Today’s choice
Previous poems
Charlotte Holm, Jennifer A McGowan
Tardigrades
A leaky drainpipe drips
creating damp patches on uneven paving,
slime green algae blossoms
forming viridescent ripples
like growth rings and soft
spongy textured moss gently squeezed
produces droplets of moisture;
Adam’s ale, an elixir of microbes.
In backyards everywhere there exists
(unseen to the naked eye)
the whole universe.
Unaware of their titanic sovereigns
millions of tiny organisms are living quiet lives
adjusting hourly to change in habitat
and environmental stresses.
With eight stubby legs they’ve waddled
for millions of years
responding to light with sightless eyes
groping with sharp claws to suck
the juice out of microscopic vegetation.
Using mirrors and plates the little eye
can focus on their transient lives.
A change in weather
and their whole world dries up.
Unlike us, fluctuations slight or catastrophic
are of little consequence to water bears,
and we can only envy their resilience
for long after we have gone
they will be still shuffling along
in their perpetual microcosm.
Charlotte Holm lives in East Yorkshire and is a textile artist, mother and carer. She has had poems published in Black Nore Reveiw, Ink, Sweat and Tears, the Fig Tree, Sixty-Odd Poets, and Black Bough. She was also winner of the Doncaster Rail 200 poetry competition.
In the Meantime, I Study
very small rocks, geographical schemata
of the second-to-last little ice age,
the sixteen legal variants of paisley,
whether I can mine the gold from my teeth
with or without pharmaceutical assistance,
the psi of toes en pointe on waxed floors
versus the flight of a migrating butterfly;
sixteen tons of this and that (I get nothing),
the mutating songs of cardinals and catbirds,
whether my washer on spin can harmonise
with a cat’s purr, the concept of cold
and why I don’t feel it, the back side of water,
how to inlay mother-of-pearl and spin nettles,
what a bird feels when it’s flying,
the language of glaciers, all deep gutturals,
and why Larry is happy. Who the fuck is he?
Jennifer A McGowan has been rewriting myth since before it was mainstream. She approves of fantasy being sold on every bookshelf in stores these days. Her 7th book of poetry is out this year. Her long collections, from Arachne Press, are available here.
Rhonda Melanson
The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.
Clive Donovan
I go to the top of the risen hill,
above the trees, beyond the grass,
where only hard ground lives
Gary Akroyde
We searched for it
through the tarmac in every rain-bruised sky
in dark Pennine shadows where great mills
spewed out ringlets of ghost-grey fog
Nathan Curnow
I like to think it’s a story about himself and Einstein
floating in zero gravity, Albert sailing through the capsule
toward his drifting pipe, Brian playing We Will Rock You—
Paul Short
Sleep.
Elusive as lucid dreams.
Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange,
spiderweb scarlet &
thatch-brown
Ash Bowden
Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.
Mallika Bhaumik
This is not a frilly, mushy love letter
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it,
Jena Woodhouse
Around midnight, the hour when pain
reasserts its dominance, a voice
behind the curtain screening
my bed from the next patient’s:
an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts
Kate Bailey
They’ve mended the park fence again,
patched it over with the usual ugly metalwork,
like a riot barricade.