Today’s choice

Previous poems

Sarah Boyd

 

 

 

Finely balanced

He’s a house of cards, a delicately balanced pyramid
held together by hearing aids and dusty bifocals and
wobbling dentures and ageing pacemaker and
shirt with three buttons missing in action and
tea-stained cardigan with more holes than wool and
21st birthday watch that never stops ticking and
hernia truss and extra large incontinence pants and
braces and belt to support saggy-kneed trousers and
over-stretched socks and ulcer bandage and
triple-E shoes with Velcro straps
and
one trip on the rug he’s been told to throw
in the dustbin, a mix-up with his meds, one jug of
water not touched all day, or one ill-judged lunge
for the walking frame, and the whole lot
will come crashing down on the floral patterned,
wall-to-wall Axminster.

 

Sarah Boyd is a student on the MA Writing Poetry run by Poetry School and Newcastle University. Her poems have appeared in Frogmore Papers, Dreich, The Cannon’s Mouth and elsewhere. She came second in the 2025 Arts Richmond Poetry Prize.

Salvatore Difalco

      Trips Are Verbs The ferry chuffed with a lyrical rhythm but I found myself blowing chunks off the starboard into churning green and gray. The islands looked like donkeys in the distance and then like elephants as we drew closer. My mouth tasted of...

Paul Truan

    What if? I once read a poem about how a mother can repair a book when it has fallen apart. And I thought what if it was the mother pulling it apart and throwing the pieces into the air for them to fall like confetti? And what if when life puts them...

Rose Rouse

      the explorer i’d always thought my mother was a hearth rug an astrologer’s words blew me off course even in your pram she poured voyage into you there were the solo cruises of course dad died and she took to the qe2 even dallied with a dance host...

Henry Wilkinson

      Search Party Damp October grass left watercolour Brush strokes on my grey Golas As the path retreated behind us like a shrinking quayside. We scouted the undergrowth like a crime-scene Armed with pictures from a stranger’s Instagram, Placing...

Alan Humm

      My father is calling the neighbours names Out on the grass my father is calling the neighbours names. It is his art. Softly, he starts to mourn. The sky’s a mild suburban blue, each lawn so circumspect it’s like a stamp, but he is being moved by...

Julia Stothard

      Soliloquy O little sister. little lark. little mischief never to be found out. How your broad smile is a quartered melon and answers drip from my chin. O little mirror. little wheel. little carriage into the universe next door. How we ride...

Amanda Coleman White

      Sovereignty Taking on the role of battle goddess, I rush toward nightly war cries upstairs as offspring wrestle. I turn corvid, oil-slick wings hovering as laughter turns savage. Bruises blossom springlike; I can predict the outcome every time. A...

Gaynor Kane

      The Memory Bank i. Rows of multi-coloured tallboys, tarnished brass drawer-pull-handles like the waning gibbous moon. Hardwood needing a rub with wire wool and beeswax. A dispensary of memories – the ones you mine your mind for. Make withdrawals...

Elizabeth Chadwick Pywell

      daily it’s translation & catching yourself & navigating polite surprise & over-explaining & the judicious use of partner & when they do the same it’s wondering & a pause while you consider how shocked they’ll be if you say...