Today’s choice
Previous poems
Stephen Chappell
At the Barbers
She has a way of tilting your head
as if lining up a thought.
Neither rough nor tender—decisive,
like someone used to responsibility.
She remembers names,
gently enquires after sick wives,
errant sons, daughters who never phone,
knees that won’t work on the stairs.
Old blokes come in for the cut,
eyebrow decluttering,
nose tweezering,
ears tweaked of fluff.
She works quickly, cheaply.
Cash only. Her father’s rule.
Upstairs he “keeps the books,”
which means smoking by the window.
She wanted to stay at school
she tells me
but left at fifteen
learned the grammar of heads—
quiffs, cowlicks, scars,
the way grief settles.
When I sit she listens
as if the day depends on it.
At the end she brushes my collar clean,
steps back, checks a job well done.
I leave,
feeling better.
Stephen Chappell came to poetry late (he is 72 and counting), finding the writing and reading of it a pleasure and an addiction. He lives on the side of the Malvern Hills with dog, cat and significant other and is mostly happy, especially when writing.
Britta Giersche
a wooden door slams shut in my brain
a man perishes in a space the size of his grave from malnutrition eighty years ago
Abby Crawford
When I was born
the house was full
of stones, an old blacksmiths shed.
Rachael Clyne
And if a land loses its people and they
are exiled will a land feel their absence
Tom Nutting
They have been burying us,
not realising
we were seeds
of revolution.
Emily A. Taylor
I move my hand long
so yours will follow, and though
this moment tastes of tequila soda
paracetamol pillowed on a fizzing tongue
amnesia… pull me in anyway.
Steph Morris
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently,
Eryn McDonald
It is here that the day breaks apart
Like ice on frustrated frozen pond
Here in the grounds of Ashton Court
I wish to bury myself amongst the green
Gordan Struić
Outside,
the city slides by,
blurred lines
of glass and rain.
Stephen Keeler
The days were huge and kind
and sometimes after school
we’d buy a bag of broken biscuits
for the long walk home
across the heavy heat of afternoon
on lucky days she wouldn’t take
the pennies offered up in supplication