Today’s choice
Previous poems
Helen Finney
The Perseids at Bannau Bryceiniog
At my feet the window sprawls a view of kneaded land,
craggy baked by the hand of the gods, dusted green
with short bit grass. A sheep walks by
along the grey faded road, pitted with age,
worn tired with wear.
Last night I’d lain upon the ground late after dark, the warmth
of the day held beneath me, to await the heaven’s shower.
While all slept but the owl that called, the tears of St Lawrence
wept in the sky, lines of silver silked the black blue,
tacking space to the earth, sewing us into the universe.
With an MA in Fine Art, Helen Finney spent most of her life working as a fine artist in Swansea; however, recently her practice has taken her more towards writing. She has been published in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Poetry Wales, Dreich Mag, Gyroscope Review and elsewhere. She has released four collections of poetry.
Eugene O’Hare
It hasn’t been this bright all year –
the moon’s white scalp, spot-lit,
a head turned away from a thing
the rest of us fear: unearthly dark
Juliet Humphreys
Though I am not a painter
this is to be a portrait
of my parents and my sister.
Julian Dobson
You too I guess
have studied the surviving starlings
as they swoop and whistle
by the snack trailer at Moorfoot
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.
Clare Bryden
seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear
hear
Gail Webb
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
Kim Cullen
I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair
Mark G. Pennington
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets