Today’s choice
Previous poems
Luigi Coppola
Prometheus Burns Down The Last Bar Of The Pub Crawl
Out of ten bars, by the fifth, half of us had flickered
out and by this ninth one, it ended up just him
and me. A matchstick balanced on a stool, he sat
trench-coated and ember-tense. Salt from peanuts
stung his scolded fingers. The beer lip that frothed
every twenty seconds was steamed away by his
singed tongue or calcined palm or cauterised
sleeve. The reflection in mirrors behind bottles
refracted through cremated breaths. We talked
of many things: the warmth of hearths in heaven,
the snort of mulled wine, the smouldering hog
slipping off the bone, the shine of smithied gold
around necks of beautiful Gods. And all the other
stuff too that was given away or taken away or
lost. He stared through the cigarette smoke that
congealed in the heavy air, at the rolling, grilling
hot dogs from parts unknown and the flameless,
oil-clogged heater simmering like a plague
in the corner. We had had enough; besides, he had
somewhere to be. As we left, he sparked his fingers
at the edge of the soaked bar – kindling for a pyre –
amongst the heated laughter, stinging smog and
spilled paraffin. In the absolute alleyway, circled
by the fighting, puking comatose, I plucked
up the courage to ask that one burning question:
‘Can I see it?’ He smiled without looking up
from the half-empty glass (that he accidentally
stole and was destined to be fully empty and
balanced on rubble for eternity). He opened up
his coat and there it was: an eagle, bright and on
fire, with coal-dust eyes and charred beak pecking
under his grey ribs and the torn pink skin curling
inwards like cindered leaves – his blood-doused liver
exposed to the elements, bleeding for forgiveness.
Luigi Coppola – www.linktr.ee/PoetryPreacher – poetry, music, rum & coke. Featured at Glastonbury Festival, Tate Modern, Greenwich Theatre, Koestler Arts, Cutty Sark, Southbank Centre’s New Poets Collective, Poetry Archive Worldview winner, Bridport shortlist, Ledbury & National longlist, Lost Souls & Farrago Slam Champion, music as ‘The Only Emperor’, debut from Even God Gets Distracted Sometimes is out with Broken Sleep Books.
Ryan Norman
Garden I’ve woken at peace; it’s important not to think. I return instead to familiar images; steam rising from the boiler below the house, the pale leaves on the tree whose name I never learned. All I’ve ever done with these things is try to know...
Iris Anne Lewis
Consider the snowdrop How it toils through barren months, withstands snow and frost with alchemy of proteins and alkaloids in its sap. How it forges lance-shaped leaves hard-tipped to pierce frozen earth, gifts fresh growth to shaded places. How...
Marc Woodward
Hope is for a smile. Not the cheery smile of The medication is excellent these days but the broad smile of You can go home now, everything is fine. Hope is getting up and checking yourself knowing that one day soon you'll be worse - but not today?...
Kurt Sweeney
Forest Facial If I’m not rock, then I’m depth letters, If I’m not stone, then I’m clean persuasion, If I’m not dark, then I’m chisel and mallet, If I’m never cerebral, then I’ll be static weather. So blow in my direction, Wear down my features,...
Heidi Beck
Self-Portrait as Road Runner You with your elaborate schemes of entrapment, your hunting parties, moonshine and shot-gun weddings, your Sunday-school socials for girls to glue birdseed and pasta on prayer plaques, sew aprons with Singers– this desert was...
Shakiah K Johnson
What Comes After Death? A duck stood on my grave the other day I felt my wits travel up my spine And settle between my shoulder blades Each one, pulling further from the other Until I am split down the middle After a moment the feeling is gone And...
Sue Finch
Hare Witch After midnight put your hand on your chest and wish. Call then to the pull of the moon. Wait to feel that shrink, that all over body tingle that takes you down. Let the wild one come the one that runs the fields for the cold soil, the...
On the First Day of Christmas we bring you Rebecca Gethin, Alicia Byrne Keane, Daniel Hinds
Solstice This is the shortest light we have to live with and in every minute we feel the life left in its stem and the slow pulse of its fluids keeping the plant of the day just enough alive. Rebecca Gethin has written five poetry...
Helen Scadding
Minority Listen with owl ears. Can you hear the worn words? we stand for the law abiding majority We forgot they kept them stored in loops on broken cassettes the mob needs to be stopped now they unfurl themselves opening like unwelcome flags we will keep putting them...