Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jason Lovell
Roberto – Market Bird
While children kneel at your cage in awe
edge offerings of cashew nuts, chopped fruit,
curse words into your magnificent beak,
mums settle carrier bags at tired wet feet
delay for flashes of Hulk Hogan yellow beneath
that fancy marine tuxedo.
I’d say you’re more Mexican wrestler than U S of A
more El Santo than Bret The Hitman Hart –
flexing that zebra-print mask bought off a man
who knows a man who was seeing a man about a dog
when they fell off the back of a van or a lorry.
I bet your feathers run smooth as one-way traffic
on Federal Highway 45D between Mexico City & Querétaro.
Bet your poison dart frog eye spied me the day
I dared my arm deep into a cool sack of sunflower hearts
for the sheer closed-in-ness of it.
So, what, Roberto, is your finishing move?
The Claw Hammer! The Flying Bottle Opener!
perhaps… the Jalapeno Lock Pick!
& nowww… innn the red corner!… Weighing in
at 1.5 kilograms!… Hailing from the rainforest of Brazil!
O Pequeno Mágico Roberto!
Yes, if you could shapeshift into anything,
it would be the greatest magician in the pet shop,
vanish the ache of reappearing.
In 2025 Jason Lovell received both the Freedom to Write Award from the John Hewitt Society/Irish PEN and the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing. A Forward Prize 2026 nominee, he is supported by the Arts Council NI. His work has appeared in Abridged, Ragaire and Fortnight.
Note: Āra : large, brightly coloured neotropical parrots specifically the Ara macaw / derived from the Latin for ‘altar’
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.
Clare Bryden
seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear
hear
Gail Webb
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
Kim Cullen
I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair
Mark G. Pennington
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets
Ivan McGuinness
Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
Elizabeth Wilson Davies
There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas
Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,
Kay Feneley
Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others
Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated