Accordingly, I lay with my wife for three
Successive nights. During this exact period of time
The Mets beat the Cubs and it rained continuously.

October 8th. Fearful itching all over.
After much prodding and goading from H.
I agree to see a skin-specialist.

The park by starlight. The margins
Fill with doodles. This space, these
Pages, shelve ever more steeply into darkness ...

High Performance

Seaweed drips from one’s head
Looking like hair – only green, straggling,
And with innumerable pods to pop.

Together we wander on through this literary-critical
Conundrum. We’ve spoken of it before
And have agreed we’d die for less.

It’s all in the name of ‘high performance’,
Which really means good looks, a super intelligence,
And one of those tight-fitting, wavy-patterned sweaters.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
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London, WC1A 2HN


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Vol. 12 No. 11 · 14 June 1990

One is of course unshockable nowadays. But should the relatively small space devoted to poems each week in the LRB be filled with grotesqueries such as appeared in your issue of 24 May? Ms Pitt-Kethley’s nauseating comments on the smokers she takes to bed with her are not merely unbelievably nasty in their implications, but sick – an insult to your women readers, to the men they like and admire, and to a tradition of poetry that can accommodate John Wilmot, but prefers Andrew Marvell. By these standards Mr Mark Ford’s two banal exhibits are not poetry at all.

Elizabeth Hill

send letters to

The Editor
London Review of Books
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN


Please include name, address and a telephone number

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