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    The Source

    The Source, HT23, Week 5

    Featuring poetry from Nicole Gibbons and Charlotte Lai.

    The Source, HT23 Week 3

    "You are lost and found, and lost again"

    Sonnet for Foxe by Anna Cowan and Ruth Port

    Dear Foxe I sing a song of love to you, Whose shell shines like the...

    Plenmeller House

    Under the covers, inside the walls,The wind shuffles in from the West,Rabbits potter in...

    A Drink by Edward McLaren

    I rise from my screen and enter the horizontal darkness above its frame, itself...

    The Source, HT23, Week 5

    Featuring poetry from Nicole Gibbons and Charlotte Lai.

    The Source, HT23 Week 3

    "You are lost and found, and lost again"

    Sonnet for Foxe by Anna Cowan and Ruth Port

    Dear Foxe I sing a song of love to you, Whose shell shines like the half compass of heaven, My beloved Foxe, take this to be...

    Plenmeller House

    Under the covers, inside the walls,The wind shuffles in from the West,Rabbits potter in the grass,And the pheasants lay down to rest. This is the...

    A Drink by Edward McLaren

    I rise from my screen and enter the horizontal darkness above its frame, itself over the river I do not see. Why is it...

    Once Long Ago

    In Once Long Ago, Jenny Robinson invites us to listen to the “dead tales of old gods long gone” struggling to find their place...

    Lord Reginald Moreton of Oxfordshire

    Poet's Note: "One of my favourite things to do whenever I visit new areas with my friends is to come up with ridiculous "histories"...

    Dresse me my harpe

    The speaker in Anna Cowan’s poem herself undertakes a myth-making activity in playing her harp. “It is time”, she declares, as she unshackles the...

    Silent Spring

    "The river near the house welcomes my anger. A ray of drowned sunlight charges the water with colour. I ritually trace my childhood steps"

    The Demolished School

    "Spending years of loneliness sitting on that toilet seat, a haven from slow lunch times with no friends, I knew the peeling paint as if it were my own palm, cream cracking, exposing the avocado green of the seventies."

    As the smoke burns down to my fingers

    To blink a bloodshot world away And drink in rough, and burn, and heat Until she comes to kiss the dark.

    Sticky

    Something crawls up my throat, more bitter than honey.

    “Everywhere else, death is an end. Death comes, and they draw the curtains –”

    Death comes, and they draw the curtains – Not in Spain. In Spain they open them.

    Eve

    Go, then - O girl, O derivative of...

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