1. Articles
  2. Page 2

Long Learning

  the lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne… He walks in and out of my sleep wearing…

Under the Minarets

The moon is as ripe and heavy as a piece of fruit about to fall. Above us, the domes loom, fat and golden. Minarets conjure Samarkand, Bukhara, St. Petersburg. Beyond the lawns, the Number Two to Rottingdean chugs past.

Letting Go

This is an excerpt of this lovely poem. It should display on the front end of this site.

Subscribe for the latest from the UK’s oldest literary magazine.

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest poetry and prose, news and competition updates, as well as 10% off our shop. 

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.
SUBSCRIBE