Today’s choice
Previous poems
On the fourth day of Christmas, we bring you Leusa Lloyd, Lydia Benson and Charlotte Johnson
Christmas Eve
‘I was all hers and we peeled potatoes’ – Clearances III, Seamus Heaney
we set about our tasks. I
was called to the kitchen where she was
ribboning their freckled skin, the fall
of my knife steady like hers,
they hit the cold pan and
thudded with the beat of the carols we
sang as we peeled:
our own hymns, tasting of potatoes.
Leusa Lloyd is a Welsh writer. She was long listed for the Mslexia Pamphlet Competition 2023. Her poetry and short stories can be found in Cardiff 75: Contemporary Writings from the City, Moon Water, Everscribe, and is forthcoming in Mugwort.
It’s nearly Christmas at the NICU
and there are fairy lights on the incubators, and a room full of nurses looking up at screens,
checking cables that tell me your heart rate and oxygen level and you’re there in your nappy,
and the tube in your nose down into belly and cords on your ankles and cannulas on your wrists
and your heels already pin cushioned from tests to check, to check, and they’ve brought us a screen,
a privacy screen of tropical beach scene and I’m behind it now, top off and to the beep of your heart
monitor you’re lifted out of the plastic and sheets and placed, warm body, curved, to lie on me,
on my newly swelling breast, and you’re nil by mouth but if we carefully move the cables and keep
the velcro strips on your wrists and ankles and don’t disturb the cannulas and the nurse silences
the monitor which is panicked now with all the movement, and then you lie on me, rest on me, sleep
on me baby and we can pretend this is us at home in bed, by your crib, with the wind outside
and the Christmas lights flickering in the window.
Lydia Benson (she/her) is a Folkestone based writer. Her poems have been placed in the Aurora and Ginkgo prizes and published in various magazines.
It is always Christmas in the loft
That one year, when it all went wrong on Christmas Eve and
the whole thing got cancelled, it just sat there for a few days before
Christmas was piled on itself in a corner of the loft.
No meticulous wrapping of lights and tree ornaments
And a whole herd of silver reindeer were lobbed on top with
the odd stray unChristmassing into the background.
No one could face unravelling it so Christmas was left to fester
while around it suitcases stockpiled
and sandals were swapped out for boots and back again.
Occasionally a little JOY would glitter a trajectory into a spare duvet
encouraged by a tinsel envoy. The clatch of cabling
crushing tin-foil stars weighed heavy above our heads.
When we were collectively tall enough to release the hatch
we sat crosslegged and unwrapped Christmas, shushing ourselves
as fairies with broken wings were brought into the light,
cottonwool snowmen crafted in unremembered times
our names in teacher’s handwriting on the back
We used to make Christmas, didn’t we?
A paper chain, remarkably, holding itself together
laid over boxes (contents unknown), crackers recovered,
pulled, plundered, our heads light with it all
as we reunited JOY with a still glittering PEACE.
Charlotte Johnson is a Scottish poet who lives in Reading. She was one of Apples and Snakes’ Future Voices in 2024 and created a flmpoem to celebrate their 40th Anniversary. She LOVES Christmas.
Dave Simmons
My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.
Paul Fenn
To impress you, I became
a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon
marching down the page.
Ruth Aylett
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
Chris Campbell
The View From This Hospital Window
I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.
Patrick Deeley
He sees a stainless-steel spoon
burned off at the base,
a bunch of wild flowers dropped,
Eliot North
Explaining to my little man
about proportion,
he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy
with thousands of fingers.
Jeanette Burton
What is this, a family outing?
Yes, dad, that’s exactly what this is, I want to say to him
as I open the car door, climb into the front seat,
remembering those marvellous trips to the tip at Loscoe.
CS Crowe
Lines He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the...
Carole Bromley
I don’t know why I went,
I’d already heard about the time
a colleague’s husband turned up
at the staff barbecue and punched him.