Today’s choice
Previous poems
Samantha Carr
Unexploded Bombs
You became obsessed with nucleated red blood cells when you peeked through an
aperture window at your liquid, viscous nature. You became obsessed with maps
after an unexploded bomb exposed a Second World War timeline fault sleeping in a
garden in your city. Several results on the pathology printout are marked with carets.
The Bomb Book marks the location of dropped devices with sticky red dots.
You don’t have a garden, so you revert to the sanctuary of one of the few places to
survive the Blitz, the cobblestones of the historic Barbican. These are pebbles and
sandstones taken from the riverbed. Edges eroded by centuries of foot traffic, horse-
drawn carriages and even the advent of the modern car, something it was never
designed to sustain. Outside the Admiral MacBride, these stones have
been puked on, fought on, slept on, bled on. How many memories remain in
the sand or have been washed away with the Mayflower Steps and castle
fortifications to rest on Sutton Pool’s harbour floor? Are nucleated red blood cells
dangerous? The GP says it’s not something we normally look at. The internet
says they’re rarely present in healthy adults. The Pathologist says the results should
have been suppressed. You paste your discoveries into the Bomb Book.
Samantha is based in Plymouth, UK, where she is a PhD Creative Writing candidate exploring the lived experience of chronic illness and the healthcare system through prose poetry. She also formerly worked in the NHS as a nurse. Her work has been published in several places, including Arc, Acumen, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mslexia, and Room. In her spare time, she enjoys experimenting with surrealist art. She can be found on Instagram @samc4_rr, and on Facebook @samantha.carr.9275.
Margaret Poynor-Clark
Inside my bedroom I take a fresh blade
pull off my jumper, examine the ladder
in front of the mirror cut through my laces
rung by rung
Jenny Hockey
That’s when she went to ground,
after she disobeyed, painted her plastic tea set
red, hidden away in the playhouse they built
down where bindweed draped
Sue Proffitt
You and I have had many talks since you died.
Nick Cooke
If when you go to the barber today
He asks if you’d like him to ‘tidy up your ears’,
Think of all the wildest sprawling vegetation
That will never be tidied, or trimmed, by clippers or shears,
Edward Alport
High up, out of reach,
on a branch, no, more a twig,
a little wizened, shrunken face leers down.
Colin Pink
not the kind you eat with
but useful to turn the soil
root out potatoes or carrots
Linda Ford
My Father Bought a Signal Box
dismantled it piece by piece
then sold the wood, as a job lot.
Ryan O’Neill
we hug and i act cool
as the american fridge ice
shattering on kitchen tiles
David Thompson
Scrolling through my inbox I hold down
the shift key, select all and mass delete
briefly feel the repose of the therapist’s couch.