Today’s choice

Previous poems

Patrick Wright

 

 

Endings

after the soil exhibition at Somerset House

first i go to finitude     while you favour plenitude & birth     the source beneath our feet     
i recoil at the abject     the never-ending cycle of leaves under loam     a seedbed for eggs 
or spawn     this going on     & no space for heaven or things to pause or find reprieve 
i protest     say how when i’m gone i’d like to rest before the choice to return & go through 
all this again     you sigh as though that’s absurd & endings are just endings     we’re mulch 
& nothing but endless fucking 
mushrooms     with your books on toadstools & fairy folk     your vision risks nihilism     
cells that collide & divide     tumours that do whatever they want     they too are life     
sweet parasites that through a microscope are stellar nurseries     solar discs     star-stuff
but you insist on star-stuff     not just     
see a wellspring of microbes microorganisms & minerals     go on a rant about mycorrhizae 
rhizomes     symbolic of a way beyond capitalism 
i recall black gold     how it began with the wearing of soles that sever us from the cosmos
you gush about mud & marl     the morphology of roots     how trees are upside down 
trees talk to each other     like neurones & neurones     in tight-knit neighbourhoods     
your tears fall over microfauna robbed of enclosures     worms in macropores     movements 
like refugees or the recently evicted 
while i’m with muck & the matrix     the womb as tomb     the putrid metaphysic     no room 
to resurrect each thorax     each springtail’s spark     just nodes & networks     in the mire 
with mould & midden     till your arms reach out like tendrils     in hope of binding my soul

 

Patrick Wright’s poems have appeared in MagmaPoetry IrelandPoetry WalesThe North, and The London Magazine. His debut collection, Full Sight of Her, was published by Eyewear (2020). His second collection, Exit Strategy, was published by Broken Sleep (2025).

Francis de Lima

Oh London. U useless city. Map to

                                                                        nowhere land. Tight stretch 

                                                                        open eye. The underground metal. 

The night tube. The railway. Smog

Over coaltrip. The presence

                                                                          Of machine upon machine. U

Miriam Swales

When I was 12, I knew the weight of a human head.
8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (a bit of dark comedy).
It grew from there. The curiosity. The calculations.

Annie Kissack

      Girl Awaits the Psychic Investigators They’re late. The table is laid with a clean cloth, all normal and neat. Our visitors, city men, may find it hard to navigate the path but we can wait. They hope to gather evidence of a haunting; whether he’ll...