Today’s choice

Previous poems

Patrick Wright

 

 

Endings

after the soil exhibition at Somerset House

first i go to finitude     while you favour plenitude & birth     the source beneath our feet     
i recoil at the abject     the never-ending cycle of leaves under loam     a seedbed for eggs 
or spawn     this going on     & no space for heaven or things to pause or find reprieve 
i protest     say how when i’m gone i’d like to rest before the choice to return & go through 
all this again     you sigh as though that’s absurd & endings are just endings     we’re mulch 
& nothing but endless fucking 
mushrooms     with your books on toadstools & fairy folk     your vision risks nihilism     
cells that collide & divide     tumours that do whatever they want     they too are life     
sweet parasites that through a microscope are stellar nurseries     solar discs     star-stuff
but you insist on star-stuff     not just     
see a wellspring of microbes microorganisms & minerals     go on a rant about mycorrhizae 
rhizomes     symbolic of a way beyond capitalism 
i recall black gold     how it began with the wearing of soles that sever us from the cosmos
you gush about mud & marl     the morphology of roots     how trees are upside down 
trees talk to each other     like neurones & neurones     in tight-knit neighbourhoods     
your tears fall over microfauna robbed of enclosures     worms in macropores     movements 
like refugees or the recently evicted 
while i’m with muck & the matrix     the womb as tomb     the putrid metaphysic     no room 
to resurrect each thorax     each springtail’s spark     just nodes & networks     in the mire 
with mould & midden     till your arms reach out like tendrils     in hope of binding my soul

 

Patrick Wright’s poems have appeared in MagmaPoetry IrelandPoetry WalesThe North, and The London Magazine. His debut collection, Full Sight of Her, was published by Eyewear (2020). His second collection, Exit Strategy, was published by Broken Sleep (2025).

Tim Brookes

In the charity shop I try on a coat
flocked with fake shearling,
shaved-soft almost: fibres
fired onto plastic to fool the wrist.

Kim Waters

You’re a character, a Roman numeral,
an internet meme. Descendant
from a peasant’s crook or cattle prod,
you’re the twelfth letter of the alphabet,

Sylvie Jane Lewis

Being quiet and easily tired by being alive among people, I take
the cowardly route to community. I curate a digital garden of oddity.

At best my phone is a menagerie of queers: trinket makers, amateur
playwrights, witches, and, over and over again, my own personal monarchy.

Magnus McDowall

We rolled out on Seven Sisters Road,
two crates of Tyskie empty in my stairwell.

We were talking from the chest, walking backwards
crackling air above our heads like streetlights