Today’s choice
Previous poems
Simon Williams
Hummingbird Hawk Moth
What were these fairies called
before we knew of hummingbirds?
Bumblebee moth because of the size?
Reed-nose moth because of the proboscis?
I fancy Garden-sprite, Hoverling,
tiny Vanguard from the Realm of Humm,
Flit-wing, Pixy peregrine, Flutter-at-the-fuchsia,
Be-gone-before-you-know-it.
Hummingbirds are known to tweak hairs
for their nests, right from your head.
Hair would be too heavy, here.
Spider-thread is all these imps could steal.
Simon Williams (www.simonwilliams.info) has been writing since his teens, when he was mentored at university by Roger McGough and Pete Morgan. His first collection was published in 1981. Since then, he has had eight further books and his 10th, The Pickers and Other Tales, from Vole, was published in February 2024. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013.
Trelawney
Religious Tack When you turned to God I turned away and in some sort of protest, a double-edged olive branch, I started a collection. Small at first: statues from catholic shrines, rude pewter pilgrims’ badges light-up Madonnas. A dome of the rock...
Molly Wolfe
Daddy’s Issues It’s Monday and screwed-up bits of paper hit her like rocks and bruise her inside and her wine (he said was his) paints the walls and burns like acid, droplets streaming ravines down her cheeks and a demon screams get out of my...
Geoff Sawers
Cage the ocean in a room sloshing against the walls a bee in your closed fist feel the fury of her tiny heart a mouth in a cage forced to speak a second language a rope of sand spun on a wide bleak strand press your ear to the cold wet ground hear...
Rosie Miles after Gillian Lever
Shine After Gillian Lever “What is orange? Why, an orange, Just an orange!” -- Christina Rossetti, from Sing-Song (1873) Sweet naranja, common, in-your-face cadmium, chrome, atomic tangerine. # FF7F00: traffic cone of all colours warning...
Grant Tarbard
Giblet after Claudia Emerson’s on leaving my body to science Pack the forests away in this dyed night, I won’t need them anymore, hair of thin cigarette smoke, trunk of posed opium. I is a liminal state....
Susie Wild
The Liminal Hours A chase of messages illuminates my screen through the small hours. Did I just see you? I’m sure I glimpsed you dancing, that green dress, the way you tilt your head to admire the view. These banshee hauntings my poor abandoned...
Myriam San Marco
The Cure I knew what my poison was I drank to more than enough I drank like drinking would give answers to questions I haven’t asked yet I built a cage out of the pieces of my bad self binding steel plate to hollow bones fusing old scars to fresh...
Jennie Byrne
Mute like attracts want – want ignites desire I wake up and my entire life has passed - I’m old and frail, limbs rigid, my breath appears in small puffs they’ve already chosen my gravestone, a chunk of fieldstone – small but quaint except it bore...
Kat Holmes
“GOTHS AREN’T BLACK” BUT YOU’D STARE ANYWAY, AND I CAN SMOKE TREE BOP ON THE CORNER TO BLACK METAL OR BASHMENT, IN PLATFORM BOOTS OR NIKE BLAZERS BECAUSE I AM STILL THE ONLY SPECTACLE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD. IT IS BRAIDS KNOTTED INTO NOOSES,...