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The White Review
No. 31

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Fernanda Melchor’s ‘dark stories’ explore life in contemporary Mexico: interviewed in The White Review No. 31, Melchor discusses nota roja (sensationalist journalism) and her love...

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Prize Entry

The White Review Short Story Prize 2021, Sponsored by RCW
On Thursday 23 September, we’ll be announcing the winner of this year’s White Review Short Story Prize, sponsored by RCW, live through YouTube from 7pm. We’d love it if...

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poetry

Two Poems

poetry

September 2021

Amy Acre

poetry

September 2021

   AZRAEL   at the age you are now your father’s body had built a nest for an angel   you    key...

Poetry

Issue No. 31

Four Poems

Shripad Sinnakaar

Poetry

Issue No. 31

GADAPA (THRESHOLD)   Pedavva cried her last words, ‘Gadapa duram, khaadee deggera’   Gadapa is the site of our...

Poetry

June 2021

THREE POEMS

Joshua Blackman

Poetry

June 2021

  MODES OF BEING   A new hobby of mine is repeating a word until it strays from its...

Poetry

May 2021

THREE POEMS

Yongyu Chen

Poetry

May 2021

  ARTICULATION OF SOLACE FOR W   We are mothering ourselves. We are articulating solace for each other. We...

Poetry

Issue No. 23

FROM OUR ARCHIVE: THREE POEMS

A K Blakemore

Poetry

Issue No. 23

MAY   you slid into my life as though a witch’s smock — a sun poem.   fat bee...

Poetry

February 2021

THREE POEMS

Sarah Gridley

Poetry

February 2021

  ADDRESSEE   I mind less that you go far away in time. Once I had to harden myself...

                  a      bout                                of    ave    a                           seer                      flict                        of                          by          assembly              ave          by                                                                          by extremity                                         chance                                                                           as                         ice   ¹ unerased from Act of the Commonwealth of Virginia: October 1669, Act 1, 2:270: An act about the casuall killing of slaves
#10¹

Poetry

February 2021

Nat Ogle

minutes were different in ward-time continuous difluoromethane and stale skin and sterilising fluid from the ventilation units replaced sundials the electric pulmonary system laughed at dressing-gown- outpatients waiting for cups of blood and honey and metastasised papyrus from a heart ventricle dazed and limp 400 feet above the aerials on the hospital roof they washed and talked to the body before draining and re-filling with formaldehyde and other solvents and then ushered into a hermetically sealed coffin or ziploc sandwich bag I climbed past the 17th hospital floor with my mother the day after a woman in a brocaded suit got down on two knees and whispered about our seven great matriarchs from a Romani family a knock on the door of each sister when another one died we both listened to the flux of compressed air up the lift shaft and the breath caught best by the radiation suite on floor 20 and level LG before the morgue the stairs changed from linoleum to concrete and I tripped over stacked wheelchairs and filing trolleys head pressed against the mirror in the lift for an overdue inheritance of glass divination or splayed-hand- palmistry I was born in the Jessop Wing and watched it being demolished while I passed on the school bus ten years later they struggled to take blood and smiled at never making it to heroin with that circulatory system while my grandmother’s cyanotype roots hummed with warfarin sometimes I used the toilet by the hospital chapel after leaving school and walked corridor to corridor not another doctor for miles between here and 1979 time dilated between IV lines and ventilator drops and bedside alarms and wind pulled through structural cavities we did not know what the family name had been before the air on the roof became anti-septic

Poetry

February 2021

Hospital

Maria Giles-Holland

Poetry

February 2021

minutes were different in ward-time. continuous difluoromethane and stale skin and sterilising fluid from the ventilation units replaced sundials....

  when walt whitman spokea multitudes he meant     did he not     that within each ovus an obsequious beer soaked indie boy broods about steppin in front of a fuckin bus         t burrow down intae the freckled id     where coffee torns t treacle on the hotplate and borst fegs are embedded in the carpet     what i really mean is that ad hate to be that kyid again          rollin along crash barriers at some gig in the union while the country is sold by the furlong     drinkin what i made at my forst communion on a nightly basis     then starvin maself of breakfast & lunch & good mental health

Poetry

February 2021

Abstract

James Conor Patterson

Poetry

February 2021

  when walt whitman spokea multitudes he meant     did he not     that within each ovus...
Prism

Poetry

February 2021

Kandace Siobhan Walker

Poetry

February 2021

  Board trustees tapped heirloom spoons against the graduates’ wet green skulls to get at the yolk. Academics, in chorus, drilled and blew until...

 

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