Today’s choice
Previous poems
Marnie Cockrill
Clerking notes
So, what has brought you in today Mrs…?
Owens. Mrs Owens.
Ahh, nice to meet you Mrs Owens. What brings you in today?
Worry mostly, I worry, I’m a worrier. But I’m particularly worried about this.
Worry not, Mrs Owens. Is your worry irrational or rational, do you believe?
Well, I don’t know, irrational, I hope. But it is just so constant…
Supposing it is constant, how would you characterise it? When did it start?
It started a few days ago, it came with this grumbling pain, I don’t know why…
I know it’s frightening, I’m sorry. The worry, anything makes it better or worse?
Well, I’ve been taking some paracetamol. That helps a little, but the nights are the worst.
What do you worry about at night? Has anything like this happened before?
Yes, for many years now on and off but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
If it has been ignored before, why can’t it be ignored now? What is different?
I don’t know, Doc. It’s just frighteningly painful and I can’t get it to stop. I did wonder…
I fear we must stop getting side tracked. What is your specific concern?
Well, I wondered if perhaps something had ruptured or burst. Might I be bleeding inside?
Now, now Mrs Owens. If that were the case, I’m sure you would be in significant pain.
Wouldn’t you agree that this pain is not what is significant to you, Mrs Owens?
Marnie Cockrill is a poet and artist from north Wales, studying medicine at Exeter. This professional pursuit, combined with her delight in the natural world and fascination with human relationships informs much of her writing.
Julian Dobson
You too I guess
have studied the surviving starlings
as they swoop and whistle
by the snack trailer at Moorfoot
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.
Clare Bryden
seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear
hear
Gail Webb
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
Kim Cullen
I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair
Mark G. Pennington
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets
Ivan McGuinness
Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
Elizabeth Wilson Davies
There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas
Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,