These are beautiful poems, poems that find meaning and joy in the briefest of interactions or quietly considered reflections.
Which will you choose for the August 2025 Pick of the Month?
- Ben Banyard, ‘Day of the Dead’: a wonderful evocation of ancestry and its complexities.
- John Bartlett, ‘sclerenchyma’: an elegant, light-stepping poem about what living is.
- Cindy Botha, ‘the colour of’: a poem that like a short film, a brief vision of hope.
- Liz Byrne, ‘I want to be two-tongued again‘: speaks to the loss of home and the closeness of family where language is the uniting factor.
- Jeff Gallagher, ‘Ramadan’: savours both the humour of self denial, the irony of it against so much poverty and its essential ‘noble’ core principles.
- Esha Volvoikar, ‘Ripening’: dreamlike and luxurious embracing the beauty of different languages and the moon’s universality.
All six of the shortlist have been chosen by Helen, Kate and Elontra or received the most attention on social media. They can be found below. (Please scroll down.)
Please VOTE HERE. Voting will close at 6pm on Thursday
Our ‘prize’ is £25 towards the charity of your choice or an emailed National Book Token giftcard*.
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THE AUGUST PICK OF THE MONTH SHORTLIST
Day of the Dead
Granny introduced us to her parents,
her uncle who moved to South Africa in 1912,
the grandfather I never knew and his family.
There were hundreds of them, all in period costume,
each generation explained who they were,
queued like at a wedding reception to greet us.
We had facial features in common, noses and eyes,
high foreheads and dimples on chins.
Some laughed, some liked to drink, some danced,
the Quakers and Methodists found a quiet corner.
They were from Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon,
rural parts of Ireland, Devon and Cornwall, Wales,
some didn’t speak English and might have been Flemish.
One by one they waved goodbye and exchanged hugs
until only the living were left in the hall.
We agreed it was worth doing, to put faces to names.
Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, on the North Somerset coast. His three collections to date are Hi-Viz (Yaffle Press, 2021), We Are All Lucky (Indigo Dreams, 2018) and Communing (Indigo Dreams, 2016). Ben edits Black Nore Review . Website:benbanyard.wordpress.com
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sclerenchyma
mornings
I wake wary
of abundance
wondering why I’m still here
and then I recall
all the green leaves
with their hiding birds and
the slow triumph
of ripening pods
here lily stalks move
like living things
for this is
what they are
each a pale ballerina
arms stretching
sketching into
resistant air in
winds that conspire
to bring them down
then I’m overwhelmed
by the idea of love – the sap
that runs through each of us and why
time is such a narrow corridor
as we crawl towards the light
is it enough to just be here
to resist these winds
as lilies do
to briefly flower
then leave
John Bartlett is the author of twelve books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. He was winner of the 2020 Ada Cambridge Poetry Prize and his latest poetry pamphlet is In the Spaces Between Stars Lie Shadows (Walleah Press). He lives in southern Australia.
note: ‘sclerenchyma’ is the strengthening tissue in a plant, formed from cells with thickened, walls.
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the colour of
I notice her because she doesn’t have a dog
in an afternoon of dog-walkers
and she’s wearing a yellow coat
it looks like a good coat, I know that much
maybe the yellowest coat ever sewn
she’s alone, stamping along the river bank
where the path’s muddy
but what does a good coat
and all that saturated colour care for mud
she’s talking on her phone
and I’m sorry it’s not me on the other end
as she strides right through
the afternoon and into something else
taking all the daffodils with her
Cindy Botha was raised in Africa and now lives in New Zealand. She began writing while caring for her mother through dementia years. Her poems appear in magazines and anthologies in NZ, Australia, the UK and USA.
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I want to be two-tongued again
To go back to the time when I slipped
from one language to another with ease,
when I knew the contours of my Irish home.
To stand with Dad by the window, chat
in the room of our own tongue about my day,
my dreams. I want him to listen, really listen.
To be fluent again in the language I forget.
It’s a different house now, furniture sharp-edged,
doors and windows in the wrong place.
Irish says: I have sadness, joy upon me.
There are no words for yes or no. Dying
is caught, like a cold or a breath.
There are four words for family.
I always choose the wrong one.
Duolingo takes my hearts away.
Liz Byrne is from Dublin and now lives near Manchester. Her poetry appears in Orbis, Agenda, Butcher’s Dog, Crannog, Strix, The North and Under the Radar. She won the Best Landscape Poem, Ginkgo Prize, 2020 and was placed third in the Ginkgo Prize, 2021.
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Ramadan
Colleagues munching bap and burger
thought Ramadan was that juicy winger,
his scorching pace soon snaffled up by City.
Giving stuff up, they say, is murder –
and two weeks into Lent they bring a
secret snack to work through sheer self-pity.
A new year, and my next door neighbour
vows to refrain from cakes and ale,
aiming to be a size twelve by the summer.
Abstention is an earnest labour –
but she is tempted, bound to fail –
so frankly, resolutions are a bummer.
The barbecues are smeared with ash
and fat hands drip with ketchup sauce –
yet times are hard, and cannot get much tougher.
So many people, strapped for cash,
attempt to change their usual course –
all budgeting with care, prepared to suffer.
They feel so good about themselves
but still bemoan what they have lost:
their stomachs fill with hunger and with fear.
And when they view their empty shelves,
they feel the pain, they count the cost,
and wonder why I do this every year.
But this is jahada: desire’s defeat
through self-denial, a cleansing rite –
a noble cause; no hatred-fuelled slaughter
But standing with you in the heat,
to give my heart and find the light,
and let you drink my final drop of water.
Jeff Gallagher lives in Sussex. His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Rialto, Acumen, New Critique, Cannon’s Mouth and High Window. He also featured (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie.
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Ripening
The earth cracks and we are left
with the same shared moon.
She peers through my lattice window
and hides behind your city’s smoke.
Have you ever caught her
covertly climbing the ladder,
the hoards below are distracted
watching the tangerine sun set.
In Arabic the word for moon is qamar –
قمر, where all her phases align
into gibbous – full – crescent
floating in a celestial pool.
In Urdu kamar means waist.
A full moon unfurls at her کمر,
she wanes and waxes, her hollow
empties out and sinks into her ribs.
When the darkness sets in
grey clouds dress this newborn,
she becomes one with the night
before she comes out again.
We leave this earth behind
and the blood moon rises.
Let us pluck this mandarin
and split her in half.
Esha Volvoikar was born and raised in Goa, India. She studied Creative Writing at the University of Warwick. She was shortlisted for the Thawra Poetry Competition 2024. Her poems have been published by Young Poets Network and The Alipore Post.