Today’s choice
Previous poems
Ashia Mirza
Heartbust: (Plato’s Allegory of the Cave)
Someone is taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb.
The prodigal sun casts shadows in your cave
of
someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb –
breaking your shackles.
You leave the cave blinded
scrambling over
broken lines … broken bones … broken dreams.
Your eyes switch channels.
There’s a dread it’s real.
You swipe up.
There’s a dread it’s real.
There’s a feeling beyond helpless
which you can’t stop: Heartbust.
You gasp for air
like you’re the one trapped
in the rubble
dying to get out.
You return to your shackles
in the cave watching
someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
Ashia Mirza is a writer from Bolton. Her poetry has been shortlisted for the Aurora Prize and highly commended by the University of Greater Manchester. Her short fiction has been shortlisted for the HG Wells Prize and published in the anthology Motion and on CafeLit. Her novels have been longlisted and shortlisted in competitions run by The Times/Chicken House, Guppy, Northern Writers, and Commonword. Alongside her writing, she works as an informatics pharmacist.
Martin Fisher
Inside, in the half-light, the iron rot took hold.
Forgotten service–obsolete.
Salt-coin neglect.
The money flowed inland,
Moored on an hourglass choke.
No one told the sea.
Craig Dobson
Out of morning
a misted light,
glowing fire
in the air.
Steven Taylor
A very long time ago
Stephen Fry’s godfather, the
Justice, Sir Oliver Popplewell
Who chaired the inquiry
Into the Bradford City
Amirah Al Wassif
Beneath my armpit lives a Sinbad the size of a thumb.
His imagination feeds through an umbilical cord tied to my womb.
Now and then, people hear him speaking through a giant microphone—
Singing,
Cracking jokes,
Mark Smith
In the portacabin that morning, men smoked
and looked at last week’s paper again.
There was no water to fill the urn.
The first job – to get connected
Toby Cotton
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
Ansuya Patel
except this burnt red vase.
Hand shaped in the muffled roar,
devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth.
Hannah Ward
Look, Drew, the
plums are in
pieces beneath
us. I dreamt:
Andrea Small
a flower is not a heron
does not stand on one leg
spear-billed over golden carp