Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anita Karla Kelly, CE Collins, Clare Painter on International Women’s Day
Eve’s Bite
In the beginning of the end she bit the thing she wasn’t meant to bite.
Apple stuck in her throat, one bite taken, then swallowed whole.
Seeds wait in stomach for sprout, roots climb through veins, branch
pushes through her mouth. White blossom tells tales of what she’s done.
She offers apples out her eyes to any woman hungry for fruit.
And then, branches grow fast, apples everywhere, eyes, face, hair.
Gardener comes home with shears, mutters about order, threatens
lock, key, begs:
he says ‘be good’
‘stay still’ he says
wants her to come to heel like a dog
‘sit’ he says to himself in the kitchen
While she’s outside roots deep in earth
sap strong, trunk bark quickening.
Trees cannot bend in half to sit in a chair made of their own skin.
Anita Karla Kelly is a bi-sexual poet and playwright who writes about sexuality, mental health and motherhood. She has been published by Comma Press, Bath Flash Fiction and Dangerous Women. Highly commended in BBC Audio awards for her writing for radio Red Flags and The Night of the Living Flatpacks with Naked Productions. Her play Buzzing has been shown with Bristol Old Vic and she has worked with Graeae theatre, Theatre Royal Plymouth. Anita has been part of Royal Court Playwrights group and Bristol Old Vic’s Open Circle playwrights group.
Scold’s Bridle
Every day I wake up chewing
A lump that squats on my tongue.
Regolith crunchy, slime sticky –
So round and big it takes pints of water
To choke it down.
All day, my breath stinks loud with it.
And sometimes, sodden crumbs of it
Fall out before I catch them in my palm,
The names of another year’s dead women,
And all the other ones we wade through
That go on and on, ancient as decay –
Ancient as violence. I snort them back to spit them out
With fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
C. E. Collins is a Morris-dancing, shanty-singing English teacher who writes. Her poetry has appeared in Sudo Journal, Not Very Quiet, Frazzled Lit Mag, Seedlings, and Sardine Can Collective, among others. Come for the energy on Instagram @chriswithawitcheye.
Terms of Engagement
After Artemisia Gentileschi’s ‘Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria’ (painted c.1615-17).
That I shall paint as well as any man,
Mix freedoms on my palette while I may.
That life tilts in your favour, not in mine.
That though I’ll be musician, saint or queen
For your commission, you will not forget
That I submitted to the pain required
At law, endured until the task was done.
That I shall suffer you to hold my gaze,
A long reminder from these silent walls.
That though I’ll play your saint and you’ll parade
My name to your fine guests, be in no doubt
That should you merit an accuser, I
Shall stand and paint, unfold your debts in light.
Clare Painter lives in Oxfordshire, speaks fluent Italian and works in publishing with a special interest in copyright. Bluesky: @clarepainter.bsky.social
Thea Smiley
There’s a hiss as he eases himself in
to the green pool, steam in his smoky hair.
Roger Bonner
It’s forbidden to call it war.
We’re here to liberate you;
ignore the glide bombs as they roar.
Maryam Seyf
You and I sit
facing each other
in dialogue
across the table
Kerry Darbishire
Imagine a spring day drawing out possibilities
the newness of life, sisters in long skirts digging
tangled ground, breaking bones and loam wild
Paul Chuks
Newton didn’t discover gravity
The apple did.
Lola Dekhuijzen
the window is a derivative landscape
painting: streaks of blue for a sky,
Rupert Loydell
With the completion of mindset
my life is in order, two weeks after
the day before.
Rachael Hill
Those times my tongue becomes a lemon
filling my mouth with bitter pith
John Doyle
I hide a knife amongst a bush longing to burn,
days like these are plots from a heathen’s bible.