Today’s choice
Previous poems
Adam Flint
To the Litten Tree
Morning sees droplets
of spittle flicked over foraging insects.
Down hind legs,
hidden among the leaves,
the sated dump fresh honeydew and
trees weep sugar.
Sweet hurt.
Little graces matter.
The bus drivers know us, let us
smoke by the door.
All summer automatic exits remain
open, and no one leaves or boards.
No cause to,
nor place to go.
In an absence of floral cues
we took unconventional routes,
buzzed lightly to the warm perch
of our terminal branches.
All summer, paralysed bodies
of drunken bees laid glitter paths
for you and I to follow, gasping,
under the silver limes.
Adam Flint was born in North London and currently lives in Berlin. Previous poems have appeared in Shearsman magazine, Black Box Manifold and Poetry Salzburg Review, among others. In 2022 an album, Seen Through Cirrus, in collaboration with The Cube of Unknowing, was released on the Irish label Fort Evil Fruit.
Pat Edwards
He appears like a paper bag blown onto the feeder,
punching his beak time and again into the peanuts.
Kate Noakes
If you follow faerie lights
that wisp where boardwalk
becomes trackway, make sure
you’re stocked with milk,
or bread and salt.
Gopal Lahiri
My father stitched an evening with current ripples
spill over rocks and shadows gather at the corner,
Paul Loney
i was standing
very still
my mind
Mai Ishikawa
Taxi I took shelter under a tree, where you also sheltered. You looked at me awkwardly, as if to say Excuse me before shaking your feathers – a tiny droplet landed on my cheek. Suspended, we held each other responsible for the silence. We listened to the...
Lue Mac
Sad how things expire before you work out
what they mean. Like earlier I was noticing
the rose petals on the path, all damp and slick,
Alice O’Malley-Woods
For the Peregrines of Offham Chalk Pit The quarry holds your eyrie like a grateful palm. You - indelicate gobber all gape and gum-pink circled in the beach white like a mouth stuck in wonder. O spit-shrieker coming back for yourself, tearing fur so diligently, never...
Lori D’Angelo
The cat puts his paw on my hair, and I think about
where we could go if we weren’t here. Maybe the
nail salon, which seems like a good destination for
kill time Saturdays.
Lucy Wilson
Dear Fish, you swam from life and gave your flesh; forgive me.
In your ice-tomb, your scales a rainbow of tiny glaciers, frozen in flight;
like you, I let myself get caught, sank my heart in a false sea.