Today’s choice
Previous poems
Day Six of ‘Wonder’ for NPD: Martin McKenna, Emma Dandy
Prolonged Panic Attack II
it’s the end of the world and i choose
bottom shelf body wash, top shelf
shampoo. almost all the way over the
edge, i choose brand name bleach, leave
washing powder to the next life. it’s
the end of the world and i lean against
one of the sail sculptures city centre.
foot up, i feel how solid its casing.
i see one bus off, tinnitus. vision blurs
particularly bad the ride up another.
arm around solid paper shopping bag,
i need this water flow wash my hair,
need these last cigarettes to end the world,
their smoke opening old scars this guitar.
Martin McKenna
Do you know how your mum and dad met?
after How to be Adopted’s ‘Questions not to ask an adopted person’
A: I watch a greater spotted woodpecker strip the bark from the old apple tree in the middle
of my garden.
B: He jack-hammers into the trunk, searching for beetle larvae.
C: Dendrocopos major’s tongue is so long he stores it wrapped around his shock-absorbing
skull.
D: He flies to the drainpipe to knock out his territorial beat, and the plastic shatters.
Emma Dandy explores the fragmentation of identity after trauma as experienced by adoptees. She has been widely published in journals and anthologies including The Ekphrastic Review, Atrium and The Honest Ulsterman. Emma won Fish Publishing’s Haiku Prize 2026. Instagram: @emmadandypoetry
Margaret Baldock
We launched, lovingly
into dark and silky water
unknown yet benign.
Krishh Biswal
You did not ask for knees —
They found the floor themselves.
Not from command,
But gravity.
Tamara Salih
That winter the snow kept rising,
a slow white wall climbing the windows,
each morning untouched,
Alicia Byrne Keane
I’ve been reading about ghost apples.
They are a real phenomenon, like how
everyone we can see on the wide street
outside this building is still living,
Gareth Culshaw
I tried to work from a van. Sitting in the passenger
seat listening to a guy whistle. His frown, a cloud
he lost when his mother died. Each wrinkle
Jennie Howitt
Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands.
Matt Bryden
at the cider farm, eight minutes
before handover, we strike on
feeding the donkeys –
Colin Pink
to embrace you is like clasping
a fist full of briars
Simon Williams
What were these fairies called
before we knew of hummingbirds?
Bumblebee moth because of the size?
Reed-nose moth because of the proboscis?