Field Party

The sweet trace of fodderon the breeze, the acidof spilled cider. Occasional carstearing up the air, like the invitesnone of us had received.I don’t even remember a house.What signal set us heading outto ooze like summer starlingsfeeding on insects in the sky? Read more at The Poetry Village

The Monks

The river is high these early hours, a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. Someone coughs inside a distant cell, someone chants matins, somewherea renegade brother brews beer.Reports of plague illuminate our books,while the sandstone walls weep like open wounds. Young friars play football amongst bean canesand wild garlic, daydream of sunon white fences, earthly mores.  Read more on Allegro … Continue reading The Monks

Multi-Media Beats

'Words sing what mind brings' Jack Kerouac If you want to develop as a human being, never mind a writer, it's probably a good idea to kick any idealisation of the Beats. I've lost count of the number of people who have passed through my life with the appetite for a Beat biography without putting … Continue reading Multi-Media Beats

Recoleta Cemetery by Jorge Luis Borges

'Convinced of decrepitude By so many noble certainties of dust, We linger and lower our voices Among the long rows of mausoleums' Buenos Aires is a hybrid sprawl, a city driven by the tension of its tripartite cultures, the European, American and indigenous. In Palermo all the young speak English with dislocating American accents, and … Continue reading Recoleta Cemetery by Jorge Luis Borges