In The Fireman’s Daughter Jonathan Kinsman uses his theological background to present a bruised, searing, and occasionally claustrophobic examination of the human condition. Kinsman’s poems are gripping, restless, and feel like there is always something at stake. Comfortable in myriad forms, terminally horny, with admirable self-confidence and bravado Kinsman is a poet “frightened of who we are in winter...frightened of what we will burn”.
PRAISE for The Fireman's Daughter:
These are poems which act as a two way mirror- peering deep into the scripture of the self and reflecting the holy book of the body back out into the chaotic, beautiful world.
— Andrew McMillan, 100 Queer Poems
Jonathan Kinsman’s The Fireman’s Daughter has the bombast of a Jim Steinman song (referenced in one poem), and the collection’s style can be summed up by the poem title ‘this is gonzo dream pornography, not forty winks erotica’. This poetry is sardonic, frank, and revelling in a queer sensibility antithetical to anything vanilla. It also offers a feast of well-observed, convincing poems, using form adeptly (the prose poem, slashes, the long line etc.) and exploring stirring themes. I find myself moved by Kinsman’s account of struggles with the body in poems like ‘my mother is buying me a bra’. Kinsman interrogates masculinity, ranging from an exploration of pop culture in ‘death of a boyband’ to an apology for men’s violations of others in ‘overture con sordina’. The body is grotesquely vulnerable too in poems like ‘gravedigger’ or when beachcombing for body parts in ‘how to walk on water’, and yet there is also so much joy and laughter in these poems. What daring, what vividness, and what surprise is found in Kinsman’s brilliant new collection.
— Zoë Brigley, Hand & Skull
AB
The New Merchants of Grain: Out of the Shadows
February 21, 2025
The Evolution of Grain Trade: Revisiting 'Merchants of Grain' and Its Modern Counterpart
Grain Trade Through Two Lenses I first read Merchants of Grain by Dan Morgan during my studies, and it left a lasting impression. I was captivated by the depth of Morgan’s investigation and his ability to unravel the complex power structures that shape the global grain trade. His critical approach and exposé-style narrative opened my eyes to the hidden forces influencing global food systems—a perspective that still resonates with me today. The global grain trade is a complex force shaping food security, geopolitics, and economic stability. Two books—Merchants of Grain by Dan Morgan (1979) and The New Merchants of Grain: Out of the Shadows by Jonathan Kingsman (2020)—offer a deep dive into this world, though from very different angles. Morgan’s work remains a classic exposé, unearthing the hidden networks of power within the grain trade, while Kingsman presents a more contemporary, data-driven analysis of how technology and globalisation have reshaped the industry. But can Kingsman’s work be seen as a continuation of Morgan’s? In some ways, yes—but with notable shifts in focus.
Morgan’s Sharp Lens: Power and Secrecy Dan Morgan takes an investigative approach, dissecting the influence of the ABCD companies—Archer Daniels Midland (ADM), Bunge, Cargill, and Louis Dreyfus. He paints a picture of a grain trade dominated by secrecy, monopolistic control, and geopolitical influence, particularly during the Cold War era. Morgan critiques the ethical blind spots of these corporations, exposing how market manipulation and corporate monopolies directly affect global food security. His narrative is a critical one, questioning not just the mechanics of the trade but its human cost. It’s this sharp, ethical inquiry that gives Merchants of Grain its lasting power.
Kingsman’s Broader Frame: Technology and Globalisation In con
I could tear open this glass, this gigantic wall, this wrap of yours, covering your stench and shame; I could slide away this granite door concealing your silent decay, and revealing to the world how sick and lonely your body is. You need help; you love pain; you cuddle the latter like a lover but you forsake the former like rain; you hug pleasure in shuffling along where you shove bravery, stoicism down the throat of others to sip, thinking you were the gushing of God. But I would puncture your ploy and wave a mirror to your intestines, for everyone to see and believe the decrepit ruins of your organs; how you succeed in curving a twisted body into looking like a gold and silver plate, without sparkles, without decorations. And if you received help, you would be your family's gold nothing ugly stays behind the time, to remind you of your former days. There would be sunflowers in your blood and your future sprawling before you, like urns of roses arrayed in the sun. If I were a piece of bone, I would not create in you a graveyard; I would hang on your lips like a ring, dress your ribs like a piece of cloth; I would wrap your body like the sky. that wraps itself around the clouds, like sleep cradling a hungry child.
A time came when every door through which I had gone in and out, gleaned the world like a mirror in a river, and observed the nakedness of men, through which I smiled at the sun from the pinnacles of skyscrapers, and shook hands with the moon from the midst of the clouds, closed against my frequent rapping. I hung onto hope with difficulty, like an axe head clinging to the axe and I didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to stop being so close, the back of a hand, the undertow, the thing attached to the substance, to those I love, those I cherish, until I drop into the river, unwound, the broken half of a yellow sun, whittled away like a springy ghost. The river received and curled around me; the crestless waves bubble like darkness an
Just Before We Go Against the comfort of our quiet house, the deafening noise of the huge clock, rattles its rocky foundations; soon, it will be departure time, and we must board the flight, nestle in the wings of the sky, rest our heavy heads in the boughs of the clouds, watch birds shrink like tiny points of light; we were born for this purpose, to cancel life, erase our bodies, delete our presence and prepare for this inconvenient journey which must come when the end intervenes in our future affairs, leaving with us the debris of memories; I can hear the aircraft engines revving, its wings outstretched, its wheels warming for the runway; soon the pilot will sit in the cockpit, and ask all to fasten their seatbelts. We must be among the seated, waiting for a take-off to commune with the clouds. Now that the clock is ticking, and the hours are diminishing into crumbs of speeding seconds. Call off this lumping of the flesh, bodies pushed to their limits. Let us spit out fiery speed like a cobra; preparing for the catastrophe angling its way towards us. Although the ticking of the clock, is loud and unmistakeable, roaring like a mountain falling, falling and falling with a heavy thud, we will not be hysterical, not without prayers or presence of mind; we will not be anxious about time, but let courage be our bunker where we hide our trembling hearts, and allow the ticking clock empty itself into the valley of light; we must make our dreams pedestrian, achieved when grace sneaks into our hearts, or shields us from harm. All things happen with a thrumming power of raising our stars to the sky. Although the past is hanging over us, if our reasons and our hearts are clear, there is no need to fear the ticking clock.
A Broken Heart The day I realised that my heart broke, like the stalk of corn ripped in summer, or a mountain of red sand razed by storm, by a violent wind or a wild goose, I rushed to the roadside vulcaniser to help me stitch its pieces