Today’s choice
Previous poems
Max Wallis
Serenity Prayer
god grant us the serenity / to accept the things we cannot change / the courage to change the / things we can / and the wisdom to know el differencio / such as / true Heinz ketchup / vs Aldi home brand / the subtle grief of budget beans / the betrayal of margarine that tries to pass for butter / the smear of compromise / on morning toast / god grant us patience / when the oat milk separates in coffee / and when someone says it’s the same thing / but you know / it’s not / and you don’t have the words to argue / over condiments / anymore / give us courage / to walk away from relationships / but never from the good mayonnaise / help us forgive ourselves / for buying the cheap pesto / again / even when we knew / even when it smelled like despair / teach us to accept the own-brand biscuits / in hospital waiting rooms / and the whisper of realisation / that nothing / is ever quite the same / once you’ve tasted / the full-fat / the full-price / the full truth / of what was / always yours.
Max Wallis (@maxwallis) is the author of Polari Prize-shortlisted Modern Love (2011) and Everything Everything (2016). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Rialto, Poetry Scotland, Magma, Poetry London, Fourteen Poems and Vogue. He edits The Aftershock Review (@aftershockpoetry) and his new book Well Done, You Didn’t Die from which is poem is taken is out in November with Verve. @verve.publisherofpoetry He lives in Lancashire, with complex PTSD. You can pre order a copy here: www.vervepoetrybookshop.com
Sharon Phillips
Wet tarmac blinks red and gold,
names shine outside the Gaumont.
‘Stop dreaming, you’ll get lost.’
Bill Greenwell
Before the first turn of the key, before
adjusting the mirror, before releasing the handbrake even,
Dad said: there are two things you need to know.
Matt Gilbert
Alive, but not exactly,
as it fills the frame, flicker-lit
by lightning. . .
Rebecca Gethin
This morning
the room is bright with snowlight
and everything seems illuminated differently.
Lorraine Carey
Every Sunday he insists on beef
from Boggs’s butchers, a forty minute drive
away.
Gabriel Moreno
It’s hard to say what he did, my father.
His shoulders portaged crates,
he captained boats in the night,
chocolate eggs would appear
which smelt of ChefChaouen.
Henry Wilkinson
I rolled an orange across daybreak;
I waited for the moon to ripen.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, we bring you KB Ballentine, J.S. Watts and Terry Dyson
as wind whispers your name.
Summer’s breaking down and a starker calling comes –
leaves saturated with sunset before surrendering.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, we bring you Helen Laycock, Ruth Aylett and Debbie Strange
we will meet again
on the other side
