There you are: lurking in plain sight not even at the bottom of my garden; the birds and squirrels know you and at night the fox will seek your shelter, dodge the moon. Shaggy, disregarded,...
A review of The Poison Glen by Annemarie Ní Churreáin. Gallery Press (Oldcastle, Ireland 2021) Pbk. 72 pages. £10.95. The ‘Magdalen Laundries’ scandal has thrown up a fair amount of literature. Sometimes this is totally...
She holds his body in her arms, the body she holds is a man's body beard still growing, skin leathered toenails strong but chipped from walking muscles and sinews even now defined beautiful, rigid, withdrawing...
The Possibility of Innocence by Nicholas Bielby. Graft Poetry, (Bradford 2019). Pbk. 90 pages. £10.50. Two things struck me about this collection: the technical skill, even virtuosity of the poet, and a quality of achieved...
My grandson is non-verbal curled up behind the wall his beast is there asleep but not asleep in silence it grunts and snorts and moans he prods it into dancing at the abstract heart of...
But what when language fails us? or do we fail the language like some terrible exam that passes us as human? When words refuse to come or hide in strange disguises, when dancing shapes in...
Since I started rereading Eliot’s Four Quartets, the world has been struck by the coronavirus pandemic. Remembering that the Quartets were written just before and during World War II, I wondered what, if any, solace...
They say now that a healthy heartbeat is always irregular, a changing pattern of single events whose fragile rhythm affirms response to our moments of knowledge. I could compute the universal sum of heartbeats but...
