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Articles by Alison Brackenbury
Poem Of The Week: Christmas '84 By Jonathan Edwards
arts Christmas '84 These mornings when he’s not rota’d on picket, he spends the shift he would’ve spent in darkness in the spare room, sawing, painting, making a doll’s house. His wife, in secret moments, sews bits and bobs of fabric into dolls’ dresses: twists of foil are jewellery, pages of old colouring books wallpaper. It’s for their daughter to imagine the stars into the sky above the roof.
Review: Tales From The Schoolroom By Ann Whiers
arts The subheading of writer Ann Whiers’ frank and heartwarming new examination of a long career in secondary education is profoundly telling: the expression ‘Learning not Teaching’ both expands upon, and to some extent, abjures, the delimiting of the pedagogical mandate by one inadequate term.
The poem: ‘Mr Hill and me’, by Alison Brackenbury
Do not catch measles. For you cannot read, or could not, back in nineteen fifty-nine.
'Wor Jackie and the People's Dreaming
frontpage Opinion Watching the excellent, and in places deeply affecting, biopic of Jack Charlton last night on BBC2, I was struck, particularly, by a comment made by a contributor. One of the reasons, he said, for the continuing affection that the people of Ireland feel for their national team’s former manager, has as much to do with an abstract affiliation - of the working class of Eire for the North East of England’s community - as the bandwagon of success and a new footballing dawn.
Poem Of The Week: 'Going Blind' By Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
arts Going Blind She’d sat just like the others there at tea. And then I’d seemed to notice that her cup was being a little differently picked up. She’d smiled once. It had almost hurt to see. And when eventually they rose and talked, and slowly, and as chance led, were dispersing through several rooms there, laughing and conversing, I noticed her.
Frank Worthington: Football Legend - 1948-2021
sports Big Frank remained a regular feature in the stand at Huddersfield even in relatively recent times. You’d see him on match day, in a long black overcoat, often sporting a fedora. That much never changed. He was always a sartorial extrovert; his sense of dress dovetailed almost symmetrically with the on-field flamboyance - the turn on a tanner, the nifty footwork, the impossibly-angled, and entirely unexpected, lob into the top corner.
Poem Of The Week: 'All' By Alison Brackenbury
arts All And all who died, from winter’s sleet, From flu, from guns, from cells grown wrong, Still stand, one breath from fingers’ reach, Just out of touch, all colour gone. The dead grow smaller. From a train Mist takes the fields, drinks green to grey, The fog has swept across their face. In yard or park, they walk away, Then wait in rooms, without a fire, With tea uncleared, without a fuss; In cushioned chairs, now closer drawn, Nod to each other, not to us.
Drugged by Alison Brackenbury
It is warmth which floods you, the plane tree, peeling, new, the bud, the tingled lips, bark smooth to fingertips your own trunk pulsing through with love. With coffee, too. —Alison Brackenbury America's most influential journal of religion and public life Subscribe Latest Issue Support First Things Sign up for the First Things newsletter I would like to receive the First Things newsletter. the Sunday newsletter. event invites. video and podcast announcements. Read all of First Things.
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