Editorial 

Thank you for stopping by to read issue #74. I hope that you and yours are safe and well in spite of everything that is currently happening across the world. 

In recent months, many people have found, and shared to their social media, poems and quotations that have helped them to think about the global pandemic or have provided comfort in these times. You may be expecting me to do something similar here? I’m sorry to disappoint. I have poems and three short stories to share with you and they are all marvellous in the opinions of Louise, Annie and me, Frankly, if they were not, they wouldn’t be in issue #74. Yet, first, I want to write about something that has been quite absent from literary Twitter, certainly from the literary Twitter feeds that I have seen. This will take us on a short personal detour. Please bear with me.

My day-to-day work is researching the possible uses of poetry to influence relationships between people with multiple sclerosis and our medical caregivers. A week before lockdown was announced in the UK, I had to make the decision to suspend my research. Those of us deemed to be in any way clinically vulnerable were already being advised to stay home, and it was becoming very apparent that the nurses, consultants and allied health professionals, who were so supportive of the study, would shortly be diverted to different duties or new ways of conducting their existing roles. 

It became very clear that, contrary to received wisdom and the blurbs of dozens of anthologies, poetry does not save lives. Yes, I know that poetry can be an invaluable tool for some people in the recovery or maintenance of their mental or physical health. I’m not denying that. Yet, in the moment of acute danger, a Covid-19 type of danger, poetry does not save lives. Not like a ventilator. Not like an ITU nurse. Not like an A&E doctor. Not like adequate PPE. 

For the first month of lockdown I couldn’t read poetry. That special kind of attention that allows you to be immersed in a poem deserted me. You know that attention. Where the world falls away and only words remain, until, when you refocus and see the world again, it’s a little different, enhanced by the act of having read the poem. That was the attention that disappeared for me. In the big scheme of things, it didn’t matter. Being as secure as possible in the safety and health of my family and myself mattered, and having a continued income mattered, as these things always do. Yet, once threatened, they required, and continue to clamour for, more attention. 

It was with a great deal of trepidation and guilt that I finally made a tentative foray into the submissions inbox. It took time to rediscover my focus on poetry, to rebuild the attention span that had been eaten away by live news feeds and social media scrolls. Was it worth the effort? 

Yes. 

I don’t write ‘yes’ glibly. Building issue #74 has been hard work, not just for me, but for Louise and Annie, both of whom have also had to adapt to changes in their day-to-day lives and work, while finding time to read, discuss and respond. I always give profuse and heartfelt thanks to them both, but this time more than ever. Also, I want to show deep gratitude to all of the submitters to issue #74 who showed us such patience, grace and care. This is especially true of our contributors. 

Issue #74 is a little dark in places, and that feels right for the times in which we are living. These poems and stories do not sum up a global pandemic and wisely they do not attempt to do so. They are beautifully written. They are deserving of your time and attention. They may offer you distraction or glimmers of light. Hopefully for you, as for us, they will feel right for now. 

Because it’s June, we are open for submissions to issue #75. Check our guidelines to find out how to submit. One statement from our submissions page feels particularly important to highlight at the moment: at The Interpreter’s House we always welcome and encourage submissions from BAME writers, disabled and/or chronically ill writers, and LGBTQ+ writers. We want to read what you are writing. 

Be safe. Be well. 

Georgi