Today’s choice
Previous poems
Marius Grose
Presence of Trees
Until the dead, sucked from leaf mould graves
are rising in forest sap, to make connections
inside strange green brains
nothing will be crossed in, nothing will be crossed out
until the dead poke holes in the sky with their bones
let in the rain to wash our traces, face mask litter
black bladder-wrack crushed into tarmac
messages transmitted will not be received
when the dead reach forest canopies, then
sealed in blue unaddressed envelopes
they’ll post themselves back to the world
until
Marius Grose worked in broadcast television as a video editor. He has had poems published by Dream Catcher, Allegro Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Dreich and The Storms. In 2023 Marius was shortlisted for The White Review’s annual poetry prize.
Z. D. Dicks
Skunk I am a creature of urges that longs/ to sidle underside tail to nose/ press into you/ cup chin in my paws pierce sharp eyes through nuzzling my snout flat to merge/ our foreheads/ together/ as a bone heart/ I want to tilt your head/ run my...
Mark Ryan Smith
Fun in the Sun He found himself watching the sun on the wall. The sun on the wall. He remembered people saying that when he was young, meaning that whatever movement that happened to be taking place at that time was moving so terribly...
Helen Freeman
Angus anhinga in my hang-glider, my ambit, my angler, the lips’ full opposite. Hungus - two gulps. Sirloin tang for my hunger, stirling catch, my one choice. A stone thrown into a silent land, the arsenal of your arrival. The headlong clang of...
Elizabeth McGeown
Outpatient Take a half-shower Sit at the edge of the bath, feet wet Shower head unscrewed, hose lying flaccid in the bath Belching out lukewarm water over overgrown toenails Walk around the house bumping into things Giggle like a...
Phil Wood
Island Fiction I could murder a cuppa mutters a knitting voice, her claws purling patterns the Fair Isle way. The kettle whistles, the brew as warming as a jumper - outside gulls rock n' roll drunk on a burgundy sky. The winged ways gleam in those...
Gillie Robic
The Opposite of Pygmalion She’s breaching the limits climbing the scaffolding hauling herself up poles rolling over the lip of the kick-board. My hands race like a card sharp trying to confuse the eye not wanting to let her off the plinth. I don’t...
Brian China
Gift Dark from four, because of the rawness I buy plain chicken and some chocolate, turn back the way I’ve come to the pavement shrine of himself beside an alcove where drunks piss, fumble the sandwich handing it to him, “Here, have this.” One...
Louise Warren reviews ‘Daylight of Seagulls’ by Alice Allen
Alice Allen’s first collection Daylight of Seagulls takes the occupation of Jersey during WW2 as its subject, but she weaves so much more. In her vivid introduction she tells us that she grew up there in the 70’s and 80’s. ‘ we weren’t taught about the...
Paul Waring
Bus Stop Etiquette We roll up piecemeal, shuffled rush-hour pack in all weathers; fix envious glares into underoccupied kerbcrawl cars blaring rock, pop, classical, duh-duh-duh dance and dumbass ads. It’s Britain so we queue; eyecontactless, heads...