Today’s choice

Previous poems

Helen Smith

 

 

safety in numbers

lunchtime, in the maths department
arranging pencils by colour
two friends, carefully sorting
into clear plastic tubs
a temporary stand
against the inevitable entropy
of fourteen-year-olds

this, and each september brightened
by a new pencil case
pencils sharpened
foldable ruler replaced
ink cartridges and fountain pen erasers
tip-ex mouse
a selection of gel pens
destined to dry up, and one
that smells like peach

neat handwriting on the first
snow-crisp page
date underlined with a steady hand
promise of a new start
a new chance

boys writing ‘5318008’ on their calculators
while I calculate the cosine
and rearrange to find x
soothed by the logic
of the textbook problem page
already a week ahead

one afternoon James filled my bag
with scissors, liberated
from the chemistry classroom drawer
a practical joke
revenge for my higher score
in a progress test
strange
how it made me feel like I belonged

new stationery
has turned to art supplies
gesso, sash brushes
golden acrylics and glue sticks
the joy of a black sharpie
and inktense pencils
on the waiting page

but sometimes
alone with my paints
and a canvas of impossible opportunity
I long for the sharp logic of x
and perfect protractor angles
the comfort of i
resting in the Riemann hypothesis

and lunchtime
in the maths department
sorting pencils

 

Helen Smith is an autistic poet and librarian from Dundee. She is co-editor of the new poetry broadside barbara, and has been published in various anthologies and magazines, including Clarion and Corvid Queen. Website: helensmithwrites.com / barbara.pub

Glen Armstrong

      Antonyms for “Late-Stage Capitalism” I make noises with my mouth, some of which are words. I hold a receipt between my teeth while I take off my gloves and fumble with a keychain. Most of the stuff in my pockets belongs to something that no longer...

Regina Weinert

      Episodes a moth has swiped a thought right in front of my face a flicker and gone pure cheek the wing brush lingering my eyes scan the walls for pulsing fool’s silver smudges on the ceiling the ghost of a white shoulder bumblebees prey on me...

Peter Daniels

      Dormouse Summer When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning – how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse. Byron, Journal 7 December 1813 Missing the small...

George Freek

      A Death (After Tu Fu) The night is bottomless. I can’t sleep. Darkness smells of winter. Stars fade away, beyond my reach, like waves on a distant beach. In mockery the polestar dies last of all. My wine bottle is empty. I can only bow my head. My...

Peter Eustace

      Demise We had a lovely time At the horror-house. I don’t quite remember When, now, only That it was the last day The flowers bloomed And the bluebells all but rang. It was like attending A colourfully black funeral. There was a bite to eat And...

Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

      everyone’s version of heaven is different i’ve given up self-medicating with fluffy toy dogs and texts from sermonising men who tell me the average person speaks eleven million words a year there isn’t really an average though it’s their way of...

Hélène Demetriades

    Weekly ritual Bathrooms were white, in a row, no radox cartons or bottles of Ulay, no toothbrushes sharing a pot on shelves, no trappings of family to wrap round these unparented children not allowed to wash their own hair. And they laughed at Goldballs...

Maurice Devitt

      Détente When I arrived home, the cat was already packing, said she had had enough – if not in so many words – stole a last glance at her coat in the bedroom mirror and left. Not as much as a purr for a week, though we noticed on Whatsapp she had...