A new poem by Jo-Ella Sarich.
"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.
“The adulteress” and “The H Man”.