By the light of the log fire, the poet leant back. ‘You’ve met my sons, have you?’ he inquired in a husky drawl. ‘They all play rugby for England.’ This was two decades ago, and my mind drew a blank. The poet was George Barker (1913–91), and he was reputed to have fifteen children. Did they constitute a team? It seemed an uncomfortable prospect: The Barkers versus The World.
Follow Literary Review on Twitter
Sign up to our e-newsletter and get highlights from the new issue and gems from the archive, as well as exclusive competitions and subscription offers straight to your inbox.
'These are first thoughts, but they’re made to last, in a way that makes you wonder how well something that feels so raw really can last.'
@sarahditum weighs up the final book in Ali Smith's seasonal quartet.
Enjoying Susan Owens’s essay on English attitudes to nature in @Lit_Review. Turns out the early moderns were positively repulsed by hills, as described in this poem by Isaak Walton’s fishing chum Charles Cotton.