A true American demotic, Bill's Boys is a difficult register, but here's a poet able to tackle it.. Not since the late, great, Thomas McGrath has a poet spoken so clearly of working class life in its own true tone, as McEwen does here in grim stories from hardworking lives, unsparing, unsentimental but shot through with love and courage -- not least the courage of unsparing truths from the dark intersections between Irish and American histories, so rarely spoken of, much less examined. Without the whiskey he still had his spellsof standing-steady rolling when he'd grabthe earless side of his damp head and squeezeit hard, then knuckle it. The first time Iremember it his eyes began to writhelike molten stones. From corded neckon down his convoluted body rolledand plunged and pitched while standing still, his feetclamped solid on the pitching floor. And whileI cowered behind the sofa bed I sawmy mother leap beyond the kitchen witha wet dish rag she flailed against his headand face until he stopped, and she had flungherself about him like a throbbing shawl.