When he was a child, W. H. Auden had a friend. One weekend, when Robert Medley was staying at the Audens' home at Harborne, England, Auden's mother found a poem that alarmed her. She gave it to Auden's father, physician
The writing looks hieroglyphic: all caps. The envelope opens to release a Persian lion; a dancing rabbit; an Ethiopian prayerbook half the size of a matchbox; or, again and again, a handmade quasi-business card with no name, nothing but a
Let me take you to the Derek Walcott poem most on my mind these days and then we will continue our conversation: [box] Midsummer, Tobago Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August. Days I have held, days I
[Editor's note: in July of 2012, we received a submission for our print magazine from Andre Bagoo, who introduced himself as "a poet and journalist working in Trinidad and Tobago." I loved his poems, and accepted one for the second
IT UNCOILS itself slowly. Only after a good few years do you realise that D.H. Lawrence’s great poem ‘Snake’ has never quite left you – first read so innocently in a childhood bedroom housed under the strange-scented shade of a
A Note on Notebooks
Andre BagooAT FIRST, I wanted to keep them separate. After all, they could not be more different. One, plain blue with the words ‘REPORTERS NOTEBOOK’ written on its thin cover. The other, a fancy Italian notebook with a hard cover that looks like brown marble; the kind of pattern you used to find on the insides of old books thrown out by the library. For a long time I walked with the reporters’ notebook on work assignments and saved the other notebook for home; for later; for after the real work of the day was done. Somehow they conspired to get together.
In truth, they were meant for each other.