Today’s choice
Previous poems
Peter Branson
Saving Face
Corvus carone, carone,
the carrion crow
Emerge, from way beyond the pale, one day,
clenched feet an amulet about your wrist.
You’re eight, like us, you say, toy wilderness
we occupy, a monster on your fist,
outlandish night. No tinge of blue, like ink
at school, your mourning suit’s impervious
to light, beak over-egged, dry slate, twin blades
a hammer horror inches from your sight.
A giant close to, unfathomable, good luck
or ill, your camouflage, our sense is rapt.
Old war film, blazing cockpit, pilot trapped,
take in the left side of your face at last;
like shrivelled plastic, knotted string, from ear
to nostril, neck to chin. We never ask.
Peter Branson, former English teacher, higher and further education lecturer and creative writing tutor, is a poet, songwriter & singer whose poetry has been published widely. His Red Hill, Selected Poems (2013) and Hawk Rising (2016) were published by Lapwing (Belfast). He has won prizes & been placed in a number of competitions over recent years, including a ‘highly commended’ in the ‘Petra Kenny International’, first prizes in the ‘Grace Dieu’ & the ‘Envoi International’ & a special commendation in the Wigtown. He was shortlisted for a recent Poetry Business Pamphlet and Collection competition, was first prize winner in the 2019/21 Sentinel Poetry Book Competition (Marrowbones – published July 2021) and won first prize in the Littoral Poetry Book Competition 2020/21 (The Clear Daylight – pub. April 2021).
Matt Bryden
You used to wind yourself in curtain turning taut,
look down at your feet, pirouette
as the fabric hugged you in.
James Coghill
the undershrub, shored up,
stakes its waspish claim,
its hereabouts
Peter Bickerton
The gull
on the meadow
taps her little yellow feet
like a shovel-snouted lizard
dancing on a floor of lava
Lydia Harris
ask this place
ask the silver day
the steady horizon
the self-heal the buttercup
the hard fern in the ditch
ask the bee and the tormentil
Seán Street
Dogs in spring park light
pulled by intent wet noses
through luminous grass
Becky Cherriman
What does it wake me to
as sky is hearthed by morning
and my home warms slow?
Mark Carson
he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.
Elizabeth Worthen
This is how (I like to think) it begins:
night-time, August, the Devon cottage, where
the darkness is so complete . . .
Elly Katz
When naked with myself, I feel where a right elbow isn’t, then is. I let my left palm guide me through the exhibition of my body.