Sometimes, though only in my most unguarded moments, I can still think of Annette Winters as my first love. At fifteen, she was tall, slender, very dark: an intelligent, sly girl possessed of what I think of now, though I didn't think of then, as a kind of debatable beauty. John Burnside annettebeautydark share on social
For the Yupik, all life was continuous, animal with human with 'spirit', and recognising that continuum allowed them to undergo transformations that we, locked into our own disappointingly Cartesian skins, find impossible even to imagine. John Burnside allowanimalcartesian share on social
'The Asylum Dance' was written after I'd moved back to Scotland and was a response to moving to my old home area of Fife. John Burnside areaasylumback Change image and share on social
For a boy of ten, used to the coal bings and rust-coloured burns of Cowdenbeath, the fields and woodland of Kingswood, with its overgrown but stately avenue of copper-barked sequoias, felt like a local version of paradise. John Burnside avenuebarkbing share on social
A man was defined, in my father's circles, by what he could bear, the pain he could shrug off, the warmth or comfort he could deny himself. John Burnside bearcirclecomfort Change image and share on social
If nature offers no home, then we must make a home one way or another. The only question is how. John Burnside homemakenature Change image and share on social
Many of the birds Audubon painted are now extinct, and still we go on killing them, more or less casually, with our pesticides and wires and machinery. John Burnside audubonbirdcasually Change image and share on social
I know that the only reason American landscapes sometimes disappoint me is that, just a century before I was born, the great rivers and prairies and wild forests still existed. And they were sublime. John Burnside americanbearcentury Change image and share on social
There is a red sandy beach in the Minas Basin in Nova Scotia that is unlike any other shore landscape I have ever seen. The world's highest tides wash its shores, and the soft cliffs of Blomidon Provincial Park are constantly crumbling away; whole trees will occasionally slide down to the sea to decay slowly in the wind and brine. John Burnside basinbeachblomidon share on social
My poems tend to be more celebratory and lyrical, and the novels so far pretty dark. Poetry doesn't seem to me to be an appropriate tool for exploring that. John Burnside celebratorydarkexplore Change image and share on social