Today’s choice
Previous poems
Tom Nutting
We Were Seeds
Found poem from trans rights protest and counter-protest on College Green, Bristol, Saturdays 19th & 26th April 2025. The counter protest was quickly drowned out.
I.
God created man and woman —
Let us piss in peace!
Only a man and a woman —
We are eternal.
A child needs a mother and a father —
I am alive because of her.
It’s in the Bible —
Isolation is death.
You can’t change biology —
Fuck you. I’m going to live.
There are only two genders—
My pronouns are he/hit because trans people are a hit, motherfuckers!
Repent.
We are building a movement.
Repent.
We exist.
Repent.
You are not invisible.
II.
Repent.
We will not be granted our liberation
from the state, from the courts, from parliament.
We will win it —
by fighting,
by resisting,
by disrupting.
Repent.
We are scared.
We are fucking angry!
We are tired —
we’re still here.
—pent.
Let out your joy – they hate it.
We drive the Tranny Joy Mobile.
We build community,
carry each other along.
—
They have been burying us,
not realising
we were seeds
of revolution.
III.
College Green in Spring.
There is glitter in the cracks
of the paving stones,
if not our faces.
We need to show those people there
the warmth of a stranger’s hand.
They want our blood
for some colour in their lives.
But we are already
the mural.
We are already
the riot.
Stonewall was a fucking riot.
There is no LGB
without the T.
There is no protest
without partying.
That billionaire smoking a cigar on a yacht,
she-who-must-not-be-named,
to celebrate our death,
when she is dust,
we will still be here.
We will not fight for scraps.
We are building
what we need
for what’s ahead.
Bristol is home.
This country can be a home
whenever we bring our bodies here.
We must stretch out this green
until it holds us all.
We do not ask permission
to belong.
We have always been here.
We bloom.
Tom Nutting is a writer and psychiatrist from Bristol, UK. He writes on queer ecologies, activism, and mental illness. His recently won the Lisa Thomas prize, and has been published in Magma, Blue Bottle Journal, BJPsych, The Hopper, The Ash.
Erich von Hungen
And the yellow moths
like some strange throw-away
tissues used up by nature
circle the lamp hanging above.
Helen Frances
I wasn’t in, so she left me a note.
Each word a tangle of broken ends, some oddly linked
to the next with a ghost trail of ink
from her rose-gold marbled fountain pen,
a rare indulgence she’d bought herself.
Suzanne Scarfone
truth be told
part of me has lived
in this box of disquiet
for years and years
let’s see
Julia Webb
Because a woman woke up
and her head had become a flower.
Freyr Thorvaldsson
A candle eats away at air
At the same rate that we do
Konstandinos (Dino) Mahoney
A teacher guides his pupils past headless marble torsos,
dusty cabinets of tiny Attic coins, pockmarked stylobates,
to a large clay pithos . . .
Maggie Brookes-Butt
For you, with your toddler bendiness,
the squat is a natural, easy position
while I hurt-strain, thinking of miners
crouched outside their front doors
Sally Michaelson
Heads under bonnets
mechanics catch a wiff
of a girl passing
Carmen Marcus
extract from The Keen Is ar scath a Chéile a mhaireann na daoine: It is in the shadow of each other we live. Watching with the dying. Travelling with the dead. Phyllida Anam-Áire; The Celtic Book of Dying, Findhorn Press, Vermont, 2022 Àite...