Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mana Misaghi
Mythopolitics
we make sure to pack a deck of cards for the train, or a sunday afternoon visit to the park. the cards will give our hands something tangible to do, and that thing should be as far away from
Productive as possible, for that is the purpose.
so even though we always pack a book, because we are not perfect, we make sure to also remember the cards. we will then remind ourselves, as we take out the cards, that we shall not play card games, even though we enjoy them, and they are far away enough from being Productive. we will do well to remember that they are built upon the foundation of Competitiveness, and shall therefore be avoided.
with the cards now in front of us we read each other’s fortunes.
We refer to our phones to double check the meaning of a three of diamonds or an ace of clubs. our aunties knew these by heart, but we have been plucked away from their tree and abandoned
Here.
Mana Misaghi is a London-based Iranian poet. They hold an MA in Gender Studies from Goldsmiths and a BA in English Literature from Allameh Tabataba’i University. They have translated two YA novels into Farsi, and two of their poems will appear in The Broken Spine’s upcoming slimline anthology. Instagram: @fair.creature.of.an.hour
Rose Ramsden
We left the play early. It was the last day before the start of secondary school. Dad told me off for slapping the seats
Seán Street
There was a time when I took my radio
into the night wood and tuned its pyracantha
needle along the dial through noise jungles
to silent darkness at the waveband’s end.
J.S. Dorothy
Find yourself by the lake,
its icy membrane split by the long
arrow of a skein, reflected
flurry of wings, cries
bawling.
Sarah Rowland Jones
The terns lift as one
from the salt-pools behind the beach
– a thick undulating line
Jean O’Brien
Winter soil is hard and hoar crusted,
birds peck with blunted beaks,
pushing up are the blind green pods
of what will soon be yellow daffodils,
given light and air.
Jean Atkin
We scoured the parish tip most weeks, when we were kids.
We clambered it in wellies. Ferals, we scavenged
in the debris of the adults’ lives.
Sally Festing
Life lines still arc round the base of each thumb
though the bulk of hand’s muscle mass
Joe Crocker
There was always, of course, the cold
– its freezing pretty fingerprints on our side of the pane.
Julie Sheridan
They married in a chapel of black steel
bars, tethered up their feathers to serve as
stained glass. . .