The Lost Voices Found
There are absences within our poetry, art, prose, music, and politics – voices have been lost. We need only look at historical book-burnings to witness the political significance of the arts, and the censorship they have faced along the way. The canon is fundamentally flawed, and naturally, this
“If I was a poet, how would I write about this?”: In Conversation with Patrick McGuinness
“Losing a parent is something like driving through a plate-glass window. You didn’t know it was there until it shattered, and then for years to come you’re picking up the pieces – down to the last glassy splinter.” That’s Saul Bellow in a 1996 letter to Martin Amis. Later, Amis would rep
Talking Stunts with Kai Martin
So Kai, what have you been working on recently? I’ve been working on the Amazon Prime TV show, The Lord of the Rings: Rings of Power. We’re on season two now. The first season was shot in New Zealand and then they came over to the UK and predominantly I’ve been playing an orc.
Laurel and Sausages: ‘The Anachronistic Procession’ Unmasked
Spring arrived in German country. Over ash and rubble The first green of birch unfurled Tentative, delicate, and bold Out of the villages, as from the South A tattered procession of voters went forth Who carried with pomp, Two old banners. The stitches were ragged and worn And the inscription faded
Suzanne Ciani: A Pioneer of Electronic Music
A pioneer of electronic music, Suzanne Ciani was there in the 1960s when the genre was taking off. From creating iconic musical effects for adverts to self-producing albums and composing film scores, now, decades later, she is back where she first intended to be. Dubbed America’s female synt
confessions from the bathroom sink
tonight i beg of you, strip me naked of all pretences let us fester in the sinews of your bed feverish between bated breaths and sticky flesh. deliver me and sheathe me so that i may rebirth a thousand excuses for your fleeting gentleness. suddenly, it is July, the fields are burning. i
‘Bringing heaven down’: The Crucible Review
The stage is weeping rain, cold and blue. Behind the sheet of rain, a pair of candles glimmer on a frugal table. This breath-taking set, the work of Es Devlin, places us in Salem – in that dark, ascetic, stifling environment where only the rain is allowed to dance as it tumbles from the sky, [&hel
Soft Silicon
You’re reading this essay on your computer. Or phone. Or smart fridge. These words are hurtling through your skull like a pinball, streaking across your synapses and gap junctions until some combination of fricatives or diphthongs causes your mind to synthesize an emotion. Is it amusement, maybe?
Laissez les bons temps rouler
join the jazz funeral/ listen to the rehearsal/ pick the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall take shelter/ get hitched/ fry a dead catfish/ have a little Catholic mass/ count the seconds between the thunder and the flash clap your hands/ kiss your friends/ wander ‘r
