Today’s choice
Previous poems
Samantha Carr
The Girl with Goldfish Under Her Skin
She has few secrets with her translucent map skin of blue underground rivers visible to scale. Contours of overlapping knots oblivious to each other and to you – mesmerised by the girl with goldfish under her skin. Perhaps, you reflect, we all have goldfish, but we’ve never thought of looking for them. You make a mental note to check when you get home. But you will forget. Is it her glassiness that makes you dream of putting her in a tank the next time she comes for a consultation? You’re unable to pay attention to her list of symptoms – you’re back in anatomy class with that professor who insisted on failing you. If he’d produced a diagram of her, you’d have been a surgeon for sure! You wait for the flash of a golden tail – hadn’t realised you’d been holding your breath. What do raised antinuclear antibodies mean? Her voice penetrates your consciousness as the glow fades into depths hidden by dense lumpy organs. Oh, those lucky organs. You reassure her with a voice you don’t recognise – Low titre ANA is commonly seen in the healthy population. You rush her out of the room and hope she doesn’t return.
Samantha Carr is a PhD Creative Writing candidate at the University of Plymouth exploring chronic illness through prose poetry. Her work has been published in Acumen, Arc, Corporeal, Consilience and The Storms Journal. She can be found on Threads and Instagram as @samc4_rr
Mark Carson
he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.
Elizabeth Worthen
This is how (I like to think) it begins:
night-time, August, the Devon cottage, where
the darkness is so complete . . .
Elly Katz
When naked with myself, I feel where a right elbow isn’t, then is. I let my left palm guide me through the exhibition of my body.
Laurence Morris
The night of his arrest I climbed a hill
to find a deep cave in which to hide
Sarp Sozdinler
As a kid, Nehisi used to sleep in a treehouse. He could curl right into it from his bedroom window. He would have a hard time falling asleep every time his parents got loud or physical.
Three poems on Counting for National Poetry Day: Max Wallis, Julie Anne Jenson, Brian Kelly
I don’t wear them
or have any
but you gave me a pair
of seven-inch goth platform heels.
Fizza Abbas
They say change is a constant,
but this constant became a coefficient
always racing to catch me
Scott Elder
What will you do in winter dear when drifts
cover your fingers and shoes
Laura Webb, Edward Alport, and Jaime del Adarve: Day 3 (re)place feature
Tour of the Excavation Collaged from text in the ‘Ice Age to Iron Age’ gallery at the Great North Museum, Newcastle, UK The enigma is why this civilisation became extinct at the same time as a peak in carbon 14, which is a natural element, but in...