Today’s choice

Previous poems

Anna Chorlton

 
 
 
Holly Queen 
 
She curled emerald
tights about the core of
an oak
slumbering with thick bare
limbs. He had lost his hair she
noticed a vast shock of lemon
green let fall to a muddy mulch
below. Ivy’s agile twitches
hugged tight twisting, twisting,
embracing.

Holly felt comfy here, high
up and cradled in Oak King’s
bristling bark-arms.
She began to felt her berries
droplets of fresh ruby blood
and deeper crimson blushes
pinched along her spikey coat.
 
 
 Anna Chorlton is author of Cornish Folk Tales of Pace, The History Press (spring, 2019). Her poetry was published in Atlanta Review (summer, 2020), Wild Court (winter, 2021, autumn 2024), Indigo Dreams (winter 2022), Ice Floe Press (summer, 2022), Ink Sweat and Tears (summer 2022), Seaborne Magazine (summer 2022), Skylight 47 (Autumn, 2022). King River Press (summer, 2023). Anna wrote the animation scripts for Cornish Folklore project Mazed.

Mark Connors

      Charity shop crawl I start in Scope, find my first Kiss T-shirt from the Lick it Up tour, the old black now charcoal grey, a seven inch tongue lost to too much Persil. In Shelter, I find my leather jacket, purchased from an alternative clothing...

Holly Day

      Butterfly Cage when I was pregnant, all of my dreams were about snakes. as much as I tried to dream only about baby kittens, baby puppies human babies, my nights would be filled with twisting pythons gathered in knots inside me, their slick skin...

Gareth Writer-Davies

      Almost   missing I am    those words words in shops and passing words   that are almost    not language a flex of the muscle      of the palate   a ruler on the tongue I miss sullen vowels sudden    consonants   words I hung...

Mary Ford Neal

      Jane Jane shapes the town to herself. Of the spire, the pond, the iron bridge and the bandstand, she is undoubted queen. She cooks and eats, she feeds and clothes the world, folding bodies and souls into comfortable communion. She is a ladle,...

Tim Dwyer

      Social Distancing   March 2020 A lone kayaker skims through smooth waters of Belfast Lough. Yellow legged gulls circle his blue craft, their cries echo along the strand. I want to believe these streams of late morning sun will purify the sea...

Oscar Stirling Payne

      woof! You are a Rottweiler and the hand holding you back straining your voice and collared throat, wanting to rush into the long grass of desire. You are aware of ticks, the inevitable choice: do you love yourself enough to pay the vet’s bill? Or...

Richie McCaffery

      Going without It’s only when I heave myself out of the bath that I begin to feel wet. It’s only when you come out of the biblical rain I see you’re crying. It’s being apart from you makes me see all the time I thought I was depressed I was...

John-Christopher Johnson

      Picking Blackberries My grandfather told me to look under the leaves as many of them were hiding like fugitives. Protected from the spines wearing a coat or thick pullover, he'd nonchalantly part the brambles so that we could enter a channel; a...

Carolyn Oulton

      Pandemic The windscreen’s dusty, I forgot to turn off the lights and now the car won’t start. I won’t I assure the man by phone try to hug you when you come. My mother comes forward, I take a few steps back. She cuts the fish and chips in half...