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Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: ‘Parallel Lives’

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Indefinite Lent

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The House of York

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Secrets are like sex

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Caroline Gordon v. Flannery O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

How to set up an ICU

Lana Spawls

Follow the Science

James Butler

Two PoemsIan Patterson
Close
Close

Marsh Air I

Its very silhouette was an echo of fancy paint
approached on time, I thought, to drive hands down
the throat in a second with nothing much to tell

Off in a whistle soon she was forced to write his type
so what must scarcely exist was drawn and died free
of air and local looks back into the time of this.

Better ventures rock in flat belief and he loves the
feeling used by lines to remind him of remains to visit,
or to fling as a piece in the sack out on her only ground,

yet then talkative in the open window curving down
like a curtain on themselves and a book. I eat and read
wraiths or moors, thought tones madly for a moment settle

like steel out of my face watched to nod, go on folded up
with him. Rest was strange, a fret scent over later feet
down a flight for all to go and see why air terrifies a name:

as well drop the skin pinned now when this little stage
broke well or couldn’t fancy down the feeling before dinner.
Just halt there in the wind, as so often death may come up

on one of these days caught by a note fired three times
then resumed in front of his own attention, a life to be held
on the other side of the wound after things rigidly said,

without saying which is such fun for all of that waving
in a burst of unsuitable light or panic reduced and removed
to babble of what they call a seagull glowing and passing.

Marsh Air XII

Intent on one to multiply a sudden voice from an old
dream into a murmur I know, the time is bits and scraps
to understand how always geography could be animals as such
and be more than you must be every day to always last

Made out of the blue, others buried in earth or turned
to ash at last its humanity must begin to listen at night
vigilant under the ropes to question words that like stopping
for breath or saying what pearl that lukewarm adjacency!

A further moment is an instant now above this brief stay
to uncord all the regulated tracts of time into something anyhow
alive in a mouth and its heady movements. What now happens
in spite of the very calm aspens finds each the lower witness

The movements they cause humanity piled with age dust
with more forgotten words in their satchel eyes and dormant ears
rest briefly by my more than only slightly known headway
trying to utter sackfuls of no stone untermed, no stone given to the mud.

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