Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share Conversando con Jairo: Hoy con Jack Little de Gran Bretaña
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
Conversando con Jairo: Hoy con Jack Little de Gran Bretaña
Jack Little (b. 1987) is a British-Mexican poet, editor and translator based between Bogotá and Mexico City. He is the author of Elsewhere (Eyewear, 2015) and Slow Leaving (Red Squirrel Press, 2022). Jack is the Founding Editor of The Ofi Press.
Link to his new book: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/product-page/slow-leaving-jack-little
Link to books published through The Ofi Press: https://en.calameo.com/accounts/4739059
A recent poem:
A Found Note
His letters were spiders, a curve through ‘c’, the snow on Nelson Hill and sledges smashing against the tide of uneven ground, an icy wind stroking my hair as ‘m’ became just one straight line - an Eastern European beach and his smile to strangers, my brother’s namesake invited to play and build sand castles - his ‘n’s, were always rushing. The final line says ‘bacon’, his ‘b’ an ‘h’ his ‘c’, this time, a milk bottle symbol, spilt into memories - a booming laugh. I cultivate words from his tree-bark eyes large and round, wrinkles on his forehead their lines a story slowly becoming my own.
View all episodes
By Jairo Antonio Popó V.Jack Little (b. 1987) is a British-Mexican poet, editor and translator based between Bogotá and Mexico City. He is the author of Elsewhere (Eyewear, 2015) and Slow Leaving (Red Squirrel Press, 2022). Jack is the Founding Editor of The Ofi Press.
Link to his new book: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/product-page/slow-leaving-jack-little
Link to books published through The Ofi Press: https://en.calameo.com/accounts/4739059
A recent poem:
A Found Note
His letters were spiders, a curve through ‘c’, the snow on Nelson Hill and sledges smashing against the tide of uneven ground, an icy wind stroking my hair as ‘m’ became just one straight line - an Eastern European beach and his smile to strangers, my brother’s namesake invited to play and build sand castles - his ‘n’s, were always rushing. The final line says ‘bacon’, his ‘b’ an ‘h’ his ‘c’, this time, a milk bottle symbol, spilt into memories - a booming laugh. I cultivate words from his tree-bark eyes large and round, wrinkles on his forehead their lines a story slowly becoming my own.