Today’s choice

Previous poems

Pippa Little

 

 

A woman is scrubbing a grave

A woman is scrubbing a grave
but the blood remains

a woman dreams of a brown beast
driven mad and knows it is herself

a woman believes the voice in her mind
nurses the splinter of glass in her heart

a woman may defend herself
and lay herself open in the same breath

a woman’s rage cannot raise the dead
but it may split stone like lightning

 

 

 

Pippa Little‘s last collection Time Begins to Hurt came out from Arc in 2022. She’s working on her next book and teaching poetry for the Faber Academy in Newcastle.

Hilary Robinson

      Pineapple Upside-Down Cake Sunday. The day I worship at the hob and stove. Unholy music of the kitchen rocks from Spotify, my phone in a Pyrex jug speaker. Sweet Child of Mine. One is out running over the hills, far away from weekend crowds that...

Rachel Davies

      Just Because all my life I wanted to meet you and because you were late by three weeks and the cocktail I drank while I waited for you to arrive slid down my throat like orange frogspawn while I gagged over the stainless sink and because when you...

Adriano Noble

      the lover, always sometimes a man wants to come home to an empty house: there’s no dignity in feeling needy in front of others to want to feel / be the hardness of a man i’m a happy drunk but only when i’m alone so the house is empty / my...

Laura Varnam

      Queen Wealhtheow: Cup-Bearer I watch her pacing the patterned floor, Passing the cup to punch-drunk brawlers, Side-stepping swords, the too-familiar fumble. A mead-hall manoeuvre so mechanical I can tell: she’s done this before. And tomorrow?...

Brendan McEntee

      Deathbed Wisdom The shadow of her arm falls long across the wall. Once, she’d climbed a bald cypress in summer wearing an ivory shift. Once, she’d kissed a stranger in a rainstorm who tasted of bourbon and sea spray. The electric impulse of her...

Ian Heffernan

      RESISTANT That dream again, the one I have Most mornings now: a foghorn calls Across the river’s mouth, I scan The grey salt distance, pick out groups Of oystercatchers, dunlins, knots And, here and there, an avocet, Then turn and take the path...

Kayleigh Jayshree

      ON BEING GHOSTED BY A FAMOUS MUSICIAN Nobody knew he had a glass eye, but when we were alone he’d pop it in and out, like a cuckoo clock, as a sort of intimate party trick. I was surprised by how real it looked, how it followed you around the...

Rachael Charlotte

      When You Are Nowhere I only want olfaction in small doses, off my fingers, sometimes it comes when you are nowhere. This is not a joke. I’m going to ride on the back of a lion and sink my hands into his mane, drive my knees into his ribs for grip,...

Rhiannon Janae

      Mother Nature She inhabits here laced in hibiscus dancing through marigolds as she weeps low hymns of sparrow’s song fluorescent forests hugging her body while she gayly frolics through a frog pond brushed barefoot as the water hugs her toes she...