Events and sudden absences Being inhabitants of older vintage,we pass on by, for the most part,and rarely meet. Any conversationis likely to be short, could be the firstfor years and rich as a result, even ifwe do not know each other’s names. Houses here were built an age ago.They seem to be identical. We…

Saying Our Goodbyes The ward sister points us to your single room.It seems that you’re asleep as we come in but when Dad leans across and says your nameyour eyes open and there you are, thinner now, a fragile patch of chest above the gown,your bicep hanging like a loop of dough but you –…

Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends He says he’ll arrive in Portland tomorrow.It’s his turn to pay—In the silence before the restaurant opens,he arrives early. A self-serve hot pot,steam rising to fend off winter.The union of dead volcanoes and roses,perfect in his mind—a scene from an Italian art film,woven into the hum of lobby music.…

TFI Friday…Oh, it’s Tuesday FYI, it’s day three of a one day pow wow,via an all-hands to the pump conference call,with space and sufficient time built in as standardfor conflabs or face-to-face break-out huddle-ups, but IRL, I’ve finally finished workshoppingmy life choices across whiteboards, neon Post-itsand A3 sheets of paper. The colour-codinghas run riot. I’m…

For the fifth event in the Wild Court Reading Series, we are delighted to welcome acclaimed poet Sascha A. Akhtar. Sascha is the author of seven metaphysical poetry collections, a short story collection Of Necessity And Wanting embracing social realism, and a volume comprising a biography and first-time translations of Hijab Imtiazs’ little known manuscript Adab-E-Zareen (Oxford University Press,…

Flute Lesson Played with real feeling,my examiner wrote. I envied cellists and pianists –they didn’t require one breath to flowfrom their lungs, up tremulous throat, to mouth,through neatly-aligned embouchure to air. In the school orchestraI mimed high C.I stopped my breath and hid beneaththe other flautists’ reach. I wanted my notes to rise – meldwith…

Unfulfilled Playlist Inside the algorithm,no ratty-looking bloke hogs the ‘just-in’ section.Index finger flicking past clear plastic-coatedLPs, one album at a time. Animated mouthexpressing experienced appraisal of eachand every record he encounters. Eyessidle to the right, beneath his 1950s shades.Perusing other customers – rivals, coughingin impatience, anxious to get their hands onthe goods that he’s inspecting.…

The Mountain The mountain is a hostage-taker.By the time you reach the summit it may already be too late.When the path forks follow the stones and the moss,but listen to what the silence is telling you. The mountain wears a collar of lace.All those little bits of symmetry snicked out so prettilyby the wind as…

Delphi

Lent It can be as simple as this: the sound of someone hooveringmakes you turn around from your desk to look, and thereon your bedroom wall is an impossible sunlit imageyou’ve never seen before, in all the twenty yearsyou’ve lived in this north-facing room, which never sees sunlightbetween October and March – but here are…

Undertow Eyes wide in the dark, I listen. A thud upon the hull,drumming, like a cold caller stoic at a bolted door.I lift the hatch and go outside. Bright starsdulled by the galaxy of city. I grab the gaffand spear, jabbing at the dead. Before it surfaced,glowing. The sharp teeth bared in a tight cruel…

These poems were originally published on Wild Court in March 2022. Susumu The sun beat down on Tokyo intensely:Forty-five in the shade. The matsu treeStretched out across Susumu’s back garden,Providing relief from the scorching heat. Susumu’s dad had finally convincedHim to have the minor operation:Yarinasai, he’d growled, don’t be a coward –Susumu was frightened but…

  Visiting Mary I visit the place I imagine her in.I practice walking the tall grassto the stony house,the bit of rock they’ve left, a candleto mark she was there,that someone is there to find.I practice shutting the door in my mind,driving straight.It won’t matter how abandoned—the place will be ringing with crickets.The low, twitching…

  Marginal for Michael Brown And let us not dispraise the quiet manwho on a hundred acres sets back tenfor voles to tunnel in, finches to congregate,for beasts too slender for the eye to seeto populate, flit, crawl in at their whim.Some narrow path where small heathbutterflies proliferate, where upright parsleysalts the hedge and trefoil…

Three Silences Bone dust and cold thick haunting silence restswhere pews and people creak and break the peaceand echo of my prayer, the echo of the priestdark wood pervades. Dark silent shelter tempts.Dim light breaks, soft soothing mellow silencethis gentle touch. This now. This edge of day.The lightness of my breath. Eternal graceas fine silk…

For the fourth event in the Wild Court Reading Series, we are delighted to welcome celebrated US-based poet, translator and literary critic Kimberly Johnson. Kimberly will be reading and in conversation with Dr Hannah Crawforth, Reader in Early Modern Literature at King’s College London. The event takes place on KCL’s Strand Campus, London, from 6.30pm…

New Year Doors are locked to neighbours nowat midnight on Hogmanay,the ‘first-fit’ a thing of the past:my grandparents’ house heaving with guests,the coal fire crackling, the craicmixing with smoke in the atmosphere. I tell the bairn of it like some mythabout a hearth long agowhen Daddy had dark hairand was the first to tread indoorand…

  Death Still Walks In ‘In the old days news of it traveled by foot.’— Billy Collins, ‘Death’ Here’s how to miss the deathof a friend whose houseyou glide by every day: To start, be sure to catchthe first prognosis, then someof the subsequent progress, till her remission gets you brieflyoff the hook, lets you…

Every Particle Attracts Another Dear (if I may) young Sperm Whale I recently received a letter beginning with‘Dear’. Four letters transforming a letter,travelling beyond a formal beginning to years of unknown fondness. Dear young sperm whaleDear juvenile physter macrocephalus Tēnā koe parāoa I have no throwback to atolls or archipelagos, no relatives on early outrigger…

Red Check Shacket I’d heard the stories: the timeon Cromer beach, some oozinghallucinated morning, whereamongst the bladder wrackand shreds of net, he founda jetsam blister pack of pillsand snorted every one. Peopletold me to take anything he saidwith a pinch of salt: his father,broken from his wife’s affairbailing out of a stricken planeat ten thousand…