by Alex Valente
Original Italian by Ada Negri (1870-1945), ‘Non è ancora primavera’
Spring? It’s still early February
and there is plenty of snow to fall, still:
still plenty of cold to bite.
And yet, now that I consider it
and take a better look around,
the announcement of Spring is not just
on the mouth of the flower seller
left on the corner of the road.Continue Reading
by Lewis Buxton
Moonrise’s publisher, As Yet Untitled, is an ‘independent press that specialises in limited edition, handmade works that embrace the breadth of possibility in the book’s form’. The book is beautifully made, a fragile thing one worries about reading with a cup of tea too close. Interesting then to consider the fragility of the book’s form with the robustness of the poems. Moonrise, by Ella Chappell, is a book about sex and love and flowers and moons and stones and good nights and bad nights and scientific theories and the gravity that pulls at us all. These aren’t new themes. But that’s what I like about this book; there is at once a familiarity to it but still a newness in the words, a fresh light on the scene.Continue Reading
by Anthony Moore
In British summertime, gardens across the country provide a beautiful illustration of how social class permeates even the choice of flower that people will grow if they have the chance or inclination.
Around the start of July, you will start to see some outrageous colours as dahlias begin to bloom. Dahlias are originally from Mexico, they can be found as far south as far as northern Colombia. A plant of the Aztecs, a scream of psychedelia. First brought to Europe in the 1790s, they were inevitably given a colonial name: after Anders Dahl, one of Linnaeus’s pupils. Dahlias have no scent and rely on colour to attract pollinators and have evolved a startling colour range: every part of the rainbow except blue.