Today’s choice
Previous poems
Rich Yates
The Bird
The bird
crept up on him, threw its voice into an empty tree,
he started to notice the aliveness of things,
wondered how
he had slept through his adult life
without ever having inhabited a bush.
The bird
followed him into a glade, revealed
certain important objects, a surging eyeball,
fully encased, a weapons-grade flask, army slacks
ideal for losing himself in,
he was rabid for the hunt.
The bird
was pleased with his progress, sent dispatches to other birds
on how he filled the air
with a librarian’s conceit,
recorded everything
in notebooks and photographs, a wayward inheritance.
To his family
it was nothing more than the latest hobby,
but quietly, assuredly, on those hot and cold days,
he learnt
how to hold the enemy in his crosshairs
and choose mercy.
Rich Yates is working on his first collection of poetry. His poems have so far appeared in Viper’s Tongue magazine. He is a proud Essex boy, works in conservation where he can enjoy the quiet beauty of the saltmarsh, and is a keen musician.
Salvatore Difalco
No green swell this evening
will detach me from my hat.
Annah Atane
That night,
the stars had slept. The wind
silent as something dying.
Jake Roberts
hamlet asked it to the dark night sea
where do waters end and i begin
Miguel Cullen
The pelican is so dovey, with her funny crème anglaise feathers with pink and her split-ended crest and mouth.
T N Kennedy
inside the apiary it is always spring
human beings and honey bees cohabiting
Kate Vanhinsbergh
We Should Probably Get Up Now
but, outside, the world has paused:
the wind has put down its loneliness
Bel Wallace
Interior My dear, I washed you out of my sheets. And now I sleep softly in them. My dreams are sweet and free. I opened the windows to air out your smoke. I liked it for a while, how it held the past in its wispy fingers. I emptied your cigarette...
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas we bring you Rachel Burns, Lauren Middleton, Hedy Hume
I start the day early with a cup of tea.
A new diary asks I make an affirmation,
while cleaning my teeth.
I have nothing to offer –
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas we bring you Mary Mulholland, Edward Heathman, Edward Alport
No Nordmann firs in Bethlehem.
No holly or ivy. But pomegranate,
almond, fig and olive trees to anoint
with signs of blessing and peace.
And houses don’t smell of Balsam