Today’s choice
Previous poems
Roger Robinson
Pipeline
We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet
sugar on our teeth.
My peoples chant strong magic.
My peoples beatbox in jail.
Roger Robinson won the T.S. Eliot Prize (2019), the RSL Ondaatje Prize (2020), the Cholmondeley Award (2024). He is a Royal Society of Literature Fellow and has been shortlisted for the Derek Walcott Prize for Poetry, the OCM Bocas Poetry Prize, the Oxford Brookes Poetry Prize, and the European Prize for Freedom.
His collection A Portable Paradise was named a New Statesman Book of the Year. His book Home Is Not a Place, created in collaboration with Johny Pitts, was a Guardian Poetry Book of the Year and shortlisted for the British Book Awards. Insta: @rogerrobinsononline Website: rogerrobinsononline.com
Margaret Poynor
Sugar Daddy The week before Christmas, my friend arranged a blind date for me. In retrospect, she wanted to replace herself with me. Oysters, lobster thermidor, sherry trifle with silky custard in the Savoy Grill. He flattered, flirted, cupped me...
Philip Foster
At Home with Long John Silver My mother told me to never suffer fools. "Never suffer fools" she'd say and she hit me round the head. I had an intolerable migraine that stopped me getting out of bed. "Never suffer fools" she said. She'd look them...
Roz Lester
Dream witch Clearing out clutter before Christmas I pick up the figure my daughter made in October; clay skull on stick body yellow corn kernel eyes and crooked mouth pressed in by small fingers, dried brown corn silk hair under a crown of leaves...
Michael W. Thomas
Spinning out She sees but doesn’t as she spins her coffee out. Behind her, morning squishes wide against the station buffet. Train liveries drape across their line of travel, suffer the shunt and wheeze of doors and half-tumbled bodies....
Jennie E. Owen
Glorious The problem with hotels, she’s found is that you cannot escape the mirrors the buffed marble polish of it all. She can swerve in oversized robes bath towels, sheets. Do the dance of the seven veils, but still is destined to catch the...
Jean O’Brien
Unscripted Surfaces The window frames a mirror-lake In the room, a desk, oak that still Calls to its sisters, it suffers the fate Of use and wear, the many hands That have laid on it, the careless cups, The lamps and trinkets and it is full Of...
Julie Maclean
When You Become a Man's Muse don’t make the mistake of marrying him. You’ll end up in the kitchen facing the wall until he's ready, then dragged on all fours onto the canvas, dressing gown undone, pet dog following. stories shift in contours of...
Gill Connors
Cold is easy you know where you are with it. No lukewarm promises of what will never come. No ghost-friend who ignores you then tells you through someone else that it was your fault all along. This is no hair toss, shoulder-shrug. No brag in the...
Caroline Stancer
My kitten takes me everywhere I need to go When I am sunk her ears remind me of lightness and rightness and treats, they are paper cones for sweets, chips or popcorn, except these are upside down and miniaturised and made of ultra-thin flickable...