Today’s choice
Previous poems
Robin Lindsay Wilson
Miss Betina Wauchope Disappears
From the 1927 painting ‘Interior: Orange Blind’ by FCB Cadell.
The single crimson rose
she wears in her lapel,
to test his imperfections,
draws him into detail;
pointing a thinner brush
at her wintery cheeks,
the bones of her hands.
A face ready for regard,
emptied with white spirit,
cancelled with a rag wipe,
begun again with doubt.
Behind her, the orange blind,
fuses matter and antimatter.
It guillotines space and time,
until there’s no judgment.
She pretends to love art,
as the rose petals soften.
She tries to love herself,
while he paints her portrait
as orange stupefaction.
She feels anonymous,
not responsible for sunset,
or the malice of the furniture.
Her immortality is powerless –
his contempt is complete.
Robin Lindsay Wilson is a prizewinning playwright and poet. He has three collections of poetry published by Cinnamon Press. His forth collection, The Tender Shore, is scheduled to be published in Spring of 2027 by Cinnamon Press. Robin’s work has appeared in many national and international poetry magazines, including, Acumen, The Amsterdam Review, Magma, The Rialto, Ink, Sweat & Tears, New Writing Scotland, Dream Catcher and Poetry Salzburg.
Mat Riches
Hey kid, this won’t mean that much to you yet,
but I didn’t taste my first proper curry
till at least twenty-one . . .
David Sapp
Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .
Gareth Writer-Davies
it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky
Sam Szanto
It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.
Tamara Evans
Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.
Rushika Wick
slid in bass-drop dams up
pierced ears, furred
with youth, his vest drinks sweat,
Helen Smith
lunchtime, in the maths department
arranging pencils by colour
two friends, carefully sorting
into clear plastic tubs
Carolyn Oulton
Unexpected as burned stone,
what am I supposed
to do with this memory?
José Buera
Aircon crickets through the night
outside my parents’ bedroom
since brother and I are not allowed AC
given the dangers of cold air to children.