Today’s choice

Previous poems

Ash Bowden

 

 

 

Composting

Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.

Here, dirt makes no distinction
between trench beds and the twirling earth.
Onion shavings conspire to life

by bringing fresh tears to our eyes.
The whole rotting heap hushes
over the tunnelling of pink worms

and it is a war kept close to the weeds;
potato skins kissing dried dandelion leaves
as if to clothe a skeleton key.

It’s best we shush. Pigeons
have occupied the neighbour’s clothesline,
and the evening’s keen to keep a lid on it

Ash Bowden is a Halifax based poet whose work has previously appeared in The Cherita and Confluence, and he is seeking more publications to work his way towards publishing a pamphlet. He can be found on Instagram @ashbowpoet, on bluesky @ashbowpoet.bsky.social and on Facebook at Ash Bowden Poet.

Bert Molsom

      Beside the Clun 10th March No bright sun this morning to paint the tops of the valley houses. The edges of the view blurred by the stagnant mist. Dawn is still recognised by birds, pheasants defining their territory, robin, blackbird, thrush...

Jenny Hockey

      Holiday Cottage Remember I sat on the grass and sobbed, dust coating the shack’s three rooms, its festering rugs? Dishes not done. A valley view? All we could see was the wood and a lav in a hut fifty yards off. Water fetched from a stream and...

Saba Khaliq

      Hanging with a Baby Serpent I’d like to believe my first dream was mystic I’d like to believe I was born good though naked Like the slimy baby serpent Slithering and hissing just to know himself Cracking and coiling in monsoon muds No pretence for...

Janet Harper

      Snake I took a photo of a small snake on a path. Printed it in black and white to know its hexagons to understand its head, its tail. To conjure the moment when maybe I could hear it breathe, could have followed it into the smooth undertow of the...

Carl Alexandersson

      Ice aging Look sometimes I just want to lick ice cubes and eat jam straight from the jar and not even bother if the toast is too burnt we all deserve to be seen for what we could have been but this is not about us— Look I’m just saying wouldn’t it...

Tim Murphy

      The Incident The general mood was optimistic precisely because everything had been prepared to go wrong, and when the performance was unexpectedly beset by several predictable problems, the general mood became even more optimistic. The incident...

Richard Manly Heiman

      You Were And she could hear the highway breathing And she could see a nearby factory She's making sure she is not dreaming (Talking Heads, She Was) Out past the peeling smokestacks In a blurring frame of mind You healed me, in the name of A dab of...

Mandy Haggith

      Otter in shadows You can see where he is, little seeker, by the sparkle of bubbles escaping from his fur, a surface shiver fizzing among bladderwrack. When he starts rummaging in nests on the skerry, the heron flaps off, a flag signalling end of...