Today’s choice
Previous poems
Britta Giersche
3am
a wooden door slams shut in my brain
a man perishes in a space the size of his grave from malnutrition eighty years ago
(I travel on my mother’s electric waves that held their spoken words’ shape)
I am sorry that the thud left a hole in your dream like a lost stitch in a schoolgirl’s needlework
the drumming of car tyres forms a mirror-like sound on the asphalt road
a beam of light casts a languorous glance over our bodies
for six seconds
(the length of a yawn)
I catch the warm updraft, rising from your breathing
Britta Giersche is German. She lives in London and is writing her first book of poetry.
Abby Crawford
When I was born
the house was full
of stones, an old blacksmiths shed.
Rachael Clyne
And if a land loses its people and they
are exiled will a land feel their absence
Tom Nutting
They have been burying us,
not realising
we were seeds
of revolution.
Emily A. Taylor
I move my hand long
so yours will follow, and though
this moment tastes of tequila soda
paracetamol pillowed on a fizzing tongue
amnesia… pull me in anyway.
Steph Morris
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently,
Eryn McDonald
It is here that the day breaks apart
Like ice on frustrated frozen pond
Here in the grounds of Ashton Court
I wish to bury myself amongst the green
Gordan Struić
Outside,
the city slides by,
blurred lines
of glass and rain.
Stephen Keeler
The days were huge and kind
and sometimes after school
we’d buy a bag of broken biscuits
for the long walk home
across the heavy heat of afternoon
on lucky days she wouldn’t take
the pennies offered up in supplication
Joseph Blythe
I swear I felt the swirly patterned paper
rip from the walls of my childhood bedroom.
It was the same stained cream shade as my skin –
pockmarked, cut and scabbed, dry and peeling…..