Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jean Atkin
Lighting the Strangers into the cave
for Celia Fiennes, who rode 3000 miles around England on horseback in 1697
She hears the locals call it
the Devil’s Arse.
the hill on one End jutting out
in two parts and joyns in one at ye top
this Cleft between you Enter a great Cave
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.
She hears the drip of water. In her riding skirt
that sweeps the ground, her narrow, heeled boots,
Celia clambers over stones and under stalactites
there is often Cause of Stooping very Low to pass by
and ye Rocks do drip water in many places
wch makes it damp and strikes Cold to you
haveing Lost ye sight of day
Although a Puritan, Celia writes it in her diary:
‘the Devil’s Arse’.
She is less prudish than the men
who come exploring
a generation later, resort
to asterisks.
Jean Atkin’s third full collection High Nowhere is was published last year by IDP. Previous publications include How Time is in Fields (IDP); The Bicycles of Ice and Salt (IDP) and Fan-peckled (Fair Acre Press). She is a poet in education and community. www.jeanatkin.com
DS Maolalai
Your body is small as a folded receipt in a pocket and he clings to it like drowning in a downy nightgown. he believes he is wrapping you in silk so smooth you can forget his rutting crotch like a hog come to water. you are impassive; you look at...
Clair Chilvers
Sea Triptych Caught at the cusp just as the tide starts to ebb fingers of dark rock, orthogonal to the waterline reach out towards the setting sun. The sun, covered by thin cloud, casts silver light right up to where the sea’s foam hits the darker...
Stephen Claughton
Winter Road I after Georgia O’Keeffe It’s not exactly a road, more the idea of one and maybe not even that, a symbol, a cedilla, this mirror-written C that sweeps across the canvas, kinking at the top, where Route 84 mounts the crest of a rise,...
Nick Browne
Mother to daughter Rejection tastes like stale beer, stinks like old carpets, cup- a soup. Other people’s grime greases the corners of a rented flat, floating, unmoored in some Midlands town where the rain is unrelenting. The cream immobile phone...
Clare Knock
Ignitor propellant In a gun the main propellant charge needs energy supplied as heat, before it will react and burn. The heat is supplied by the ignitor system that consists of a type of propellant that requires little energy to burn, but is...
R. Gerry Fabian
Opting For Happiness She puts her child in the car seat on the right side of the pickup. It is a ripe Indian summer day. The smoke-like dust from the dry dirt road swirls in the slight breeze and then is no more. R. Gerry Fabian is a...
Adjoa Wiredu
Pink Pink lips came over to our table while we ate dinner said hello to her friend in front of me leaned on the table with one hand the other on her hip she told us about her son, job, salad, her tipple and her very old pink vintage bottle. ...
Michael Bloor
Fell at the First Fence Liam limped listlessly into the lift. It was empty. He pressed the button for the seventh floor (Safetyseal Export Sales). There was the usual hiatus, while the mechanism seemed to consider his request. Liam weighed LIFE in...
Shelley Roche-Jacques
Removing the Bouquet The Station Team staff room is just behind Lost Property. There’s a doorway, without a door, connecting the two. If someone rings the bell at Lost Property reception when you’re on a tea break you have to make a judgement call...