The bard celebrates two other fine practitioners of the art, and laments a lost brewer
We Are at War
Gale Burns
and now we know we always were. Slaves
to the appearance of things, fooled by the promise of permanence,
the accumulation of trappings, the celebration of this:
the first generation kept from battle, soft hands, suckled, suckling still.
But signs were all around: the mental patient consigned to weeks of sleep;
the silted air; suburban privet clipped to re-assure;
ANDY CROFT welcomes the publication of an anthology of recent poems published by the Morning Star, and hopes it becomes an annual event
JOHN GREEN is stirred by an ambitious art project that explores solidarity and the shared memory of occupation
Warming up for his Durham gig, the bard pays attention to the niceties of language
DAI O’BRIEN, one of the festival’s DeafZone co-ordinators explains


