A new poem by John Burnside.
“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”
"Rough, tough to touch, / grooved ridged scaled".
His wife confirmed Hill passed away “suddenly, and without pain or dread”.
“Affection is not a currency.”
“Yes – I press my nose / to the pleasantly warm glass – / it’s a copy of one I saw / cased in the cool museum”
“My hand on what I take from time and this world / and the stone’s shadow there on the grass with mine.”
Why these two subjects are not as different as we might think and the science of what happens in the brain when we read poetry
In Minnesota, they reeled a sixty ton house / over ice: a caught fish.
Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy. . .