Nick Laird

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In the midst of this lifelike grief I am stood at the cutlery drawer, and keep on standing here as if I might remember what I came in for, but then I think of something else, and head upstairs only to forget what that was and find myself

eyeing the unmade bed, the bookshelves, the snow still coming down outside and realise then, and lift a stack of printer paper and the safety scissors...

I took my daughter back to County Tyrone at the end of June to see my parents, and to spend some time with my sister and her children, who were also visiting. We did the usual: gorged on apple pancakes, spent a long time in Poundland, and trekked through Drum Manor Forest Park in the rain, dispensing bread to our children to feed the ducks, just like our parents used to do with us. And we...

Louis MacNeice’s influence is everywhere in contemporary poetry, in its forms and in its forms of engagement. Certain strands in his work – questions of identity, nationality, responsibility – became, with the advent of the Troubles, critically important to a celebrated generation of Northern Irish poets, poets like Derek Mahon, Michael Longley and Muldoon. These writers...

After that Etruscan she-wolf tenting milk-fat twins, the grabby cherubs added fairly awkwardly

around the time of Michelangelo, we chance upon Marsyas, nearly dead. Boxer’s nose. Cow’s lick. The arms tied

overhead standard white marble, as is the face, the beard, the gallows; a petrified tree with prettified leaves.

The torso though is pavonazzetto; the thin pink veins of...

Are you now or have you ever been skilled with silkworm gut or boric lint? How intimate are you with breathing

through a Carbolic Chinese Twist? Using the four-hand lift or bamboo splints? Are you now or have you ever been

conversant, properly, with pain? Bandages, assorted. Tincture Eucalyptus. How intimate are you with breathing

through artificial respiration? There is...