Arenig Press, Mirror Lake (2019).) Breathing and the effort to do so dominate as precious IVF material is stuck in a traffic jam and full stops are small lives that do not go to term:
We are buoyant – first scan, six weeks. In the waiting room, I am all smiles, but you know, somehow. When the nurse finds nothing, you start to cry. I hear the words ectopic, emergency, the baby will be lost. Alone by Sainsbury’s, I jerk open the door, scratch the neighbouring car. I slump over the wheel – you cannot see me like this. ("August 2nd")The poem “March 8th” takes us to a funeral service with the smallest coffin they make and an anniversary where the not-to-be Mother and not-to-be Father are at cross purposes:
The previously short, punchy lines become broken up to reflect crises that befall the couple. This is done skillfully in a way that does not feel intrusive.
The poems key into a similar mood from first to last, as they breathe in and breathe out. But as the novelist Janice Galloway says ‘the trick is to keep breathing’. And with an optimism that things will get better, the final poem “Chasing Sunsets” tells us
Tomorrow we travel a new road towards another death, only so we can say we were there and we saw how it ended.The end is inevitable and human endings pervade this book; some come after long lives and some come before a life really got started. The author struggles hard to make sense of how and when to begin even as middle-age obtrudes; and he largely succeeds in this difficult task once the reader adapts to his rhythm.
This is not a book wherein startling metaphors and thunderous declarations burst from the pages. These poems describe gently and patiently the challenges which are met in suburbs and small towns and with which most readers will be familiar. It’s relatable work. Read the lines and then read what’s written between them.