Turner, a celebrity chef, wrote Brian Turner’s Favourite British Recipes: Classic Dishes from Yorkshire Pudding to Spotted Dick. He played drums for the horror-punk band Schoolyard Heroes, played hockey for New Zealand in the sixties, lifted th...
When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep. On the third night she met him in a dream. He woke transformed, longing for the last trance, “When sleep shall be without waking.”
Goddess, I have watched your motions gratify the world. Votaries of all casts and ages, genders, voices bow to you as they must, for nothing follows without you.
I teach them to behave just like the rest. They’re marked as absences, take up no room. They only raise their hands when others do. They never speak, even when spoken to.
Deep in the wood where things escape their names, Her childish arm draped round the fawn’s soft neck (Her diffidence, its skittishness in check, Merged in the anonymity that tames), She knits her brow, but nothing now reclaims The syllables that...
Just as a swarm pours from a hollow rock In one long beeline for the wild thyme, Alighting in clusters on this purple and that, But is stricken with a mass amnesia That disorients the compass of the sun,
