Today’s choice
Previous poems
Stephen Keeler
How to get here
Among the joys of love was when we got
our first apartment on a boulevard
above the trams and tree-tops and the wires
that cut the street like tangram puzzles and
our friends would come with olives and cheap wine
they found the place by following the maps
I drew in coloured inks with metro stops
hand-lettered street names and my drawing of
the dappled fountain they must pass to find
us and I drew these maps for you so that
you’d find me too I having been brought up
on maps and globes and paths marked out for on
and off the beaten track the map of you
the glorious map of you that even now
I could bring back in inks from memory
indelible as tram-lines and the paths
that crossed the park the dogs on leads the girls
with prams the foreign grass marked out with signs.
Stephen Keeler’s award-winning poetry is widely published in journals, magazines, anthologies and online. His small collection ‘They Spoke No English’ is published by Nine Pens Press and his (prose) memoir, ’50 Words for Love in Swedish’, won the 2022/23 People’s Book Prize. He was long-listed in this year’s National Poetry Competition and has edited anthologies for, among others, Candlestick Press. Substack @stephenkeelerwriter
Mark Smith
In the portacabin that morning, men smoked
and looked at last week’s paper again.
There was no water to fill the urn.
The first job – to get connected
Toby Cotton
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
Ansuya Patel
except this burnt red vase.
Hand shaped in the muffled roar,
devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth.
Hannah Ward
Look, Drew, the
plums are in
pieces beneath
us. I dreamt:
Andrea Small
a flower is not a heron
does not stand on one leg
spear-billed over golden carp
Usha Kishore
At dawn and dusk, my father
becomes a chant, that flies above
the courtyard of the old house
Jane Frank
The leaves are a colour you’ve never seen
but that I will learn to expect
and there’s a fracas-induced full moon
Clara Howell
The way a halved peach breathes, then rots
from the inside out.
Luigi Coppola
Out of ten bars, by the fifth, half of us had flickered
out and by this ninth one, it ended up just him
and me. A matchstick balanced on a stool, he sat