By :- Kevin Morris

On seeing the stormy sky
The poet thinks “man must die”.
He sees the young girl bloom
And says “she is destined for the tomb”.
Oh let us gather wild flowers
And not waste our powers
Trapped in ivory towers.
Beware the scholar’s domed head
For we are soon dead.
May our spirit fly
Ere we die
And are lost in endless sky.

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The poem appears in his
collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind“

When I say that they murdered Jane Austen, I’m not speaking metaphorically. Some person in the distant past didn’t simply eviscerate her work. No, I mean that a few scholars believe that someone poisoned Jane Austen. With arsenic.

According to research from the British Library, Jane Austen’s death at the age of 41, her early cataracts, and her strange facial pigmentation are all consistent with the effects of arsenic poisoning.

Some scholars say this sounds like murder. Others remind us that arsenic was often used in medicine; even Austen’s death resulted from the chemical, there may not have been anything nefarious about it. And still other scholars grumble that these claims are nothing more than academic click bait.

Whatever the truth is, the subject is a fascinating one. I suggest you read all of the British Library’s blog post on the subject before coming to your own conclusions. We always…

Looking for a saviour under the stars

Men slow then stop their cars.

Girls under street lamps stand

Waiting for their lord’s command.

Needle pricks scar their arms

Still men discern a certain charm.

Girls think of their next fix

Man moistens his dry lips.

“I seek a saviour of a kind

In the hope some inner peace I may find”

He says shuddering at her needle lines.

“Your saviour I will be

Provided you can pay my fee.

A girl must live. Love isn’t free”,

She says gazing at a distant tree.

She thinks of her girlhood not so long ago

Of trees their boughs bent under the weight of snow.

She thinks “once I could not be bought

Before hard drugs their damage rought”.

The man holds out cold hard cash

She takes it with a bitter laugh.

Stepping in through the car’s open door

She wonders if…

As many of you know, I am a poetry nerd, which is why I am incredibly excited to share The New Yorker’s new Poetry Bot.

By following the Bot on Twitter or Facebook Messenger, people can receive excerpts from different poems every day for the next three months. The poems have been chosen by The New Yorker’s poetry editor and coordinator and include works by Audre Lorde, Dorothy Parker, Joseph Brodsky, and many, many more.

To begin following the Bot, simply follow the instructions listed at The New Yorker’s post. This is a great way to discover new poets, and I’m thrilled that it exists.

And fun fact: the Bot was created by the same folks who made an interactive fortune-telling bot and the Harry Potter-esque “Sorting Bot”, which sorted followers into Hogwart’s houses using rhyming quatrains. Technology really can be grand.

Birds sing.
The air on this spring
Evening carries scents unknown
As I stroll home
Alone.

That scent, is it hay?
All this will pass away.
Yet I am content to breathe this sweet air
And, for a time, forget my care.

Beauty with sadness lives
And gives
A melancholy delight
To me, as I walk home, on this spring night.