Today’s choice
Previous poems
Andy Humphrey
Becoming Hedgehog
(i)
Noises are louder now: the kesh
of tyres on tarmac slicked
with leaves. Rain’s drumming thunder.
My other self pulls at me,
pricks from inside. Limbs compress, ribs
tighten around starved lungs. I furl;
I shrink, a leaf about to drop
quivering from its branch. Spine arches;
fingers, toes close in.
My needle skin hides me
in lengthening shadows: my armour
against the dogs, the melancholy owls.
(ii)
They all tell of frogs
snogged by princesses, lanky green
specimens transformed
into slender knights.
But it takes a special kiss
to break a hedgehog spell, to make
that knotted ball of me
unravel.
You have to place your x
just at the soft spot
at the tip of the nose, the point
where all taste and touch and feeling begins.
Slip, and you risk
mouthfuls of bristles, bleeding lips
and your one and only chance
to see real magic at work.
Andy Humphrey has published two collections of original poetry, A Long Way to Fall (Lapwing Press, 2013) and Satires (Stairwell Books, 2015). He lives in York and works as a solicitor. www.writeoutloud.net
Jim Murdoch
and I said,
“I understand,”
and I did, ishly . . .
Sue Spiers
Thirsty Shadow
the kind of being
that won’t post
an image
Julian Dobson
Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain
is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging
Oliver Comins
Working the land on good days, after Easter,
people would hear the breaks occur at school,
children calling as they ran into the playground,
familiar skipping rhymes rising from the babble.
George Turner
Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough.
The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag
forlorn in the mug, unpoured.
Craig Dobson
Slowly, ordinarily, the unimaginable happens,
lowering the past into the dark,
covering it.
Clive Donovan
If I were a ghost
I think I would shrink
and perch on wooden poles
and deco shades – get a good view
of what I am supposed to be haunting
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.