Today’s choice
Previous poems
John Coburn
An Eight Year Old’s May Altar
Inside May’s warm beauty
I think of God and of the Virgin Mary.
I’ve always loved Mary.
The time is now —
I’ll make a May altar.
And I’ll look for my rosary beads.
For my Holy Mary
I’ll grab the plastic one from the car
and set up the altar
on my chest of drawers.
It’ll be a nice place to pray.
But I can’t find my rosary beads.
I’ll get some bluebells and primroses.
Broken lilac is easy to come by
maybe some daisies as well.
It will be fine for a week or so —
though not much white or blue for Mary.
And I’ve lost my rosary beads
A jam jar with some water.
For the faded blue Mary to stand on
the crocheted cloth
from my parents dresser —
I hope they don’t notice.
Now I have to buy rosary beads
‘Hail Mary’ that’s my favourite
so I’ll say that again and again
praying together with my angel —
my Guardian Angel.
So, I’ll feel safe and good.
And I’ve got new rosary beads
And so I pray each night
before I go to bed.
I’m a good boy but not a good son,
none of us are.
The family isn’t right — it is falling
I’m quiet — there is no talk.
I can’t finish my rosary.
My brother’s angel didn’t protect him
but let him die before my eyes.
Without prayers the altar flowers are fading.
So, I will now my wash my face
in the May dew like the heathens.
God can have my rosary.
John Coburn is an Anglo-Irish poet living in London. He has been published in A New Ulster, Black Nore Review, Sunday Independent and the Poet’s Yearbook Autumn Anthology. He has also read on Irish radio.
Sekhar Banerjee
Goethals Football field, Kurseong I watch a lonesome Tibetan horse grazing on the Goethals football field ; solitary clouds chew sadness all morning here, as if, it is their staple food at breakfast The starving fog licks the whole body of the...
Niall M Oliver
The Unholy Spirit If Jesus was the type to enjoy a drink, then the porcelain version pinned at our front door would surely be happier than he looks Beneath his feet, a round finger bowl, eternally brimming with holy water. Never a dry-dip in this...
Claire Aster
Red wine fruit flies You came for the pear molasses on my kitchen shelf three tummies full of fruity goodness recklessly rolling around in this deep lagoon without any thought of how you might get out. Claire Aster has always been a...
David Belcher
Ask to know your people better When my father goes to Edinburgh, the hilly streets and crowds of tourists make him grouchy. This is his mother’s country. She is not there, he cannot touch the things she touched but he sees and hears what made the...
Robert Hirschfield
Cheating At Cards She slaps down her three shadows on the table and runs off with my shadow. Robert Hirschfield's poems have appeared in Salamander, Grasslimb, Noon (Japan), The Moth (Ireland), Pamplemousse and other magazines. More...
Sophie Herxheimer and Rishi Dastidar
Join us for a live zoom reading from Sophie Herxheimer and Rishi Dastidar with Support from Kevin Reid in our new occasional 'Live from the Butchery' series, hosted by Helen Ivory and Martin Figura from their home. The reading will take place on Sunday...
Ilhem Issaoui
My unromantic poem for this unromantic time as the world is asleep like a spiral shell or like the maddening stairs It takes time and effort to unfurl It happens naturally though, for most, Through nature's imperative Once we are old, though, we...
Thomas Day
Last Act It felt like the finale: the magic cloak skit bunglingly executed, given the ultimate twist, the audience killing themselves laughing – the master of mistiming surpasses himself. But it lingered on a shade too long: the gurn, the...
Daniel Richardson
Clocking on at the Sawmill After a successful breakfast of flapjacks and black coffee the Buddhist clocking on at the sawmill 250,000 board feet to cut and trim the moon still bright in the sky the sun rising wearing his big red shirt and his...