Midweek Cooking
This is mid-week cooking at its best—long, laborious and deeply discomforting. Traipse through the door at six, unfeeling, you’re too tired to do anything but this only takes two hours. Dinner comes together in three pans and your rusty Le Creuset, which makes washing up a dream. It could
In St James
In St James I lay sun-brushed and smothered; The seeping day flowed beneath the midday Air, the slow June sky hung high above, Spreading swimming shadows about My feet. The multrees whispered as away – Far away – their branches and furrowed leaves Brushed felted rushes. They spoke
Firsts
The first draft is almost always completely scrapped, reworded, reworked, refined, crumpled, torn up, and tossed away. The first pancake never turns out quite right–– does the first child? Everyone remembers their firsts: first steps, first kiss, first love, the first man on the moon. N
Three Movements
I: Allegro Scherzando in the stalls i was sitting with her (not she) while she (not her) sat high in the gods with a fairly mid-looking boy, despite which she kept looking at me through movements iv and v and though i saw her see me, never did i see her see me see her, […]
BEFORE THE CLOCK STRIKES TWENTY
o ambition! o hand of fate! here’s a deal: my girlhood for the rest of my life. pat me on the head, lead me into the woods, then either shoot me or shake my hand. i’ve made it this far––i’ve tricked you this far–– i’ve sat and stayed and obeyed this far–– i’ve not asked [&hel
The Flip Side – Editing the Archives
The flip side when Everything is a film and the Kodak squares overlap Sunlight on railing legs and you cross the road without pressing the button *pause breath birds wind cars* light headed head y d a z e w h e […]
Collage, your pieces do not quite Fit
You, rehearsed cynic at 18, lamented about modern poetry. ‘Not everything is like something else.’ No, but too naive to omit The unbearable likeness of your being. A facsimile of a facsimile, A patchwork hand-sewn man with hidden seams, An ego built on historicity and a hai
All That’s Left
After Liberty Brignall She fills the Emma Bridgewater mug with hot water—her daily cup of English breakfast tea, with more than a splash of milk. The mug has a permanent home on her desk, its polka dots striking as ever—red, yellow, green and the blueish purplish grey—which was it? They c
Dockyard Hymnal
You learned to love London at sixteen. All of it: from the streets around your home that your father wanted cleaned by baptism to the sludge of my banks. You had a love for that, though—the grubby, the many-sided. The only form of sacrament these streets ever get is when I am summoned to [&