Today’s choice
Previous poems
David Van-Cauter
House
…4am and the birdsong begins, a wet January in a new city and I’m alone watching a man in Minnesota, murdered for protecting a woman from a fascist hit squad and the politicians are smirking trying to deny the evidence, saying no it didn’t happen that way, the video is wrong and I’m thinking of you in the crisis house trying to sleep because you said our home was trying to kill you, how it isn’t you, it’s where you are and how the place is a hellhole where the drains are blocked and everything is broken but I don’t see it and you feel sorry for me being blind to all the unresolvable unfixable problems and you keep saying it over and over and you can’t live here you cannot live here it’s all fucked it’s all fucked and I watch the man being killed again by ICE from a different angle after the pepper spray and the beating and he’s saying no, leave her alone and those are his last words as they shoot him ten times and I’m wondering if we’ll ever be the way we were or if this is it now, reality shot down in a hail of bullets as our world accepts that nothing is true any more, that this did not happen and it could not happen here, not here, where we know what is right and who the enemies are, but it’s not you, no, it’s the house, it’s just the house, and if we didn’t live here then everything would no longer be broken, we’d have no home but at least we’d have our lives back and there wouldn’t be all this confusion but you’re not here now and the man lies still again and then he is alive saying no no no and the bullets hit and the man lies and the man lies and the man lies still…
Dide
A part of my body is dead, hardened and now so hard you could use it as a door knocker or the beak of a woodpecker; it has turned the soot of Black Death, of Shanghai smog; I want to crack a nut on it like a squirrel, parched walnut brains waiting...
Annie Katchinska
Prised Apart I raise my arms and let them slump back down. Maybe they don’t belong to me. Our movements more exhausted, looser Did we show rage. Did we try for once to rest your hands on your hips, hold yourself like a good china cup chipped as...
David Gilbert
The Old Fishing Village The rain is a gauze. I could have slept in, but listen to gulls bothering the cruise ships. What more can rain throw at us? Joe’s boat slips out once a day for weather-beaten tourists who find us on old maps. The yellow houses on...
Anne Caldwell
Wasp’s Nest I wanted to be a goat when I was a child. Agile and cloven- hooved. My days were spent poking cowpats with a stick, sending clouds of bluebottles into the hot sky as the hay meadows chirped with crickets and grasshoppers. One evening...
Bel Wallace
The New Owner Meets The Duende in the Old Barn Last night, in the stone barn behind the house I met a duende, knee-high, Bigfoot stomping, Spluttering gobbledigook. ‘What’s your problem, Duende?’ I asked. Perhaps a touch Patronizing. ‘You, you,...
Rahana K. Ismail
Evening Lists Inadequacies unreels our slippages. My daughter kaleidoscopes supermarket-aisles in the apartment lift monotone. Squirrelling through the doorway, she pictures what to; I don’t....
Caroline Sylge
Weekend Work Do Tina and I are circling the room at speed wrapped in white table cloths. Who knew this was what we came here for? We are tiddly after a day of contributing — to workshops in small groups, structured chats on the sunny lawn — by...
Tristan Moss
Getting Somewhere We don’t admit to depending on the brakes too much. But the garage tells us we need to change the pads again. We don’t enjoy brinkmanship, but our new tyres have already started to lose their grip. We don’t want to crash, we’re...
Marcelo Coelho
Broken English When I was younger, for a long time I assumed that being an immigrant, I could not fully understand or Enjoy English verse, wrote Elif Shafak, novelist, last Saturday In The Guardian. There would always be Something I would miss...