Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jon Miller
Moving In
The upper floor of the old byre
a darkness made of owl-stare—
its blink drinks you in.
A scythe hung under the last gasp
of a rafter. An armchair sprouts
the beards of men who died in it.
The skylight a cataract woven
by funnel-spiders; a car roof-box
full of barbells and throwing knives
and scattered across creaking planks
that any moment might give—
fur balls, owl pellets, rickles of tiny bones.
As I descend the ladder each worn tread
a hand cupping my foot: take care take care
says the dust in my hair, you live here now.
Jon Miller was shortlisted for the Wigtown Poetry prize, was winner of the Neil Gunn Poetry competition and was one of the winners of the International Book and Pamphlet Competition in 2022. His latest pamphlet Past Tense Future Imperfect is published by Smith|Doorstop.
Alan Hardy
Made a list.
A record.
The dishes she ate.
Monuments visited.
In Paris.
Susana Arrieta
Tempting death with every cobblestoned step
his face was a collection of broken records
Peter Leight
There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation . . .
John Grey
there are some lives
lived poolside
and others that
mostly consist of
a bent back in a field –
Adam Flint
All summer automatic exits remain
open, and no one leaves or boards.
David Van-Cauter
You are pleased to see me
in my gothic T-shirt –
those bats, you say, have been your friends.
Mark Wyatt
yes of course/ it was idyllic, reclining (pint of/ cider in hand) poolside in the harvesting/ sunlight
Catherine Shonack
when confronted with vast, endlessness of the ocean
who wouldn’t go mad?
Ansuya Patel
Women scrape coins from their purse,
count pennies, one lifts up a watermelon
in mid-air like raising a newborn to light.