Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anita Karla Kelly, CE Collins, Clare Painter on International Women’s Day
Eve’s Bite
In the beginning of the end she bit the thing she wasn’t meant to bite.
Apple stuck in her throat, one bite taken, then swallowed whole.
Seeds wait in stomach for sprout, roots climb through veins, branch
pushes through her mouth. White blossom tells tales of what she’s done.
She offers apples out her eyes to any woman hungry for fruit.
And then, branches grow fast, apples everywhere, eyes, face, hair.
Gardener comes home with shears, mutters about order, threatens
lock, key, begs:
he says ‘be good’
‘stay still’ he says
wants her to come to heel like a dog
‘sit’ he says to himself in the kitchen
While she’s outside roots deep in earth
sap strong, trunk bark quickening.
Trees cannot bend in half to sit in a chair made of their own skin.
Anita Karla Kelly is a bi-sexual poet and playwright who writes about sexuality, mental health and motherhood. She has been published by Comma Press, Bath Flash Fiction and Dangerous Women. Highly commended in BBC Audio awards for her writing for radio Red Flags and The Night of the Living Flatpacks with Naked Productions. Her play Buzzing has been shown with Bristol Old Vic and she has worked with Graeae theatre, Theatre Royal Plymouth. Anita has been part of Royal Court Playwrights group and Bristol Old Vic’s Open Circle playwrights group.
Scold’s Bridle
Every day I wake up chewing
A lump that squats on my tongue.
Regolith crunchy, slime sticky –
So round and big it takes pints of water
To choke it down.
All day, my breath stinks loud with it.
And sometimes, sodden crumbs of it
Fall out before I catch them in my palm,
The names of another year’s dead women,
And all the other ones we wade through
That go on and on, ancient as decay –
Ancient as violence. I snort them back to spit them out
With fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
C. E. Collins is a Morris-dancing, shanty-singing English teacher who writes. Her poetry has appeared in Sudo Journal, Not Very Quiet, Frazzled Lit Mag, Seedlings, and Sardine Can Collective, among others. Come for the energy on Instagram @chriswithawitcheye.
Terms of Engagement
After Artemisia Gentileschi’s ‘Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria’ (painted c.1615-17).
That I shall paint as well as any man,
Mix freedoms on my palette while I may.
That life tilts in your favour, not in mine.
That though I’ll be musician, saint or queen
For your commission, you will not forget
That I submitted to the pain required
At law, endured until the task was done.
That I shall suffer you to hold my gaze,
A long reminder from these silent walls.
That though I’ll play your saint and you’ll parade
My name to your fine guests, be in no doubt
That should you merit an accuser, I
Shall stand and paint, unfold your debts in light.
Clare Painter lives in Oxfordshire, speaks fluent Italian and works in publishing with a special interest in copyright. Bluesky: @clarepainter.bsky.social
Gopal Lahiri
From this far-side apartment
you watch jarul leaves darkening with the seasons
Adam Kelly
Determined, you smash against the window
I have to admire you in your striped suit
Sandra Noel
The sea happens to me today
not because I’m the woman in the bakers
brusque turned rude
or the peaches still hard in the bowl
Grace Lynn
Sunlight saunters in long, thin wires through the fallow field
of my bedroom. You approach, a migrating heron
in a runny yolk collar and suntanned shorts, a white-light emissary
of hope. . .
Miriam Swales
I’m waiting for news I don’t want to talk about
and scrolling through old photos to escape.
After some swipes, I see you walking away.
Chris Hardy
The night before we left we smoked opium
for the first time and didn’t sleep.
Angela France
Perhaps some small creature fallen
from where it should be. I am unsure
whether I saw it move.
Adam Horovitz
We cannot update you yet, other than to say we are caught
in a doldrums between stations and that your father can wait
as he has been waiting these past two years . . .
Sue Spiers
A woodpigeon calls
his five-note matins.
Petals ratchet wide
as the sun rises.