Spotlight II: Dostoyevsky Wannabe

The London Magazine has long been a champion of emerging writers and independent publishers, stretching back to the 1950s and 60s, when young writers...

Counting by Ralf Webb

April doesn't rain. We have spent days watching the truant magpies comb our cat-eyed neighbour’s lawn for bottle caps and burnt-out tin foil. The cloying sun has not coaxed...

Home from Greece by Robert Selby

Above whitewashed, tabby-haunted Kamari, I wearied of the incessant inversions in Pope’s Homer, and left my self-improvement’s cooling terrace to the night, now drawing in here too, across...

Poetry | Waking Under the Walnut Street Bridge by Mara Adamitz...

        let me persist but not divide        let me sit quietly with        the tiniest    ...

The First Time They Lowered The Flags by Peter Ainsworth

The first time they lowered the flags The President bowed his head. The next time they placed flowers To mourn the dead. The time after that they held A...

This Dark Art by Neil Burns

This Dark Art If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not. Speak. - Macbeth, Act 1...

Lifesaving by Wes Lee

Lifesaving They don’t do it anymore, breathe into the mouth to save. We had learnt it reluctantly, lined up beside a recumbent dummy, waiting to take our turn to...

Poetry | The Line by Fiona Sampson

White trunks divide the dark beside the line and in the dusk trees pause since if they do not move they cannot see themselves or know this moment has...

Archive | Poetry | The Wiper by Louis MacNeice

First published in the May 1960 issue of The London Magazine (Volume 7, No. 5). Through purblind night the wiper Reaps a swathe of water

Eros and Asbo by Miles Burrows

As a man under a restraining order Still follows his ex about from day to day I stalk your shadow as if you could show up In...

Men by Belinda Rule

I only like imaginary men, the ones who think my art is the most transporting thing they have ever seen, and I am exactly as hilarious as I actually, actually am. Even then,...

Interview | Ben Aleshire

Ben Aleshire makes his living as a travelling poet, writing poems on his typewriter for whatever his readers can spare as a donation, a...

Four Watercolours by Sudeep Sen

The London Magazine has been celebrating the life of our former editor, Alan Ross. An important figure in the literary world, Alan was known...

Puddocks by John Greening

for SECH   Clare would have called these five red kites circling above dead or stag’s-headed oaks like iambs broken from a line of English pastoral by a name that signifies a deed...

Poetry | A Series of Ekphrastic Poems on Eileen Agar’s Marine...

Suzannah V. Evans is a poet, editor, and critic. The following series of poems was inspired by a visit to the exhibition Virginia Woolf:...

The London Magazine Podcast | Episode 4 | A Discovery of...

We were recently contacted by Reverend Christian Mitchell of the church of Heathfield in rural Sussex, who had made a remarkable discovery. In one...

Translated Love Letters by Andrew McMillan

From The London Magazine October/November 2009 Translated Love Letters from Norwegian oh love, doesn't the fact that the world is so big, laid out like ripe fruit make you...

Poetry | Hidden Time by Alan Zhukovski

They live inside the warmth of typing fingers, inside the ghostly glass of hidden years you wanted to implant inside this week. The doors and windows to...

Coming Thunder by James McAskill

When we stole the eggs from the barn that June  you said we held life in our hands.  Untrue I said as I carried a near...

What You Call Your ‘Winter Mode’ by Patri Wright

On the wicker chair I wait for the duvet’s rise: you’re just a mound, breath, as I worry over why, again, you’ve overslept. Could it be early...
Replete by Maggie Butt

Replete by Maggie Butt

Replete Enough of beauty - I have devoured small boats curtseying at anchor, green palace-dotted hills swarming the spice-scented shore of Asia Minor. I couldn’t chew another mouthful of waves,...

Poetry | Under the Loquat by Peter Anderson

He had that majority under the loquat, rain falling like a god in gold, the breakthrough sun, and the spin on things, tar growing a fur. Loitered...

Two Hundred Twenty a Kilo by Nabarun Bhattacharya, translated by Manash...

(Homage to Karl Marx) Nabarun Bhattacharya (23 June 1948 – 31 July 2014) On the floor of a slaughterhouse A butcher’s leg slips in the blood Crows go raucous...

Refugees by Manash Bhattacharjee

Refugees I know a thing or two about refugees – As a child I heard father say, “We were sleeping in the place we thought was our country, till the siren rang...

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