"Rough, tough to touch, / grooved ridged scaled".
From Virgil, the Aeneid, Book VI.
"A midwinter spring, of sorts, / the day you died. . ."
"They were my dad’s I tell him, recalling / how my father loved to savour a cigar after / a meal."
New voices join old friends in our selection of the best poems published in the New Statesman over the past 12 months.
"The ancient law: / the mass cannot be sung / without the wax".
“A cabbage white / bluster at the edge of sight.”
I wonder if they still are, wonder why, / While barely knowing a blue tit from a bullfinch, / I’m so stuck on old military hardware.
". . . in the quietest corner / of the Jardin du Luxembourg. . ."
"And through its stems the creatures/track their errands"
A snapshot of Kosovo.
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