Today’s choice

Previous poems

Steven Taylor

 

 

 

SPORTS NEWS

A very long time ago

Stephen Fry’s godfather, the
Justice, Sir Oliver Popplewell
Who chaired the inquiry
Into the Bradford City
Stadium fire that killed
56 football watchers, contrasted

The quiet dignity of those relatives
With the behaviour of the relatives
Of the Hillsborough victims, who
Were forever blaming other people

Instead of accepting
It is the lot of the working class
To suffer in all divisions

They should be grateful

For whatever leisure
They are granted
By their masters, betters

Sir Oliver was a cricketer
Wicket keeper batsman
16 stumpings 60-something catches

After Charterhouse
He went to Cambridge, studied

 

 

Steven Taylor was born and raised in Hyde, near Manchester.  He now lives in Kilburn, London. Steven’s poems have been widely published in journals including Acumen, Magma, Poetry Business Coal anthology, Stand, The North and The Wallace Stevens Journal. He can be found on Facebook @steventaylorpoetry

Eamonn Shanahan

      Tri Jablana There’s a walk I do alongside a bank of the Kupa from Dubovac to Gaza then curve out into open country where before you get to the mental health institution there are three poplars - tri jablana - three poplars in a field in a lot of...

Konstantina Sozou-Kyrkou

      Chemical Elements and Waste They’re playing card games in the garden. Whenever I shuffle the card pack or sniff their coffee, or shift their keys, they get furious. ‘You have no place here, Spotty’, they point a finger at me. ‘Keep out of the way....

Aidan Casey

      Taxi i need t hustle i need t score i need a drink & then a few more i need a hand t get t my feet i need an elbow t cross th street i need a hug baby i need a kiss i need t skip th preliminaries i need a proxy an adult toy i need a girl...

Annie Wright

      Night Owl In the worrisome hours before dawn you’d be up quartering the house for silent chores. Never an easy relationship, you’d send letters or cards I treasured. Four-thirty, I’ve just finished ironing. You hated fluorescent tubes, preferred...

Robert Etty

      The Bones Since no one’s left to pad out the story, these are the bones of it: Saturday evening, an RAF base (south Yorkshire, most likely), the last weeks of World War Two. The lads fix to meet at a hotel in town – they might not be here next...

Joanna Nissel

      Eagle After Kathryn O’ Driscoll Wasn’t my heart a finch bird? Wasn’t it the yellow-joy chirp overheard on the dawn walk to work –a reminder of the things in this life that are delicate and made of more than the hollow-boned expanses between their...

Maxine Rose Munro

      On the edge of the Arctic If the light were to leave our world, what of it? We would gather with fire under sturdy roof. We would share spirits and stories, songs, laughter. We would sleep soft in warmth of ourselves. If the light stuck up above,...

Rachael Clyne

      Full Sail She feels like a ship in a bottle, its sails pulled erect, through its neck by a man with a string. He sighs with pleasure, as he seals it with a cork. Placing her on an ornate shelf, he can keep an eye on her, admire her graceful lines....