Today’s choice
Previous poems
Julie Sheridan
Love Birds
Agapornis
They married in a chapel of black steel
bars, tethered up their feathers to serve as
stained glass. One year in and their chirrups are still
hymeneal. Humans can’t help but pass
by and beam at this pair, bonded for life.
All day long they practice their craft, the dry
squelching sound of vows, the wings of the wife
splaying to blue as if to an actual sky.
Look, they’re at it again. He heaves up seed
to feed her, to prove his paternal credentials,
she swallows and hatches the clutch. What need
isn’t met in this cage, in this unfledged embrace?
All day long that muffling sound, the heel
of a hand kneading the palm of another.
Julie Sheridan lives in Barcelona. Her work has appeared in journals including Poetry Ireland Review, Mslexia, Poetry Scotland, Dream Catcher, The Ekphrastic Review and Anthropocene. She was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in both 2023 and 2024.
Susie Wilson
Ceilings don’t hold water well.
Burst a pipe at the top
of an apartment block
to test this theory, if you will.
Andy Breckenridge
Abertawe After Richard Siken For CHD Tell me about the time I mansplained that Swansea is the English for Abertawe and means town at the mouth of the River Tawe. And about when, from the hill above Rhossili beach Lundy Island’s spectral mass...
Mark Wyatt
Daedalus
Plato loved his incessant questioning
of the natural world’s engineering
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
I tempt you with morsels
of soft-skinned peach, a pear sliced
in quarters, pipless and skinless.
Lesley Burt
Red-hot-pokers blazon her two world wars in flowerbeds, and in her hearth. The coalman drops odd nuggets under gaslight for neighbours to fetch in a bucket.
From the Archives: Dipo Baruwa-Etti
Seats
Before a table of white
People, I stand with ballet
Slippers strapped/soft soles
Head pointed towards the angels…
Ian Harker
The first night you lay down your head in London
there is hawthorne between your sheets.
Julian Bishop
He emerges at nightfall, lights a solitary votive candle//
prostrates himself at her scuffed toes.
Jon Miller
Haul down the ladder and you’re in
under a skylight casting a blue dream.