Today’s choice
Previous poems
Day Six of ‘Wonder’ for NPD: Martin McKenna, Emma Dandy
Prolonged Panic Attack II
it’s the end of the world and i choose
bottom shelf body wash, top shelf
shampoo. almost all the way over the
edge, i choose brand name bleach, leave
washing powder to the next life. it’s
the end of the world and i lean against
one of the sail sculptures city centre.
foot up, i feel how solid its casing.
i see one bus off, tinnitus. vision blurs
particularly bad the ride up another.
arm around solid paper shopping bag,
i need this water flow wash my hair,
need these last cigarettes to end the world,
their smoke opening old scars this guitar.
Martin McKenna
Do you know how your mum and dad met?
after How to be Adopted’s ‘Questions not to ask an adopted person’
A: I watch a greater spotted woodpecker strip the bark from the old apple tree in the middle
of my garden.
B: He jack-hammers into the trunk, searching for beetle larvae.
C: Dendrocopos major’s tongue is so long he stores it wrapped around his shock-absorbing
skull.
D: He flies to the drainpipe to knock out his territorial beat, and the plastic shatters.
Emma Dandy explores the fragmentation of identity after trauma as experienced by adoptees. She has been widely published in journals and anthologies including The Ekphrastic Review, Atrium and The Honest Ulsterman. Emma won Fish Publishing’s Haiku Prize 2026. Instagram: @emmadandypoetry
Paula R. Hilton
When the genie appears, I’m in a frivolous
mood. First request? My mom’s apple pie.
Alice Huntley
slack in a bag from the freezer aisle
shaken out like shrunken grey memes
I long for the podding of beans
Rhonda Melanson
The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.
Clive Donovan
I go to the top of the risen hill,
above the trees, beyond the grass,
where only hard ground lives
Gary Akroyde
We searched for it
through the tarmac in every rain-bruised sky
in dark Pennine shadows where great mills
spewed out ringlets of ghost-grey fog
Nathan Curnow
I like to think it’s a story about himself and Einstein
floating in zero gravity, Albert sailing through the capsule
toward his drifting pipe, Brian playing We Will Rock You—
Paul Short
Sleep.
Elusive as lucid dreams.
Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange,
spiderweb scarlet &
thatch-brown
Ash Bowden
Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.
Mallika Bhaumik
This is not a frilly, mushy love letter
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it,