The Artichoke (The Paris Review)

I just love artichokes, and found a poem this morning on the Paris Review about one. I couldn’t resist sharing it. The obsession knows no bounds.

The first time I saw it, I thought what an ugly specimen. It looked like Grandma’s bathing cap, grown green and small after all these years. I sliced it open and tasted the pale flesh. And gradually she offered herself up leaf by leaf. In her depth she held a tiny, faded star, a spark that fell in the meteor shower over Frank’s garden. I developed a taste for her expensive style: fancy restaurants, wines by candlelight. Continue reading

Scrap paper and long ago attempts

Today, whilst packing up my room, a few Mr Sheen wipes and spraying shelves after I’d had lunch, I discovered a crumpled up copy of a submission I made a year ago to ISIS magazine, and had completely forgotten about. Given the ever-recurring theme of travel, roots, life changes, I thought I’d just leave it here. I’m still quite impressed at how long it sat on my shelves without ever making it to become scrap paper.

BA  XXXX, Pisa, 2013
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