Poem: ‘Massacre of the Innocents’

Michael Symmons Roberts, 30 June 2016

It was just a handful – five or six – but they spread themselves around us, hid behind trees, began a sotto voce incantation made of nonsense: jingoistic rhymes, unsolvable riddles,...

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Poem: ‘Trump for President!’

Frederick Seidel, 30 June 2016

A perfect week for digging up the block. If you care, you repair The infrastructure or it will despair. Bear with the noise! We aren’t made of air.Tyrannosaurus rex on tires, gorging...

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Proper Ghosts: ‘The Monk’

Dinah Birch, 16 June 2016

In the early 1980s​, before hitch-hikers disappeared from the roads, I gave a lift to a couple of teenage Goths on the way to Stratford-upon-Avon. Their cheerful conversation was reassuringly...

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I have​ a sort of moral-aesthetic compass rose I like to play with. The designations are approximate and subject to change, but for now they go like this: North-South is the axis of...

Read more about Hoo-Hooing in the Birch: Tomas Tranströmer

Two Poems

August Kleinzahler, 16 June 2016

Micino I found under the tongue, when he opened wide, a harvest of minuscule Thai red peppers clustered either side of his pink frenulum, twin fields of fiery stalagmites. And as if that were...

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List your enemies: Deborah Levy

Alice Spawls, 16 June 2016

In Almería​ in the heat of summer, the temperature reaches 40 degrees, and no rain falls. It looks like a lunar landscape: parched, craterous, unreal. In the distance, white tents...

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Two Poems

Robert VanderMolen, 16 June 2016

After a Spate of Sleet and Hail He dreamed of smoke – An electrical fire? Woke, stumbled Through the house, the smell Vanishing, a wisp rising nightward. Back in bed, restless with the...

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Poem: ‘30 Rue Duluth’

August Kleinzahler, 2 June 2016

– Elvis is dead, the radio said, where it sat behind a fresh baked loaf of bread and broken link of kobasc fetched only lately from Boucherie Hongroise:Still Life without Blue Pitcher. I...

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Smirk Host Panegyric: J.H. Prynne

Robert Potts, 2 June 2016

‘It is the fate​ of some artists,’ John Ashbery once remarked, ‘and perhaps the best ones, to pass from unacceptability to acceptance without an intervening period of...

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Poem: ‘CCTV’

Jean Sprackland, 2 June 2016

Exalted on towers and posts and fitted with articulated necks that tilt, cock and swivel like the necks of owls, silent and absolute. Like owls, they have a zealous gaze that does not falter,...

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Fue el estado: Elmer Mendoza

Tony Wood, 2 June 2016

Writing​ in 1973, the Mexican critic Carlos Monsiváis argued that, for a number of reasons, his country lacked a genuine crime fiction tradition of its own. For one thing, if Mexican...

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for Lucas There is too much light in the world to bear the weight of Euclid, too much fog, with shore birds, bright in the salt-water channels thinning the sands, the Black-Tailed Godwit, the...

Read more about Poem: ‘Crane Watching in Ostprignitz-Ruppin, November 2014’

Under the Flight Path: Christopher Middleton

August Kleinzahler, 19 May 2016

Christopher Middleton​ hated New York. Among the things he particularly disliked, I suspect, is New York’s position as a cultural bazaar, where reputations are bought, sold and traded,...

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Story: ‘Kinsella in His Hole’

Hilary Mantel, 19 May 2016

The year we killed our teacher we were ten, going on eleven. Mitch went first, the terrier, a snappy article with a topknot tied with a tartan ribbon. The morning we saw him we hooted.

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Poem: ‘Mitte’

Paul Nemser, 19 May 2016

By the time the company reconfigured the work plan, I was too old to use any of my skills, But I went along looking for another pile of trinkets, figuring my pockets were hardly full. When we...

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On 16 March 1810​ a Mrs Martin, a ‘labourer’s wife’, was working a field near Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon when she turned up an old gold signet ring bearing on...

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Poem: ‘Understandably’

John Ashbery, 5 May 2016

It’s beautiful, and all that: the corner student with the carpet tunnel or you just don’t know where to get one which is all that matters. I didn’t know but what during our...

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Like many British writers in the 1930s, Huxley had been lured to Hollywood by the easy money supposedly on offer from the studios, which liked to parade a certain literary pedigree.

Read more about Hug me till you drug me: Aldous Huxley