Today’s choice

Previous poems

Ashia Mirza

 

 

 

Heartbust: (Plato’s Allegory of the Cave)

Someone is taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.

There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb.

The prodigal sun casts shadows in your cave
of
someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.

There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb –

breaking            your shackles.

You leave the cave blinded
scrambling over
broken lines … broken bones … broken dreams.

Your eyes switch channels.
There’s a dread it’s real.

You swipe up.
There’s a dread it’s real.

There’s a feeling beyond helpless
which you can’t stop:       Heartbust.

You gasp for air
like you’re the one trapped

in the rubble
dying to get out.

You return to your shackles
in the cave watching

someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.

 

Ashia Mirza is a writer from Bolton. Her poetry has been shortlisted for the Aurora Prize and highly commended by the University of Greater Manchester. Her short fiction has been shortlisted for the HG Wells Prize and published in the anthology Motion and on CafeLit. Her novels have been longlisted and shortlisted in competitions run by The Times/Chicken House, Guppy, Northern Writers, and Commonword. Alongside her writing, she works as an informatics pharmacist.

Phil Vernon

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hold – in their homesteads, fenced and open land,
trackways and contours – all that’s happened here

Oenone Thomas

Because I don’t know any other way

I replace my left hand
with a hook, my feet
with jackhammers, both
my eyes with spangled
mirror balls.

Adele Evershed

Some Things My Mother Forgot to Teach Me (Before She Died)

A while ago I saw this prompt on Instagram
though I added ‘before she died’
because mine did—long before
anyway, I made a list

Chris Hardy

      Memento Vivere We lived here once. The rain we heard fell everywhere. Silence except the wind across the ground. It’s best to keep quiet. Words are like dead seeds, they vanish when they’re said.   *   New Year’s Eve without stars or...

Siobhan Logan

There’s something wrong with the sky

it’s the colour of a bruise and smells
of burnt toast. Do you hear that noise?
Someone’s shredding the blue