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theguardian.com /3 weeks ago

Rhapsody: A Manifesto by Alice Oswald review – a history of the spoken word, from Homer to Ted Hughes

A twisting, beguiling investigation into the art of poetry that ends in a call to arms on behalf of the natural worldThe poet Alice Oswald is no stranger to thinking in public abou...

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writeoutloud.net /1 month ago

Oxford, August 1941

the soft airs of centuries of youth...

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newyorker.com /3 weeks ago

“Weeping Willow, Nantucket,” by Stephanie Burt

“They can’t get off the island either.”

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electricliterature.com /1 month ago

A Frozen Bird Too Beautiful to Bury

Our Bodies Are Owl Bodies My mother was walking in a storm when she saw it face-up in the snow. She knelt down. It wasn’t breathing. She gathered it close. Saw-whet owls are among...

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oxfordstudent.com /5 days ago

Poem: Ode on Atrophy

Thou still ravished bride of binary Thou foster-child of bandits’ digest The blood of painters, writers and lakes as sacred as a priory. The post Poem: Ode on Atrophy appeared firs...

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writeoutloud.net /2 weeks ago

A DREAM of SAND

I have lingered in the chambers of the sea by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown till hum...

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writeoutloud.net /1 month ago

Blow Over The Boatyard

...

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fiftywordstories.com /1 month ago

ALYSON FLOYD: Abyss

Last night I walked into the sea, not planning to return. Suspended deep in endless black, a stranger’s ashes whispered to me. “You’re too early,” they said, shimmering in the warp...

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writeoutloud.net /3 weeks ago

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i saw each petal fall from my garden....

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newyorker.com /1 month ago

“Garden,” by Melissa Broder

“I was in Eden. God’s light / Tongued the leaves.”

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brittlepaper.com /1 month ago

Hunt | Aeesha Abdullahi Alhaji | Poetry

(i) they had it finally in a grip. letting the dead lie, in the mist, in the boughs behind, their whispers were there and urging them on. tangling in the music of the beasts call...

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brittlepaper.com /1 month ago

Salt Keeps No Ledger | Ismail Adekunle Hassan | Poetry

The pot remembers every hand that has lifted its lid expecting steam. Tonight, it holds only water learning the shape of silence. Mother measures another cup into tomorrow, stirr...

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newyorker.com /6 days ago

“The Woodcutter,” by Nick Laird

“In the earliest version / by Perrault the story is finished / when the girl gets eaten.”

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brittlepaper.com /2 weeks ago

What the Sea Returns | Yasmine Ramos | Poetry

The sea has a mouth. My grandmother taught me this before she taught me the names of the stars. Not a mouth like ours. No lips. No teeth. A wider mouth. The kind that can swallow...

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writeoutloud.net /2 days ago

The Autumn Hunt

The sky, grown heavy, stoops too near the land; ...

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themarginalian.org /1 month ago

Life, Loss, and the Wisdom of Rivers

"It’s a mercy that time runs in one direction only, that we see the past but darkly and the future not at all."

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nybooks.com /1 week ago

Poem

No, no, I don’t believe in my poems, Not really, but I defer to the poet in me Who belies belief with a fact that Requires no belief, to write a poem In which fire is the poetic El...

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oxfordstudent.com /1 week ago

Poem: Still no.4

…in the bottom of a dusty draw you find a photograph of your mother your fingers swipe at the gloss of her face. The post Poem: Still no.4 appeared first on The Oxford Student.

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tricycle.org /3 weeks ago

‘Egrets, While War’

Five poems on aging, desire, disenchantment, and persistence The post ‘Egrets, While War’ appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

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writeoutloud.net /1 month ago

The Poem He Wrote For Her

Let me in....

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themarginalian.org /1 month ago

The Peace of Wild Things: Wendell Berry’s Poetic Antidote to Despair, Animated

On where to seek refuge from the forethought of grief.

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oxfordmail.co.uk /1 week ago

Oxfordshire woman wins prestigious Winchester Poetry Prize

A Wallingford poet said the recognition was 'great' on winning the first prize in the Winchester Poetry Prize competition 2026.

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alcoholicpoet.com /1 week ago

The Last Mile

the road is cautious. worn by broken ladders. the rain comes unexpectedly. arrogant in its certainty. there's still time to measure what's behind us. even as we run. narrow bridge...

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writeoutloud.net /1 week ago

winnowing the ashen hours

...

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