Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jeff Skinner
Erato
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Rain, I answer, rain that falls softly
in a garden, and on the Aegean,
the noise they make together,
trees in the rain, and the way rain brightens
the green leaves and the blue tiles
shine like new. Is that everything? she asks
and I say, yes it is, for the moment, yes.
Jeff Skinner’s poems have been published in anthologies and journals, most recently in Poetry News, Allegro, Drawn to the Light. He was commended in the recent Sonnet or Not competition. He volunteers at his local food bank, reads, writes.
Janet Dean
Rosemary Tonks Returns Home from a Health Hydro She knows the house has been alone, fires unlit, switches unclicked, fuck you, she spits, I had to pay for company. Thinks of it as stage-left, hangs her mackintosh on the walnut stand Mother hated,...
Maureen Weldon
And I Don’t Know Why Somehow I’ve ended up here and I don’t know why I’ve ended up here but I’ve ended up here. Somehow I met you and I know how that was meeting you. I crossed the border that night you kissed me. And somehow I’ve ended up here....
Sarah Mnatzaganian
Moon mother The moon has my mother’s face and the smile she gave when I swam into her arms one February night. She speaks my name cheerfully down the phone. No hint of the time passed since we last spoke. I will try not to count the days since my...
Ness Owen
During Lockdown Wood Chip Decided To Speak Can’t you see the splendour in my devotion? The satisfaction of ripped corners. Your delight in my demise won’t bring it closer. I am over-painted. You will breathe my dust. My name will trip on your...
Nina Lewis
Where We Begin Dandelions lose their lion heads weeds grow up to my ribs, petrified vines cling to last year's bamboo. Three planets in our morning sky, my breath burns. Things we barely understand derelict hauntings, satellite showers and a month...
Daisy Henwood
Hawthorn The gangrene smell is gone by the time the berries grow, and I am tempted to cut red branches and arrange them in jam jars throughout the house, too full of sour roasting fruit to remember the warning I heeded in May. I start to wear...
Jack Cooper
Back to Normal He unfurled for nine months like paper folded more than eight times over, springing outwards in his eagerness, and this morning parts of him were birthed again. MRI round three and it’s knockout, brain scans showing water before it...
Skendha Singh
We spend a slow morning At this hour, the air is wind unstilled by the April sun. The mynahs are on errands – I hear less song more wing. I am warmed by the habitual honey lemon and beside me the dog is snoring. At this hour, the room is a cup and...
Louise McStravick
Bake yourself some unicorns After Rishi Dastidar Start your day with a cheese board; wear lycra to work; decorate your eyelids with glitter made from reclaimed rainbow tears; slay your greetings — wink with both eyes — say goodbye instead of hello; only...