did not cancel his flight from the bridge. Take it to the bridge, that pause, ...

Walking Down First Avenue the Other Day, They Were Tearing Down That Place We Used to Hang Out All the Time When It Was New ...

When I began Zion Offramp in the summer of 2015—at first without title, then under another title best forgotten—I knew little of where I was going, only that I wanted to attempt a poem of substantial ...

“Because I need a passionate syntax for passionate subject-matter I compel myself to accept those traditional metres that have developed with the language… All that is personal soon rots, it must be ...

the stone that would create sparks when struck against. how it would unravel, pan out. Still the margins carry the weight. How still are the margins against which we shuffle. I didn’t stop the seesaw ...

Can I read or write? No sir. Speak loud and clearly? Yes. Can I sing my homeland? I tell him the hills I left when soldiers made me a soldier. Cigar Man nods. His nib moves on as a blackbird addresses ...

fire, however the words you read might burn. The words you read, the words you wrote: spectral agencies infecting the futurepast.

< from Book 11 A Fortnightly Serial. By ANTHONY HOWELL. ANTHONY HOWELL writes: My own romantic notion of myself has encouraged me to attempt an epic. It will have 24 books and be the same length as ...

the Valley is home against all odds to me. It’s nurture, I guess is why. Why I stop here every winter, and each time, with my toes on the edge of the valley wall, threatening a slip or a free fall, I ...

Having scaled the wall, they leapt over the bristling shards of broken glass, hoping to land softly in the slop-pile left over from last year’s meager scrapings. As they fell endlessly, they came to ...

The state of things here in London is, as I see it, as follows: I find Mr. Yeats the only poet worthy of serious study. Mr. Yeats’ work is already a recognized classic and is part of the required ...

Professionals aving scaled the wall, they leapt over the bristling shards of broken glass, hoping to land softly in the slop-pile left over from last year’s meager scrapings. As they fell endlessly, ...