If poetry in general is a niche art with values inscrutable to outsiders, then perhaps science fiction poetry is doubly so. Treated with disdain by the mainstream surrounding it—except when favoured poets make forays into its territory, at which point the reassessments of genre so familiar from reviews of sf novels by otherwise mainstream writers are deployed: “it’s not really science fiction; it’s too good for that”—it revels in its own stylistic code, uncaring, its back turned on fashion.

End result: science fiction poetry is rarely an easy read, emotionally or mechanically, and Steve Sneyd’s work as collected here illustrates that point perfectly. It is reminiscent of the concrete-phase sf poetry of Edwin Morgan, combined with a Cummings-like allergy to punctuation and a pathological avoidance of pronouns; there are no chime-rhyming stanzas or trite metaphors to be found. Instead, Sneyd favours distinctive but difficult voices, seemingly tapping into them at the level of subvocalisation rather than conscious utterance. Some say that poetry is both for the ear and for the eye, but Sneyd’s material leans heavily toward being a visual experience first and foremost.

Sneyd asks the same big questions about humanity and its place in the universe that the more ponderous sf novelists tend to favour, adding another layer of challenge to his work. One-off time travellers pine for another trip to the future; artificial consciousnesses agonise over their contradictory existences as slaves of their creators; a girl with psychic powers turns a lover’s orgasm into a gruesome and ironic not-so-little death; spaceship crews stoically accept the random cullings demanded by the caprice of the universe in exchange for the ability to voyage. There is much depth and philosophy to Sneyd’s poems; dark beauty awaits those willing to put their backs into the solitary work of prospecting for it.