Today’s choice
Previous poems
Paul Stephenson
Rhubarb
after Norman MacCaig
And another thing: stop looking
like embarrassed celery. It doesn’t suit.
How can you stand there, glittery in pink,
some of you rigid, some all over the shop?
Deep down you’re marooned, a sour forest
spilling out beneath a harmful canopy.
You know I love you just for being rhubarb,
for keeping pushing in dim conditions.
I stew your sinew and forgive you
for giving me nothing that first season.
Katherine Meehan
Sprout I confess I am an idiot who believes in luck and the mania of new projects. If you drive these up to the mountains for the weekend, they may grow a sprout, and you may be allowed a tinfoil hat and a bird familiar. Seek vortices in rural...
Amit Shankar Saha
Runes The water was everywhere but not our awareness of it. We only knew the ice -- the age of ice was when we lived our mammoth lives, sabre toothed towards extinction. At the onset of the great thaw we were reborn evolved, undergone mutation....
Bethany W Pope
Year of the Plague There have been plagues, before. There has been death, spreading like a blanket drawn across the face of the world. There will always be fear, of war, of famine, all of those abysmal things which are too big for us to picture,...
Peter Burrows
Night Train Tall lights beam downwards blanking the night sky casting long sleeping shadows across the yard. Darkness edges the mainline. A taxi, yellow light on, returns over the bridge. Slow, uncertain shunting starts up. Stops. Rain tries,...
Ian Seed
Cottage I turn around to see my mother on the roof, clinging to a chimney. How did she get there? She’s shouting down instructions: which apples to pick from the orchard behind me. And then, as if waking from a dream, she looks around in...
Louise Warren reviews ‘Witness’ by Jonathan Kinsman
Witness By Jonathan Kinsman. Burning Eye Books. £9.99. In his new pamphlet ‘Witness’ , the poet Jonathan Kinsman has taken the gospel of the New Testament and drawn inspiration from the disciples and their stories, the then fiercely...
Ava Patel
Six Feather gashes cut the deepest because I can’t figure out their motives; this game of Russian roulette we play will kill me because you always load six cartridges. I think there is a wolf cub lost in this city, lost from his pack. My wrappers fall from my...
Maggie Mackay
Lady Mary Hamilton If you were to be wandering through the Kunstkamera in St Petersburg, last century, you’d likely have spotted a glass jar on a dusty shelf and inside it a head, pickle-floating in spirits. This belonged to Mary Hamilton. It was...
Ian Heffernan
The Journey in We pass a shock of roofs, a builders’ yard, A squat clocktower, cranes, wide bird-filled parks, Unkempt back lawns and windows seen through trees. Graffiti flares from walls of darkened brick And at unmeasured intervals we...