I shall miss you so much when I am dead
For copyright reasons this poem is unavailable online. To read Harold Pinter’s ‘Poem (To A)’, purchase Granta 100.
I shall miss you so much when I am dead
For copyright reasons this poem is unavailable online. To read Harold Pinter’s ‘Poem (To A)’, purchase Granta 100.
‘She must have loved gold seeing that everything in the penthouse was gold. We didn’t sit. Fear didn’t let us see where to sit.’ A story by Adachioma Ezeano.
‘I had also, a week earlier, been fired for trying to sleep with my boss’s husband. I got the idea from a book, or maybe every book.’ A story by Emily Adrian.
‘The Mitsubishi conglomerate controls a forty per cent share of the world market in bluefin tuna; they are freezing and hoarding huge stocks of the fish every year.’ Katherine Rundell on extinction speculation.
‘Two roof tiles are missing to the rear: the kiss of death. Without repair, ruination is now inevitable. Until then, this is my best hope of shelter.’ Cal Flyn visits the island of Swona in northern Scotland.
‘I’m on the cliff of myself & these aren’t wings, they’re futures. / For as long as I can remember my body was a small town nightmare.’ A poem by Ocean Vuong.
Harold Pinter was born in London in 1930 and was married to Antonia Fraser. He was the author of twenty-nine plays, twenty-one screenplays and directed twenty-seven theatre productions, including James Joyce’s Exiles, David Mamet’s Oleanna and seven plays by Simon Gray. His awards included the Companion of Honour for services to Literature and the Molière d’honneur for lifetime achievement. In 2005, he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. He died on Christmas Eve, 2008.
More about the author →‘Shakespeare writes of the open wound and, through him, we know it open and know it closed. We tell when it ceases to beat and tell it at its highest peak of fever‘, Harold Pinter in 'A Note on Shakespeare' in Granta 59: France: The Outsider.
‘It was a commonplace / to enter the woods / with meat, lay it on the ground, then / wait for what might come.’
Poetry by Michael Bazzett.
‘Ungraceful, the heart boinks: / drugged, suspended, spiderwebbed – ’
Four poems by Katie Farris.
‘The Russia of my memories was largely imaginary – a cauldron of nostalgia-tinted material, which I calibrated with scrupulous research.’
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