My husband and I have been thinking about having kids recently, so this one by Sharon Olds, from her Selected Poems, really got me. That final image—“poems heavy as poached game”—poetry as food, poet as hunter-provider, poems as heavy (guilt-laden?) things.

The closing paragraph of Joyce's 'The Dead', which took place on Twelfth Night, is one of the most beautiful in all of literature. Never fails to give me goosebumps.

Soul swooned slowly -- falling faintly [...] and faintly falling...

Sublime.

I’m sorry, what in the what? Sancho and Quixote are waiting in the dark because they’ve heard a terrifying noise—Sancho decides that now is a good time to drop trou’ and take a dump—which Quixote not only hears, but smells? And then shades Sancho about it?

This is the first official thread of Gnarled Red Line, a new literary magazine from Southeast London. Have a look through the tweet thread for more info about the magazine. (And check out our gorgeous logo!)