Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mary McQueen
Jigsaw
It starts in utero, painted wood carvings thick as a
finger, gift
wrapped in nostalgia. Colour weaves in time, a voice
with a
thousand faces. Some velcro themselves, urchins of
experience.
Some are stolen. Onlookers swapping their gray clouds
for your
sequinned linings. Habit seeks connection The way
red cars
appear everywhere. Paper craft punches squeezed
into a rat
shaped hole. Then, one day, you sit in a room, blood
staining
the clinical white, listening to a doctor tell you, again,
there is
no heartbeat. And after the third – because starts middles
and ends
must always come in threes – a tidal flow washes away
the picture
along with the list of names collected in notebooks and
stayed chimes
ring from my pores
like sopranos
Mary McQueen is a London born mixed heritage writer. In 2023 she released a spoken word album titled, Mightier than the Sword. In 2024 she was accepted onto the Out-Spoken academy. Mary is a psychotherapist, founded poetry platform Poetics and hosts a radio show @kilhapoetry
Joe Williams
I was born in a town of shadows.
Anne Symons
She was only a little woman
five feet nothing in nylon stockings.
‘If I stood sideways they’d mark me absent.’
Ben
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges.
Dragana Lazici
the days are long but the years are short.
seconds are tiny kitchen knives in my back.
i stopped reading Dickinson, her voice is a sad parrot.
Abigail Ottley
Faces, unless they come swimming up close. are a blur of piggy-pink and ice-
cream. In the street, she doesn’t know, cannot be certain when to smile, when to
look away
Maggie Mackay
The teacher is an old spindly man. Grim, out of a Grimm’s tale. Scarecrow hair, thinning. Unsmiling.
Natasha Gauthier
The tawny clutch appeared
on high-heeled evenings only,
slept in a nest of white tissue.
Romy Morreo
She only speaks to me these days
through groaning floorboards in the night
and slammed doors.
Emma Simon
No-one has seen a ghost while breast-feeding
despite the unearthly hours, the half-light
mad sing-song routines of rocking a child
back to sleep.