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Orlando Reade

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette Yiadom-Boakye can be read in The White Review No. 13.



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Wildness of the Day

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December 2016

Orlando Reade

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December 2016

One day in late 2011, waiting outside Green Park station, my gaze was drawn to an unexpected sight. Earlier that year a canopy of...

Interview

Issue No. 13

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

Orlando Reade

Interview

Issue No. 13

Modern philosophy is threatened by love, whose objects are never only objects. Philosophers have discovered in love a lived...

Если у вас в мегаполисе ещё помнят обо мне, ссыльном, Знай, кто спросит: я умер, едва приговор огласили Мёртвый живу, хожу, тело донашиваю, Оно послушное – ссыхается на костях Я здесь чужак, варвар, языка не носитель, Неба коптитель, волосы стали белые, Мёртвыми губами учу гетскую грамоту, Мёртвыми ногами топчу твёрдую воду Что тебе рассказать, чтоб не скучала? Скачут Кони по гладкой реке, и стрелы летают, Рыбы торчат изо льда с открытыми ртами, Некому их вынимать Некому меня понимать Вино замёрзло, стоит само без кувшина, Кусок вина отломлю и сосу, как сиську Яблок не достать Ты бы меня не узнала Местные замотаны в шкуры, на тогу косятся, Только лица и видно, да и те в бороде Даже звёзды здесь не как у людей   If anyone in your global city still holds me, exile, in memory, Know that I died as soon as they read out the sentence I live dead, walk around dead, wear out the remains of my body, My agreeable body, flesh cracking on dry bones Here I am an alien, barbarian, non-native speaker, Idler with time on his hands but white in his hair, I don’t get their speech, I forget the words that I study, Just consonant clusters, no vowels for poetry What can I talk about so as not to bore you? Horses Slip on hard rivers, arrows hit targets, philosophy is stupid Fish stick out of the ice with mouths agape, Too much air for them, too little ear for me Wine frozen overnight, it stands by itself, the vessel in shards, I chop a piece off and suck on it like an infant The apples at the market are tawny and wrinkly like shrunken heads The locals, fir-tall, fur-clad, point at my toga, make shivering Gestures No human faces – just beards and hair over fur Even the stars look down on me     AFTERWORD   In 8 CE, the Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso was exiled on the direct orders of Augustus to Tomis, a distant imperial outpost on the Black Sea in what is now Romania He died there a decade later, never receiving permission to come home despite his constant entreaties The exact cause of Ovid’s punishment is unknown; the poems he composed in Tomis appeared in two collections under the titles of Tristia, or ‘Laments’, and Epistulae ex

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette...

Life outside the Manet Paradise Resort : On the paintings of Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

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November 2012

Orlando Reade

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November 2012

*   A person is represented, sitting in what appears to be the banal and conventional pose of a high street studio portrait photographer:...

READ NEXT

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May 2013

Haneke's Lessons

Ricky D'Ambrose

feature

May 2013

‘Art is there to have a stimulating effect, if it earns its name. You have to be honest, that’s...

Art

June 2013

Ghosts and Relics: The Haunting Avant-Garde

John Douglas Millar

Art

June 2013

‘The avant-garde can’t be ignored, so to ignore it – as most humanist British novelists do – is the...

fiction

Issue No. 18

Don't Give Up the Fight

Osama Alomar

TR. C. J. Collins

fiction

Issue No. 18

  DON’T GIVE UP THE FIGHT   While cavorting in a field, the wild horse felt overjoyed to see...

 

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