When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
Tio Chicho’s own brand of cure, for his faltering eye-sight, a squirt of lemon or lime, honey for the tonsils, a couple of raw
Christianity may be a source of great ritual but it doesn’t hold so much interest for me. As you might imagine, I would have
Accept Heaven doesn’t exist: the great fist-shaped hinges supporting its gates; Peter’s wings like huge shoulders hunched in doubt; even God, whose face is