Today’s choice
Previous poems
Nick Cooke
Between the Ears
For Seán Street, in celebration of his 80th birthday
(2nd June 2026)
Molluscous receivers, would that you could
turn your talents inwards, and pick up
all that goes on in the cerebral swamp
that separates you, with its eighty-six
billion neurones, the tiny light-black
entities of which Poirot so often spoke –
along with oodles of (possibly telltale)
fat. ‘I wish you could hear yourself’…
how often have we heard or said this,
forgetting ‘There’s none so deaf’ is the best
of mottoes? – and those myriad neurone-
radars will only work if the lower-sited organ
(on the left-hand side of the thorax)
is disinclined to switch them off,
as it can, dear molluscs, as it does.
Poets applaud the noble ticker ruling
the noggin, but you’ll think otherwise:
the gift of self-audition’s no small feat,
and the heart most times should stick
with its basic bloody business – to beat.
Nick Cooke has had around a hundred poems published or accepted, in a variety of outlets including Acumen, Agenda, The Dark Horse, Ink Sweat & Tears, the High Window Journal and I Am Not A Silent Poet, along with around 40 poetry reviews. In 2016 his poem ‘Tanis’ placed first in a Wax Poetry and Art contest. He was a featured poet on the Flapper Press site in December 2025.
Carolyn Oulton
Unexpected as burned stone,
what am I supposed
to do with this memory?
José Buera
Aircon crickets through the night
outside my parents’ bedroom
since brother and I are not allowed AC
given the dangers of cold air to children.
Abraham Aondoana
We did not inherit land,
only remnants of fields they burned—
black fields scorched before we understood
Lorna Rose Gill
Maybe I remember getting brunch;
or the time the dog ate my croissant;
Adam Strickson
He couldn’t play rugby – the oval slithered away
whenever he touched it and he fell in the mud
or more often was pushed with some viciousness.
Leigh-Anne Hallowby
When we first came here two seasons ago
You were barely as high as my hip
Now you can look me right in the eye
It’s almost impossible to believe
Tadhg Carey
When our plaything ricochets
falling
who knows where
everything hinging
on the line
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I hear the roar of
the ocean. I hear
a series of shrieks
and long screams.
Natasha Gauthier
Nobody knows what Cicero’s gardener whistled
to his figs and olives, what the consul’s young wife
hummed to herself while slaves combed beeswax
and perfumed oils from Carthage into her hair.