Today’s choice
Previous poems
Khairina Anindya, Genevieve Beech
Khair
At the feet
of al-Ka‘ba
you asked for a daughter.
You named me
Khair – Blessing.
I answered
inside you
forcing myself into your ribs
remaking you
in the emptiness of your lungs.
in the space he made—
his shoes
left in the doorway
your words—
not at the tip of your tongue
but caught at your teeth.
imprinting your face and his
I carry you
under my tongue.
Khairina Anindya is an engineer from Indonesia, currently based in the Netherlands. She writes poetry shaped by culture and memory. She enjoys reading across different literary traditions.
BIRTHLIGHT
You are ordinary
to the teenager on the bus,
the doctor at our six-week check.
Everywhere, mothers birth
their own gold-spun miracles
with features much like yours.
But I felt you move,
little wish, inside
my body, inside its mist.
I knew you first as fable,
a not-yet thing darting under skin,
a lantern held in the halfway.
Before I siphoned your light
outside me, and you flickered,
soared, and the world was changed.
Genevieve Beech is the creator of Motherlore Magazine on care, matrescence and ecology. Motherlore can be found in the Women’s Art Library, Goldsmiths, and featured in ‘M(other)ing’ 2025 at Virginia Tech Perspective Gallery. Genevieve enjoys the many veins of bookmaking.
Jon Wesick
Loaded with hawks’ cries and horses’ huffs
Ennio Morricone’s score wails
Paula R. Hilton
When the genie appears, I’m in a frivolous
mood. First request? My mom’s apple pie.
Alice Huntley
slack in a bag from the freezer aisle
shaken out like shrunken grey memes
I long for the podding of beans
Rhonda Melanson
The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.
Clive Donovan
I go to the top of the risen hill,
above the trees, beyond the grass,
where only hard ground lives
Gary Akroyde
We searched for it
through the tarmac in every rain-bruised sky
in dark Pennine shadows where great mills
spewed out ringlets of ghost-grey fog
Nathan Curnow
I like to think it’s a story about himself and Einstein
floating in zero gravity, Albert sailing through the capsule
toward his drifting pipe, Brian playing We Will Rock You—
Paul Short
Sleep.
Elusive as lucid dreams.
Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange,
spiderweb scarlet &
thatch-brown
Ash Bowden
Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.