Today’s choice

Previous poems

Maryam Alsaeid

 

 

 

A Prayer for Rima
With echoes of the Arabic lullaby ‘yalla tnam’

Maybe after your bath—
you will sit for a moment,
the towel will hold you close
like a quiet prayer—
يا رب، نامت الطفلة، يا رب خلّيها تنام
Ya Rab, the child sleeps, oh Lord, help her sleep.

Your hair still sings with water—
the evening folds around you,
a linen of mercy and cradling—
you are small again.
Your breath curls into itself,
as if rocked by unseen hands.

Everyone needs a night like this—
the freedom to forget noise,
to feel a droplet slip down the shoulder,
to feel as precious as a close whisper
يا عصفورة، يا وردة، نامي بسلام
Little bird, little flower, sleep in peace.

Outside, cars sigh along the road—
washing the city clean. Inside
your chest loosens, a psalm
in the language of skin.
The tears that come—
do not accuse you
they anoint.

May this be your Sunday—
your soft rebirth. May time
dissolve like salt in water,
and the world begin again
inside you.

يلا تنام، يلا تنام
Yalla tnam, yalla tnam
The night will rock you—
like a mother who hums
long after you’ve slept.

 

Maryam Alsaeid is a Manchester-based poet and pharmacist, she explores healing and female empowerment. She studied at MMU with Carol Ann Duffy, was mentored by Julia Webb, and leads well being-focused writing workshops.

Kate Ennals

      Note To the Pathologist. Take a scalpel, cut along the white bone of breast fold back the flesh, there behind the ribs, you’ll see ribald laughter caged, gasping for breath. Between the red thread of capillaries you will discover a black patch...

Lynn Valentine

  What was it like in the War, Granda? I became desert, death, murderer, a kind of killing machine. I washed my clothes in oil. I bartered my knife for water. I used my gun. I saw friends die over an officer’s stupidity. I was made to polish boots while the winds...

Ernesto Sarezale

  A LONGER KISS (to John, 1963-2018) On a mound of ancient rubble opposite the Shish Gumbad, in New Delhi’s Lodhi Gardens, a sign announces in English “This Is Grave Not Allowed” and a brown dog howls. The dog struggles in circles to poke its muzzle through the...

Adrienne Wilkinson

      big safe knives her greedy hands cook for me slicing limes into such thin wheels ginger honey sesame to steam in this english culture with the least amount of time to cook in all of europe as she eats i touch her hands and feel grease the salt of...

Cáit O’Neill McCullagh

      THE MOTHER TREE Go to the pine to learn of the pine ̶ Matsuo Bashō Spring empties us of snow, spits us winter-lean    Fat gritted rhizomes, our roots upend feeble as sea foamed on rock fast with limpet full dulse.   & we swing sparse growth...

Pam Thompson

  Hotel Blue (after John Ash) 1. Above each of the sea-facing windows of Hotel Blue, a canopy. At night the smell of fish and vinegar. It’s a good place to fall out of love, fall in love with someone else, a good place to tip out clutter from your bag or pockets....

Tom Branfoot

      I work in a former abattoir code switching like it’s going out of fashion yawns sieved through my terrazzo mouth sunless mornings one bus every hour peopled with rage rainwaxed floors slippery as heritage once I would have cut myself like a...

Patrick Deeley

  Sean’s Ghost leans over the garden wall next the hairpin bend to hand me a rosy apple with the same gesture he himself showed of a stumblebum evening when I was a child making my way home after a bad day at school. Though the apple holds no substance now, and...

Sophia Argyris

  HERONLESS I look for him from the foot bridge    he's not in any of his usual places not mid-stream in shallows           not below the arch under the road not at the corner on a stony outcrop       the fishes are swimming undeterred and the day feels so...