A new poem by Matthew Hollis.
Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy. . .
The Hidden Histories podcast.
What I can remember are taxis and a long walk by the docks. . .
“Edges: where owls and snow drift / down, spill quietly and stifle”
“Then – surprise – a pale sun picks at a slit / in the paper sky.”
“You won’t be sure of its arrival / until it rolls up to your curb”
New poetry from John Kinsella.
First published in the New Statesman on 23 October 1920.
“And though sometimes the weather is extreme / It seems no more so than when we were young. . .”
I lie in bed until The World at One, / why should my heart go off with an alarm?
The Zombie PM
The doomed premiership of Theresa May