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.
Kate Bailey
They’ve mended the park fence again,
patched it over with the usual ugly metalwork,
like a riot barricade.
Ibrar Sami
Across the barren land
where blood once played its savage Holi,
the fearless migratory birds
have returned again.
Anyonita Green
It wobbles slightly, red wine jelly.
I peer at it, nose close enough
to smell the iron, the scent of coagulant,
inhaling through slightly parted lips
Soledad Santana
Seen as she’d hung her cranial lantern
from the roof of her step-father’s garden shed,
the parabolic formula was skipped; like two calves, we followed the fence
to the end of the foot-ball pitch.
Claire Harnett-Mann
Behind the block, the night tears in scrub-calls.
Fox kill scores the morning,
ripped by prints in muck.
Hedy Hume
Stepping into the opposing seat
I smile, and the look I receive
Makes me feel the antisocial one.
Matthew F. Amati
Hands said to Head
look what you’ve made me do
it’s not me, Head said, talk to
Heart, that guy’s sick
Mariam Saidan
‘Female singing constitutes a ‘forbidden act’ (ḥarām),
punishable under Article 638 of the Islamic Penal Code.’
Meg Pokrass
This is what happens when she sits alone in her dining room, eating smoked trout and canned sardines.