Today’s choice
Previous poems
Marnie Cockrill
Clerking notes
So, what has brought you in today Mrs…?
Owens. Mrs Owens.
Ahh, nice to meet you Mrs Owens. What brings you in today?
Worry mostly, I worry, I’m a worrier. But I’m particularly worried about this.
Worry not, Mrs Owens. Is your worry irrational or rational, do you believe?
Well, I don’t know, irrational, I hope. But it is just so constant…
Supposing it is constant, how would you characterise it? When did it start?
It started a few days ago, it came with this grumbling pain, I don’t know why…
I know it’s frightening, I’m sorry. The worry, anything makes it better or worse?
Well, I’ve been taking some paracetamol. That helps a little, but the nights are the worst.
What do you worry about at night? Has anything like this happened before?
Yes, for many years now on and off but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
If it has been ignored before, why can’t it be ignored now? What is different?
I don’t know, Doc. It’s just frighteningly painful and I can’t get it to stop. I did wonder…
I fear we must stop getting side tracked. What is your specific concern?
Well, I wondered if perhaps something had ruptured or burst. Might I be bleeding inside?
Now, now Mrs Owens. If that were the case, I’m sure you would be in significant pain.
Wouldn’t you agree that this pain is not what is significant to you, Mrs Owens?
Marnie Cockrill is a poet and artist from north Wales, studying medicine at Exeter. This professional pursuit, combined with her delight in the natural world and fascination with human relationships informs much of her writing.
Isabelle Thompson
We saw a kingfisher threading the bright needle
of his body along the river. We saw a shag, stamping
her prehistoric shadow on the sky. We saw a hobby,
Roger Robinson
We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet
Amirah Al Wassif
My double sits before me now. I stare deep into her, as I do every day after midnight. When I raise my hands, she raises hers.
Sophie Lankarani
Even though I only once traced your streets with my own feet,
you wandered into my dreams anyway
sliding in through my grandmother’s stories,
Mark A. Hill
She wills his brush in colour
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas
Rebecca Wheatley
He thought his heart was broken yet the day began again.
Katie Beswick
We were on my pink love seat
skin touching skin
I was drunk but longing
circled me, like stars
from a cartoon head wound
Kate Hendry
So what if there’s a dead patch.
Remember the havoc
unfettered fire makes –
Christtie Jay
My Lord, let the record show
she remembered everyone else
before this. If you must, take her
in teaspoons