Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anita Karla Kelly, CE Collins, Clare Painter on International Women’s Day
Eve’s Bite
In the beginning of the end she bit the thing she wasn’t meant to bite.
Apple stuck in her throat, one bite taken, then swallowed whole.
Seeds wait in stomach for sprout, roots climb through veins, branch
pushes through her mouth. White blossom tells tales of what she’s done.
She offers apples out her eyes to any woman hungry for fruit.
And then, branches grow fast, apples everywhere, eyes, face, hair.
Gardener comes home with shears, mutters about order, threatens
lock, key, begs:
he says ‘be good’
‘stay still’ he says
wants her to come to heel like a dog
‘sit’ he says to himself in the kitchen
While she’s outside roots deep in earth
sap strong, trunk bark quickening.
Trees cannot bend in half to sit in a chair made of their own skin.
Anita Karla Kelly is a bi-sexual poet and playwright who writes about sexuality, mental health and motherhood. She has been published by Comma Press, Bath Flash Fiction and Dangerous Women. Highly commended in BBC Audio awards for her writing for radio Red Flags and The Night of the Living Flatpacks with Naked Productions. Her play Buzzing has been shown with Bristol Old Vic and she has worked with Graeae theatre, Theatre Royal Plymouth. Anita has been part of Royal Court Playwrights group and Bristol Old Vic’s Open Circle playwrights group.
Scold’s Bridle
Every day I wake up chewing
A lump that squats on my tongue.
Regolith crunchy, slime sticky –
So round and big it takes pints of water
To choke it down.
All day, my breath stinks loud with it.
And sometimes, sodden crumbs of it
Fall out before I catch them in my palm,
The names of another year’s dead women,
And all the other ones we wade through
That go on and on, ancient as decay –
Ancient as violence. I snort them back to spit them out
With fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
C. E. Collins is a Morris-dancing, shanty-singing English teacher who writes. Her poetry has appeared in Sudo Journal, Not Very Quiet, Frazzled Lit Mag, Seedlings, and Sardine Can Collective, among others. Come for the energy on Instagram @chriswithawitcheye.
Terms of Engagement
After Artemisia Gentileschi’s ‘Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria’ (painted c.1615-17).
That I shall paint as well as any man,
Mix freedoms on my palette while I may.
That life tilts in your favour, not in mine.
That though I’ll be musician, saint or queen
For your commission, you will not forget
That I submitted to the pain required
At law, endured until the task was done.
That I shall suffer you to hold my gaze,
A long reminder from these silent walls.
That though I’ll play your saint and you’ll parade
My name to your fine guests, be in no doubt
That should you merit an accuser, I
Shall stand and paint, unfold your debts in light.
Clare Painter lives in Oxfordshire, speaks fluent Italian and works in publishing with a special interest in copyright. Bluesky: @clarepainter.bsky.social
Simon Maddrell
Four years in Knockaloe was a living
inspiration for inventor Joseph Pilates.
Tom Kelly
At thirteen I am competing with James Joyce,
encouraging pain, at the very least discomfort.
Nick McGaughey
And here you are slid from the rain
under my door, “s” -ing along the cool
checks in the hallway.
Poetry from UEA MA Scholars 2024/2025: Grace Phillips and On Zi Rui
You bought peppermint and bubbles,
monologued in the corner.
You barely looked at me twice.
– Grace Phillips
I looked at the neon lights
Gazing, I asked myself :
“What am I sourcing for now that I am without you ?”
– On Zi Rui
Jade Prince
What is here for us but these walls and the
pearls of sweet yearning behind them
Esha Volvoikar
The earth cracks and we are left
with the same shared moon.
She peers through my lattice window
and hides behind your city’s smoke.
Violeta Zlatareva
The neighbor is a devout woman.
She bakes bread and lights candles
Robin Vaughan-Williams
I’ve got all this money lying around.
Have you got anything you can do with it?
Rizwan Akhtar
What fell between an abrupt shower
and a sky’s attitude was your memory.
