I’m not sure I remember what we did
before we LOVED. Were we gherkins bobbing
in our harmless jars, with vinegar and seeds?
A poem by E M Forster, first published in the New Statesman on 6 August 1938.
Think it's impossible to write poetry about video games? Wrong! A selection of poems by Kirsten Irving and Jon Stone.
Ezra Pound mesmerises crowds
with his which-fez-is-hiding-the-pince-nez shtick
while Gertrude Stein, astride two palomino hinnies,
locale lyric & all the ls
a shell where a mollusc dwells
worn almost flat
(from a notice in the local drycleaners’ window)
In the end it’s obscenely easy –
the sudden windfall, a debit card
a phone call.
I stare at magnolia walls,
same colour, same picture frames –
The clouds lower and darken as they advance
giving the prairie a rare sense of border or boundary,
its only possible limit in nature.