Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jeff Gallagher
Ramadan
Colleagues munching bap and burger
thought Ramadan was that juicy winger,
his scorching pace soon snaffled up by City.
Giving stuff up, they say, is murder –
and two weeks into Lent they bring a
secret snack to work through sheer self-pity.
A new year, and my next door neighbour
vows to refrain from cakes and ale,
aiming to be a size twelve by the summer.
Abstention is an earnest labour –
but she is tempted, bound to fail –
so frankly, resolutions are a bummer.
The barbecues are smeared with ash
and fat hands drip with ketchup sauce –
yet times are hard, and cannot get much tougher.
So many people, strapped for cash,
attempt to change their usual course –
all budgeting with care, prepared to suffer.
They feel so good about themselves
but still bemoan what they have lost:
their stomachs fill with hunger and with fear.
And when they view their empty shelves,
they feel the pain, they count the cost,
and wonder why I do this every year.
But this is jahada: desire’s defeat
through self-denial, a cleansing rite –
a noble cause; no hatred-fuelled slaughter
But standing with you in the heat,
to give my heart and find the light,
and let you drink my final drop of water.
Jeff Gallagher lives in Sussex. His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Rialto, Acumen, New Critique, Cannon’s Mouth and High Window. He also featured (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie.
Stuart Henson
Sometimes I’m surprised there’s light
in dark places, those corridors, those alleys
where you wouldn’t stray if you didn’t need
Richard Stimac
Trends of lead, silver, copper, and zinc
vein the middle of Missouri . . .
David R. Willis
. . . something, cold
wet and bitter, saline
sided by yellow sand . . .
Jim Murdoch
and I said,
“I understand,”
and I did, ishly . . .
Sue Spiers
Thirsty Shadow
the kind of being
that won’t post
an image
Julian Dobson
Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain
is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging
Oliver Comins
Working the land on good days, after Easter,
people would hear the breaks occur at school,
children calling as they ran into the playground,
familiar skipping rhymes rising from the babble.
George Turner
Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough.
The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag
forlorn in the mug, unpoured.
Craig Dobson
Slowly, ordinarily, the unimaginable happens,
lowering the past into the dark,
covering it.