Today’s choice
Previous poems
Maryam Alsaeid
A Prayer for Rima
With echoes of the Arabic lullaby ‘yalla tnam’
Maybe after your bath—
you will sit for a moment,
the towel will hold you close
like a quiet prayer—
يا رب، نامت الطفلة، يا رب خلّيها تنام
Ya Rab, the child sleeps, oh Lord, help her sleep.
Your hair still sings with water—
the evening folds around you,
a linen of mercy and cradling—
you are small again.
Your breath curls into itself,
as if rocked by unseen hands.
Everyone needs a night like this—
the freedom to forget noise,
to feel a droplet slip down the shoulder,
to feel as precious as a close whisper
يا عصفورة، يا وردة، نامي بسلام
Little bird, little flower, sleep in peace.
Outside, cars sigh along the road—
washing the city clean. Inside
your chest loosens, a psalm
in the language of skin.
The tears that come—
do not accuse you
they anoint.
May this be your Sunday—
your soft rebirth. May time
dissolve like salt in water,
and the world begin again
inside you.
يلا تنام، يلا تنام
Yalla tnam, yalla tnam
The night will rock you—
like a mother who hums
long after you’ve slept.
Maryam Alsaeid is a Manchester-based poet and pharmacist, she explores healing and female empowerment. She studied at MMU with Carol Ann Duffy, was mentored by Julia Webb, and leads well being-focused writing workshops.
Paul Connolly
At Aber Falls
he felt nothing
water sheeted
past grottoes
snakes of tributary
lazed along
Cindy Botha
I notice her because she doesn’t have a dog
in an afternoon of dog-walkers
Alex Josephy
the goddess of the library
extends in cloth-bound curves
along a lettered shelf
Ben Banyard
There were hundreds of them, all in period costume,
each generation explained who they were,
queued like at a wedding reception to greet us.
Lindsay McLeod Espinoza
Venus passed over the south node of the Moon today
Ilse Pedler
She offered up her linen bag to me, said
pick a shell my lady and I’ll tell your fortune
Sue Butler
Squirrels have beheaded all my parrot tulips
and the supermarket is out of chilli, also tabasco sauce.
Cormac Culkeen
the sun is a
white coin
lifted
from the sea
Maurice Devitt
Yes, you gave us your elegant hands
and capricious smile, but as I make my way
to the chiropodist this morning,
it’s your feet I’m thinking of . . .