Today’s choice
Previous poems
Regina Weinert
Shared Attic
A key on a short string unlocks
a metal door to an unlit stair, steep
wooden steps, a turn at the top
where you can’t see back. We’re in The Gods.
A warren on the right, murk-bound filaments
of light strike coal briquettes, a broom lurks.
On the left, a breathless empty stage,
unsettled dust, the roof’s raw underside.
We unwind our frayed washing rope.
The drying floor is warm like baking,
the rafters smell of vanilla, sweeter
where diamonds of sunlight magnify the grain.
The skylights are half-closed, the traffic hums
and drums. My mother has a far-away look.
I offer her pegs from a bowl.
There’s room up here to hang the bedding,
she straightens all the edges. I slink along
a corridor of sheets, not touching.
Regina Weinert lives in Sheffield. She has had a university career in language and linguistics. Her poems are also published by e.g. Magma, The North, Pennine Platform, Poetry Salzburg Review, Stand, Under the Radar and Wild Court.
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,
Kay Feneley
Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others
Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated
David I. Hughes
He does not shout. He charts.
Where treaty lines once hung like old nets,
he inks the deep, the dark, the yet-unmade.
Anne Stewart
Huddled on the cat’s blanket,
hyenas crying through the night.
Scribbled notes regretting tea,
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Stephen Chappell
She has a way of tilting your head
as if lining up a thought.