They Do Things Differently There

Laura Stiers is a third year English major studying abroad in London this quarter. In Dispatches from London, she blogs about books, curious Anglicisms, and literary culture in one of Europe’s most literary cities.

I’m doing my reading for tomorrow, a British political newspaper from 1931. Bored, I flip to the end to read the advertisements and the “London Amusements” page. There are theater listings, which reminds me: we’re going to a musical tonight. I check my e-mail to make sure I leave on time. I’m seeing Blood Brothers, 7:45 at the Phoenix Theater on Charing Cross Road. I click on the Wikipedia link about the show. Apparently it’s been running continuously in the same theater since 1988. I’ve never heard of it. Continue reading

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Poetry: “KJ’s Feet”, by Craig Cotter

Not a callous.
Each nail clear.
Cuticles naturally, symmetrically edged.
Scent gets me hard.
Size 12.
Twenty-four.

Every other surface
(dark black hair)
perfect. Perfect scent.

You drink steadily
Absolut Cape Cod

That monstrosity, what’s it called, she said.
The Pomapdour Center?
Yeah that’s it.
Great Rivers cardboard sculpture.

KJ your 6-foot
140 pound twink body
Nothing better in my life.
Only things equal.
The Nobel Prize in Literature
for lifetime achievement
could only equal your body
and sweet nature.
Sitting on the edge of my bed
your feet in white socks and black and white
tennis shoes
telling me about your boys, girls,
computer-animation free-lance.

*
[Take a good long pause here.
Take a half-hour walk or run

or swim—break—
then get back to this poem.
Seriously if you don’t do one
you’ll miss the experience.]

*
Every night I don’t look for you
but about five nights a week.
Looked through Zurich and Pattaya.

Everything disappears!

Not a hair on your chest
or flat stomach.

I’m In The British Library (And I Feel Fine)

Laura Stiers is a third year English major studying abroad in London this quarter. In Dispatches from London, she blogs about books, curious Anglicisms, and literary culture in one of Europe’s most literary cities.

Sylvia Plath has the handwriting of the girl who sat next to me in my eighth grade English class. Looking at the letter in the display case, with its rounded vowels and nicely spaced words, it’s so easy to imagine her writing with a pink gel pen. Doodling flowers in the margins of her notebook. SP ♥ TH. Continue reading