If I were to open by describing my setting as a desk piled high with old issues of The London Magazine, the wine red May 1960 issue face down on top, rust-brown rimmed teacup marking the narrow No Man’s Land between the pile and my laptop, you would assume I were telling the truth. If I were to add that the red reminded me of blood spilled last week in rage and the brown rimmed cup of the plughole down which that blood spiraled, you would assume I was either lying or mad.
Essay | Personal Feeling is the Main Thing by Sue Hubbard
By Sue Hubbard I have long been interested in the work of Chantal Joffe and have written about her on…
Essay | Re-reading Frankenstein by Alice Dunn
It is tempting to read Frankenstein as a means of understanding Mary Shelley. 200 years after the novel was first…
Internet Poetry by Paul Gittins
In the seventh of his twelve lectures as Oxford Professor of Poetry, the late Geoffrey Hill took issue with the…
Kiss-Kiss-Kissuni by Frances Park
Memories. Some lie dormant for decades then suddenly spring awake, fresh as yesterday. I like to think the writer in…
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