Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anna Fernandes
Glove
My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night
on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills
tangled in summer-dried grasses
and snapped seed heads,
pecked at sniffed at and tumbled
among crusty rabbit droppings.
Cuff sheltering tucked-in snails and slugs,
the sweaty polyester fingers grasping at stars,
it held its own sky burial in black air.
Dad went back for it the next day
alone and scolded –
retraced welly-boot steps, sliding
Mom at home vacuuming and never muddied –
must have really cared
about keeping things together
couldn’t bear the loneliness.
It came back triumphant and silvered
with webs and ooze
frosted with damp and moonlight
dark as a late plum –
a different glove.
Anna Fernandes lives near Bristol and writes about living and mothering through grief and chronic illness. She has recently had work published in Motherlore, The Woolf and Ink and Marrow and was shortlisted for the Laurie Lee Prize for Writing 2024.
Kirsty Crawford
Elizabeth is hiding in the cupboard under the sink
Small enough to fold between cream cleaner and floor polish
Too big to keep elbows away from wire wool
Katie Beswick
You wouldn’t believe how quick they grew —
Our babies were men now. Lifting bags of concrete
they rebuilt cities, slab by slab, reinforcing cracks.
Sally St Clair
I’d asked for this not to be recorded;
this failure on my part, to be a good
parent;
Olivier Faivre
monkey mathematics
A monkey grabs one nut here, one nut
there, and two more over there.
He counts them with care.
HLR
I find six errors in the proofreading manual & the irony doesn’t tickle me.
I am enraged by typos, poor formatting, missing commas. This is my Big Girl Job,
the one I always wanted —
Angela Howarth Martinot
What seems to be the problem ? He asks
in that slightly condescending tone.
Seems, I think, Seems.
It seems, I say,
that I have a problem with my inner fish,
Bianca Pina
My Dad once dismissed a friend as a hypocrite,
which I took to be an induction to the truth.
Lately though, I think the things I love in you
I love because they’re grossly inconsistent.
Ian Badcoe
We are eating dessert when the urge overcomes her
to scrawl mathematics, the night ticks on
Dila Toplusoy Günay
Ay Dede
is what the moon was called
in the bedtime stories
I was told as a child