Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mark A. Hill
Marseilles Road
-She calls him up-
She wills his brush in colour,
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas,
She uses a dark outline and replaces
his image with cholic fumes.
-He doesn’t pick up-
He wants to place her in
two horizontal bands
of dense tormented paint,
she passes before him in ochre framed sunglasses.
On paper, she is studious, perfect and elegant.
He scratches a beach with rocks,
fishing nets, a silver storm,
a full blue light in retreat,
which devours her opaque form.
-She wants to despise him for how he makes her feel. She calls again-
She draws a cemetery behind the beach
and he reflects that this is not what
he wants from this painting,
she must be more attentive to nature,
the changeability of the skies.
-This time he picks up and they speak long and full-
His last picture is lighter,
rendering her clearer.
The vertical lights reduce her throat
to a simple furrow,
echoing thin blue lines in the sky.
Space is flattened like in the Japanese prints
Monet loved so well.
The boats are these small delicate brush strokes,
he will use to push her off to sea.
-he asks that they might learn colour together,
she replies she cannot, and that he must respect form-
Mark A. Hill is a poet who has lived in Cagliari, Italy for 33 years. He has been published in several literary journals and magazines. His debut poetry collection Death and the insatiable was published by Hidden Hand Press in September 2025.
Lesley Burt
a conch found in hot white sand
on the shoreline at Sanur Beach
a Fibonacci whorl
among morning offerings
Annie Acre
i am sun-shot / green-beamed / stem-steep /
hands cupfuls of heartlines / conjuring water
Jennifer Cole
take your wedding ring
or it might get “disappeared”
Eithne Longstaff
On the road to Belfast today, I failed
to recognise my father. I saw a flamingo
by the Tamnnamore turn off, but paid
little regard as it took off…
Mark O’Connor
At half a tonne in weight
It was like the anchor –
Michael Mintrom
They lie deep in a forest, wounds
unseen, unhealed. Further back,
an escarpment with dark scars.
Thea Smiley
There’s a hiss as he eases himself in
to the green pool, steam in his smoky hair.
Roger Bonner
It’s forbidden to call it war.
We’re here to liberate you;
ignore the glide bombs as they roar.
Maryam Seyf
You and I sit
facing each other
in dialogue
across the table