Today’s choice
Previous poems
Annie Wright
Wight Sirens
Sing silver times, shimmering columns
of light on the wine-dark, temple
to moon-eyed Hecate, the insatiable.
Sing treachery, dizzy with stars, sudden
squalls, sting of our stink, pianissimo
of sighing, undying, true-to-only-you-oo trills.
Sing sultry slappings when we’d lull full crews
then down ‘em on the rocks, sink
their booze, gorge on oranges and spice.
Exult in rocky ends at Rocken End
Johannes betrayed, also Lelia and Essen,
sponges, calico and hearts of iron.
Sing blood spilt in stormy libation,
black as the bones we sucked under
at Blackgang: Cashmere, Jean-Marie, Glenary,
timber, tinned meat, provisions general.
Schiehallion, Stenman, Konsek and Lois,
salty oats, logwood, all but three lost to us.
On wanton nights our open throats
devoured whole galleons off Whale Chine,
Claremont and Cormorant we soused you in rum.
Victor Emanuel, Nemrod, HMS Sphinx,
Donna Zola, CB and cargoes of zinc,
Crosique, Le Courier, breezy French brigs;
sing trawlers tugged under, the tippling of gigs,
galleons grounded and clippers capsized,
washed down with convicts, coffee and rice.
******
We’ve sung and we’ve sung above
mackerel and gulls, blubber and whiskers
seal our fate; demented divas
we have barked ourselves hoarse.
Damn your liners, unsinkable schooners,
roll on but not over ferry boats and yachts,
we’re undying but done for,
feathers tarred, nights ill-starred,
bleached skulls crushed to shells –
this lack of men needles us.
Annie Wright‘s latest collection is Dangerous Pursuit of Yellow (Smokestack Books 2019). She leads poetry workshops and loves performing, from Scotland to the Isle of Wight. She’s appearing with Hexameter poets at the Kirkcudbright Book Festival in March.
Penny Blackburn
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John Tustin
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Sally St Clair
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Robin Lindsay Wilson
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Peter Eustace
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Rose Lennard
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Linda Ford
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Eugene Stevenson
Mace in Her Pocket She is used to walking unafraid of the echo off her heeled steps, moving through the parking lot in a still-dark, early morning hour. Mace in her pocket, fur coat on her back, fist wrapped around her keys, she takes a breath...
Joshua St. Claire
green spruce cone
a globe of sap slips
below the horizon