Today’s choice
Previous poems
Maryam Alsaeid
A Prayer for Rima
With echoes of the Arabic lullaby ‘yalla tnam’
Maybe after your bath—
you will sit for a moment,
the towel will hold you close
like a quiet prayer—
يا رب، نامت الطفلة، يا رب خلّيها تنام
Ya Rab, the child sleeps, oh Lord, help her sleep.
Your hair still sings with water—
the evening folds around you,
a linen of mercy and cradling—
you are small again.
Your breath curls into itself,
as if rocked by unseen hands.
Everyone needs a night like this—
the freedom to forget noise,
to feel a droplet slip down the shoulder,
to feel as precious as a close whisper
يا عصفورة، يا وردة، نامي بسلام
Little bird, little flower, sleep in peace.
Outside, cars sigh along the road—
washing the city clean. Inside
your chest loosens, a psalm
in the language of skin.
The tears that come—
do not accuse you
they anoint.
May this be your Sunday—
your soft rebirth. May time
dissolve like salt in water,
and the world begin again
inside you.
يلا تنام، يلا تنام
Yalla tnam, yalla tnam
The night will rock you—
like a mother who hums
long after you’ve slept.
Maryam Alsaeid is a Manchester-based poet and pharmacist, she explores healing and female empowerment. She studied at MMU with Carol Ann Duffy, was mentored by Julia Webb, and leads well being-focused writing workshops.
McLord Selasi
I walk the flat barefoot,
step over old dreams
still curled like cats
in the corners.
Warren Mortimer
& you’ll understand if i leave open this theatre of air
not as the invite for another loss
but to honour their world unwilling to collapse
Jena Woodhouse
Language reinvents itself,
coruscates in signs on walls;
falls silent, mute as clay and stone
on tablets that enshrine its form.
Martin Rieser
The river is an old demon
& my heart is an infirm creature
The river is sure of its way
& my heart is capable of lies.
Sreeja Naskar
glass-tooth morning.
salt mouth.
i left the stove on just to feel wanted.
Gordan Struić
Still —
I kept
writing.
Sometimes
just:
“Hi.”
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.