Today’s choice
Previous poems
Luigi Coppola
Prometheus Burns Down The Last Bar Of The Pub Crawl
Out of ten bars, by the fifth, half of us had flickered
out and by this ninth one, it ended up just him
and me. A matchstick balanced on a stool, he sat
trench-coated and ember-tense. Salt from peanuts
stung his scolded fingers. The beer lip that frothed
every twenty seconds was steamed away by his
singed tongue or calcined palm or cauterised
sleeve. The reflection in mirrors behind bottles
refracted through cremated breaths. We talked
of many things: the warmth of hearths in heaven,
the snort of mulled wine, the smouldering hog
slipping off the bone, the shine of smithied gold
around necks of beautiful Gods. And all the other
stuff too that was given away or taken away or
lost. He stared through the cigarette smoke that
congealed in the heavy air, at the rolling, grilling
hot dogs from parts unknown and the flameless,
oil-clogged heater simmering like a plague
in the corner. We had had enough; besides, he had
somewhere to be. As we left, he sparked his fingers
at the edge of the soaked bar – kindling for a pyre –
amongst the heated laughter, stinging smog and
spilled paraffin. In the absolute alleyway, circled
by the fighting, puking comatose, I plucked
up the courage to ask that one burning question:
‘Can I see it?’ He smiled without looking up
from the half-empty glass (that he accidentally
stole and was destined to be fully empty and
balanced on rubble for eternity). He opened up
his coat and there it was: an eagle, bright and on
fire, with coal-dust eyes and charred beak pecking
under his grey ribs and the torn pink skin curling
inwards like cindered leaves – his blood-doused liver
exposed to the elements, bleeding for forgiveness.
Luigi Coppola – www.linktr.ee/PoetryPreacher – poetry, music, rum & coke. Featured at Glastonbury Festival, Tate Modern, Greenwich Theatre, Koestler Arts, Cutty Sark, Southbank Centre’s New Poets Collective, Poetry Archive Worldview winner, Bridport shortlist, Ledbury & National longlist, Lost Souls & Farrago Slam Champion, music as ‘The Only Emperor’, debut from Even God Gets Distracted Sometimes is out with Broken Sleep Books.
Sue Spiers
Thirsty Shadow
the kind of being
that won’t post
an image
Julian Dobson
Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain
is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging
Oliver Comins
Working the land on good days, after Easter,
people would hear the breaks occur at school,
children calling as they ran into the playground,
familiar skipping rhymes rising from the babble.
George Turner
Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough.
The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag
forlorn in the mug, unpoured.
Craig Dobson
Slowly, ordinarily, the unimaginable happens,
lowering the past into the dark,
covering it.
Clive Donovan
If I were a ghost
I think I would shrink
and perch on wooden poles
and deco shades – get a good view
of what I am supposed to be haunting
Rose Ramsden
We left the play early. It was the last day before the start of secondary school. Dad told me off for slapping the seats
Seán Street
There was a time when I took my radio
into the night wood and tuned its pyracantha
needle along the dial through noise jungles
to silent darkness at the waveband’s end.
J.S. Dorothy
Find yourself by the lake,
its icy membrane split by the long
arrow of a skein, reflected
flurry of wings, cries
bawling.