Today’s choice
Previous poems
Vanessa Napolitano
A bit OCD
Floors are unvacuumed. Spices remain un-alphabetised.
I bless the spaces between the furniture to keep everyone safe. Seven.
I do not arrive exactly on time. Margins can keep their default size.
I would like you to promise me this isn’t poison. This supermarket chicken.
I do not straighten any of the objects on my desk.
I have seen the word crash on three magazine covers, which must be a sign.
I have clutter on my bookshelves and coffee rings on the little table.
I move the little tables to make the spaces right. Seven.
Reports do not say I am a perfectionist.
If I say the prayer wrong, I say the prayer again.
Gosh, that’s a dark thought, I’m sure you’d say.
If I say the prayer wrong, I say the prayer again (seven) –
If I say the prayer wrong,
I say the prayer again.
Vanessa Napolitano is a Yorkshire-based writer and was a Word Up North New Northern Poet 2025. She has published four books, including the chapbook the lives we had before with Stanchion Press in 2026. Her work can be found in And Other Poems, Interpreter’s House and Alchemy Spoon. Find her @nessanapolitano_ on instagram, and @ Moette on X.
Steven Taylor
A very long time ago
Stephen Fry’s godfather, the
Justice, Sir Oliver Popplewell
Who chaired the inquiry
Into the Bradford City
Amirah Al Wassif
Beneath my armpit lives a Sinbad the size of a thumb.
His imagination feeds through an umbilical cord tied to my womb.
Now and then, people hear him speaking through a giant microphone—
Singing,
Cracking jokes,
Mark Smith
In the portacabin that morning, men smoked
and looked at last week’s paper again.
There was no water to fill the urn.
The first job – to get connected
Toby Cotton
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
Ansuya Patel
except this burnt red vase.
Hand shaped in the muffled roar,
devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth.
Hannah Ward
Look, Drew, the
plums are in
pieces beneath
us. I dreamt:
Andrea Small
a flower is not a heron
does not stand on one leg
spear-billed over golden carp
Usha Kishore
At dawn and dusk, my father
becomes a chant, that flies above
the courtyard of the old house
Jane Frank
The leaves are a colour you’ve never seen
but that I will learn to expect
and there’s a fracas-induced full moon