Today’s choice

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Francis de Lima

 

 

 

Portrait

 

Oh London. U useless city. Map to
                                                                        nowhere land. Tight stretch 
                                                                        open eye. The underground metal. 

The night tube. The railway. Smog
Over coaltrip. The presence
                                                                          Of machine upon machine. U
behemoth. Sea urchin. Fricative city.
                                                                           And yet. Nightlamp burning into
                                                                           the chippy down and out. Art in 

the stuck gum on the Millenium. 

                                                                           And Wren
                                                                           turned St Pauls upside down to count 
                                                                           a broken weightline

distance into the future. Momentum scream. 
A liars’ cant. Tragedy at play. But so vast

                                                                           Life in the kingdom. Test tube. Raucous. 

Speakers in the round. Wringing poems.
Irish epiphany. Cream of glass. 
                                                                           Capable of cracking. Capable.
                                                                           Brittle plant. Chewing. 
                                                                           Something growing. On Primrose
Hill.

The heath. Episodes and vignettes. 
Untouchable happiness. Insulated time. 

 

 

Francis de Lima is a Finnish-Brazilian poet living in London, where they recently completed their MA in Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway. Many of their poems can be found in literature magazines and some have even been nominated for an award or two.

Tim Dwyer

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The sea happens to me today

not because I’m the woman in the bakers
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or the peaches              still hard in the bowl

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Sunlight saunters in long, thin wires through the fallow field
of my bedroom. You approach, a migrating heron
in a runny yolk collar and suntanned shorts, a white-light emissary
of hope. . .

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I’m waiting for news I don’t want to talk about
and scrolling through old photos to escape.
After some swipes, I see you walking away.

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We cannot update you yet, other than to say we are caught
in a doldrums between stations and that your father can wait
as he has been waiting these past two years . . .