Today’s choice
Previous poems
Roz Doe
28th April 2015
The night before,
I paced London’s streets
sparkling and fizzing with ideas
the pills used to dull and destroy.
I felt awake, alive.
Thoughts popped like fireworks,
I couldn’t sleep for flashes and
Bang! I solved a Pure Maths problem so powerful
I could singlehandedly ruin the banks –
just like that.
You remember, that’s why MI5 were watching me,
trying to kill me?
My feet walked me to Blackfriars
as the darkness disappeared.
Glass buildings glared back orange dawn,
I needed to go. I got a train out of the city
for a day, a week, who knows?
You know I never liked to plan ahead.
*
In Brighton, sea stretches blue
expanding the space in my head,
you get that, don’t you?
I can breathe again, doze on pebbles.
Check into the Royal Albion,
safe. From my room
white cliffs shine bright calling me out.
I walk and walk and walk
past cars, shops and Marina until
I reach the grassy clifftop path,
find quiet. Lift the flimsy wire,
crawl through to the edge
as close to the sea below as I can be.
Looking down,
waves rush towards and rush away
like my breaths in and out.
Gulls float, clouds turn pink in the sky.
I reach out to hold
the sea, sky, birds.
Roz Doe has poems in South Bank Poetry magazine, The Lincoln Review, forthcoming in DreamCatcher magazine and in various anthologies. She was runner up in the 2024 Freedom from Torture poetry competition. Her first poetry collection, Welcoming Blue Robins was published by Palewell Press in 2024.
David Hanlon
Not in that parking lot,
not in that residential area,
not in that blue car
splashed with mud.
Mana Misaghi
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 . . .
Taḋg Paul
An algorithm guides me through the keys
Each stanza nested in a formal loop
Mat Riches
Hey kid, this won’t mean that much to you yet,
but I didn’t taste my first proper curry
till at least twenty-one . . .
David Sapp
Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .
Gareth Writer-Davies
it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky
Sam Szanto
It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.
Tamara Evans
Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.
Rushika Wick
slid in bass-drop dams up
pierced ears, furred
with youth, his vest drinks sweat,
