October’s best new YA: poetry, philosophy, politics (and kissing)

When we think about “how to read poetry” – if we are the sort of people who think about such things – we’re likely to think: “Well, what does it mean?” What is the poetry “really” trying to say here? Because we know the truth: poets are crafty fiends who always have an important “theme”; our job is to decipher it in the correct way, and then (because this may be the last time many of us read poetry) to write that answer in the exam.

Sarah Crossan, editor of Tomorrow Is Beautiful (Bloomsbury, £12.99), suggests an alternate way of reading poetry: "aloud and with a booming, bogus confidence!" This poetry anthology speaks of hope and wellbeing, offering light in the darkness without – and this distinction is vital – pretending the darkness doesn't exist.

hematically it echoes many recently published titles in both UK and US (among my favourites are The Emergency Poet and The Poetry Pharmacy), but is aimed particularly at young people. And although it may feel like “a pandemic book”, the project has a longer backstory, drawing on Crossan’s time as our fifth Laureate na nÓg and her #WeAreThePoets initiative.

The passion Crossan has for poetry as a form of self-expression and a way of understanding the world has always been implicit in her own verse novels. But in her short notes and introductions to particular poems, she affirms #WeAreThePoets – that this form that often feels elitist is something we all can, and should, have access to. There’s a mix of what we might think of as “optimism touchstones”; inevitably, Dickinson’s hope-bird appears, as does Henley’s Invictus and more contemporary work, including new material from Crossan herself (her poem Notes from the Pit is a stand-out).

Why American monsters talk to Michael Wolff

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I was a sporting klutz. Then rowing made me

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Index, A History of the: Detailed account of the index through the ages

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The way in which poems are often engaged in conversations with one another is shown over and over – there’s a particularly strong sequence featuring responses to Maya Angelou – and readers may find themselves prompted to scribble a few lines themselves (then hide them under the bed), reassured that “originality” is found simply through using your own voice.

What a joy of a book this is. To paraphrase Wendy Cope: I love it. I’m glad it exists.

“Nowadays philosophers are hardly ever tortured, because most people ignore them completely, and it’s hard to say which is the worse fate for philosophy and the people who practice it, being tortured or being ignored.”

Lemony Snicket (pen name of Daniel Handler) returns as the narrator of a strange and curious tale, Poison for Breakfast (Rock the Boat, £10.99), which begins as a mystery (as per the title, it relates to the matter of one's morning meal being potentially fatal) and then segues into musings on literature and language, suffering and loneliness, strangers and journeys. Like much of Snicket's work, it's ostensibly for a young audience while having much to offer adults; this title, with its playful yet accessible ponderings on the world around us, sits particularly well on the YA shelves.

Two of the field's biggest names – Jennifer Niven (All the Bright Places) and David Levithan (Boy Meets Boy; Every Day) – team up for a he-said-she-said account of a family where (it slowly becomes clear) emotional abuse has been normalised. Take Me with You When You Go (Penguin, £7.99) sees siblings Ezra and Bea send secret emails to one another after Bea runs away. At first it seems as though Bea (known as a "troublemaker") is simply making another bad decision, chasing after a boy she's met online, but a few swerves along the expected path help us to see that the primary concern here is family and the often dark secrets that can lurk behind a bright, smiling facade.

This is a smart pairing, and a chance for two writers whose work is primarily known for its romantic elements to put their capacity to interrogate family dynamics at centre-stage. As one might expect from these authors, there are heart-breaking moments, as when one of the protagonists tries to justify the abuse suffered:

“It could always be worse. I’ve listed all the ways it could be worse. This Is Not As Bad As That. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this was the wrong game to play? Why didn’t I understand how broken my frame of reference was, and that I wasn’t the person who’d broken it?” Moving, compelling, brilliant.

There are some impressive debuts this autumn, including a gothic mystery set amid the swamps and superstitions of Louisiana. In Ginny Myers Sain's Dark and Shallow Lies (Electric Monkey, £8.99), the small town of La Cachette is full of psychics – but "Psychic Capital of the World or not, people down here still live by a certain code. You don't get mixed up with what goes on behind closed doors."

The summer she’s 17, the summer her best friend is missing, Grey starts uncovering what’s behind those doors – unspooling a mystery that dates back 13 years, and which may implicate the whole community. This page-turning thriller is, at times, a little crowded with minor characters, but its eeriness and sense of atmosphere more than make up for it.

The power of dystopian fiction to explore political issues is unlikely to vanish any time soon; Melissa Welliver's The Undying Tower (Agora Books, £8.99) is the first in a trilogy set in the near future, in which Britain (now the Avalonia Zone) enforces strict rules about what the Undying, a minority whose genetic differences protect them from ageing, are allowed do.

Art student Sadie is only vaguely aware of the unfairness of it all until she’s arrested for a crime she didn’t commit – and discovers she is one of them.

Imprisoned with other underage delinquents in “The Tower” and promised that her father – in need of a heart transplant to survive – will live if she carries out a secret mission, Sadie finds herself questioning the very basis of the society she lives in. Welliver breathes new life into familiar tropes; this is a gripping read.

Finally, Michelle Quach's Not Here to Be Liked (Usborne, £7.99) is a love letter to "difficult" girls, the sort classmates describe as "kind of intense . . . harsh . . . overly critical". Narrator Eliza notes that "everyone loves a girlboss until she tries to tell you what to do". When she seeks out a leadership role as editor of her school newspaper, the less qualified male candidate gets it: "Girls get judged for their past; guys get judged for their potential."

Beginning from an unapologetically feminist standpoint allows the book to explore what happens beyond simply recognising that sexism still rages. What does effective activism look like? Why do we try to distance ourselves from others in the hope that it will protect us? And, is it “stupid or empowering” to kiss the boy who effortlessly nabbed the job you wanted?

This is a romantic comedy with depth, a classic enemies-to-lovers plot that resists simple answers. It also delves into “child-of-immigrant duties”, the tasks many young people find themselves taking on when their parents’ English skills falter in the face of American bureaucracy. Quach’s ability to blend these topics together seamlessly, as well as deliver a pitch-perfect voice for Eliza, makes her a writer to watch.