Today’s choice

Previous poems

Ivan McGuinness

 

 

 

Bourn Identity

 

Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
into an idea of brook:
Letcombe,
until merging with Ock.
Earth accommodates to accumulate,
hollows between course, force and resistance.
Pool falls over rock
riffles
into deeper ways,
cress-beds, crayfish, sticklebacks and bullheads.
Wet footed playground,
skirts tucked up
socks rolled on the bank,
ripple and eddy round skinny white legs,
soft silt cushions tender toes,
nets, jam-jars,
magnified beauties of the deep.

In town, domesticated by brick and stone, after grills and races,
a turning wheel catches life out of the stream, grinds free flow
into value.oMill-tailoooowateroooorelaxesooooafteroooowork.

 

 

Ivan McGuinness lives in Oxford, his poetry has appeared in several magazines including Seaside Gothic, The Alchemy Spoon and Dream Catcher.

Ben Hartridge

    Spring Song I remember spring and everything a freshly washed clean smell of green. A newborn kind of rain left the parked cars shining like a passed shower. I remember cycling, the tarmac deep black and streaming, past the shoppers queueing the high...

Molly Beale

    Wanting Joy Glory be to the changeable wretch I am       condemned to dance within. Spirits thumb a ride       surging synapse and hurling ourselves in directionless tangles. Joy is hard. Joy must. I seek sepulchred secret caves inside guts where sin...

Prerana Kumar

    LAZY ABECEDARIAN FOR SUMMER MORNING PRESERVE ROUTINE A pile of kitchen-stove kindling twists Braids with achamma’s kuttichattan hair ribbon Creasing her fingers when she crushes a twig Dew-dropping her brew for new mothers in Early morning rose-light we...

Maddy Kinkead

    spiralling during Planet Earth Attenborough’s voice echoes in my head (like God) He says that we need to act now (draws us all in with baby orangutans and birds that look like aliens.) Because otherwise, no one cares. Does he know that? Current levels of...

Fred Melnyczuk

    Mountain in Winter White ground, and white sky / / / And white trees, and white light. Hiking along the path of a mountain’s ridge. . . Twisted branches hang like misshapen cages; bird-prisoners sing their little laments inside / / / And it is so cold....

C.P. Nield

    Intruder A rattle spikes through my ear. Tin, tin, tin. Tintinnabulation. Fingers seeking their way in – sneaking, screaking fingers, scratching at the metal, scrambling for the bolt. Ding dong. What a racket! Tin, tin, tin. I’m on the sofa blinking at...

Kitty Donnelly

    High An arctic tern will fly 10,000 miles to flourish in two summers worth of light; so I was high after he died, chasing sun on the wing, though directionless. I swallowed three green capsules every night, peristalsis pulsing them through my scorched...

Oliver Sedano-Jones

    We Secretly Hate You Here's our booth, come sit with us for a second. Come share this necklace with us. The vibrations here are excellent all night. Have you read Mira Kirshenbaum? That's okay. Have a sniff of this. It's meant to hurt a little. Listen:...

Kat Payne Ware

    A NOTE ON PINK These things are pink: tongue; blush; intestine. Candyfloss. Ham. Flamingo. This much we know. The lotus flower is an excellent example of pink. The pink grapefruit is internally pink, but externally a warm peach. A sunrise is sometimes...