Today’s choice
Previous poems
Miriam Swales
STEMs
When I was 12, I knew the weight of a human head.
8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (a bit of dark comedy).
It grew from there. The curiosity. The calculations.
But, perhaps, that’s not true.
4 years before that, The Magic School Bus taught me
the pull of gravity and on which planet I’d rather live –
to be in line with the shapes around me – feminine
and, eventually, desirable. Physics was beyond …
This fed my interest in astronomy – later to be eclipsed
by chemistry. In between the two, I would stand –
back to the sun to see my frame stretch out: long legs
and hands like doughy shadows. If only.
Then came the calculations with fat – before we realised
it was all about calories. And, eventually, I wondered how
many pounds would be subtracted without one, or both,
legs. Like an animal, trapped, I chewed over the idea –
how to fit – lighten the scales. Like Venus. 91% there,
if you’re curious.
If only, like a lizard, I could pull off my limbs – bag them
in temporary storage. Or, be reborn – a rag doll severed
into a new dimension – legs first. Starting or ending there
because, of course, I couldn’t lose my head and still be me.
Miriam Swales is an American-British writer and educator living in Kent. She has been published in IS&T, was highly commended with Primers 2025 (Nine Arches Press), and was longlisted in The Rialto’s Nature and Place Competition (2026).
Alice Huntley
slack in a bag from the freezer aisle
shaken out like shrunken grey memes
I long for the podding of beans
Rhonda Melanson
The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.
Clive Donovan
I go to the top of the risen hill,
above the trees, beyond the grass,
where only hard ground lives
Gary Akroyde
We searched for it
through the tarmac in every rain-bruised sky
in dark Pennine shadows where great mills
spewed out ringlets of ghost-grey fog
Nathan Curnow
I like to think it’s a story about himself and Einstein
floating in zero gravity, Albert sailing through the capsule
toward his drifting pipe, Brian playing We Will Rock You—
Paul Short
Sleep.
Elusive as lucid dreams.
Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange,
spiderweb scarlet &
thatch-brown
Ash Bowden
Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.
Mallika Bhaumik
This is not a frilly, mushy love letter
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it,
Jena Woodhouse
Around midnight, the hour when pain
reasserts its dominance, a voice
behind the curtain screening
my bed from the next patient’s:
an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts