Today’s choice

Previous poems

Mark A. Hill

 

 

 

Marseilles Road

-She calls him up-

She wills his brush in colour,
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas,
She uses a dark outline and replaces
his image with cholic fumes.

-He doesn’t pick up-

He wants to place her in
two horizontal bands
of dense tormented paint,
she passes before him in ochre framed sunglasses.
On paper, she is studious, perfect and elegant.
He scratches a beach with rocks,
fishing nets, a silver storm,
a full blue light in retreat,
which devours her opaque form.

-She wants to despise him for how he makes her feel. She calls again-

She draws a cemetery behind the beach
and he reflects that this is not what
he wants from this painting,
she must be more attentive to nature,
the changeability of the skies.

-This time he picks up and they speak long and full-

His last picture is lighter,
rendering her clearer.
The vertical lights reduce her throat
to a simple furrow,
echoing thin blue lines in the sky.
Space is flattened like in the Japanese prints
Monet loved so well.
The boats are these small delicate brush strokes,
he will use to push her off to sea.

-he asks that they might learn colour together,
she replies she cannot, and that he must respect form-

 

Mark A. Hill is a poet who has lived in Cagliari, Italy for 33 years. He has been published in several literary journals and magazines. His debut poetry collection Death and the insatiable was published by Hidden Hand Press in September 2025.

Natasha Gauthier

Nobody knows what Cicero’s gardener whistled
to his figs and olives, what the consul’s young wife
hummed to herself while slaves combed beeswax
and perfumed oils from Carthage into her hair.

Jean Atkin

She creeps under the opening, then stands.
Her guide passes her the stub of a candle,
holds up his own to show the ceiling rock.

Antonia Kearton 

On my son’s desk lies
the periodic table of the elements.
I look. Amongst the arcane names
I recognise, easy as breathing,
carbon, oxygen, gold, beloved of kings.

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

A lacquer table, gloss under fingertips. A raised stage with dark linen. A young woman smiles with her hand-held harp, its nine strings glistening. The room swells with the cadence of her pearly notes. Beneath the pendant lights—a vision of serenity.