Today’s choice

Previous poems

Mark A. Hill

 

 

 

Marseilles Road

-She calls him up-

She wills his brush in colour,
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas,
She uses a dark outline and replaces
his image with cholic fumes.

-He doesn’t pick up-

He wants to place her in
two horizontal bands
of dense tormented paint,
she passes before him in ochre framed sunglasses.
On paper, she is studious, perfect and elegant.
He scratches a beach with rocks,
fishing nets, a silver storm,
a full blue light in retreat,
which devours her opaque form.

-She wants to despise him for how he makes her feel. She calls again-

She draws a cemetery behind the beach
and he reflects that this is not what
he wants from this painting,
she must be more attentive to nature,
the changeability of the skies.

-This time he picks up and they speak long and full-

His last picture is lighter,
rendering her clearer.
The vertical lights reduce her throat
to a simple furrow,
echoing thin blue lines in the sky.
Space is flattened like in the Japanese prints
Monet loved so well.
The boats are these small delicate brush strokes,
he will use to push her off to sea.

-he asks that they might learn colour together,
she replies she cannot, and that he must respect form-

 

Mark A. Hill is a poet who has lived in Cagliari, Italy for 33 years. He has been published in several literary journals and magazines. His debut poetry collection Death and the insatiable was published by Hidden Hand Press in September 2025.

Oz Hardwick

The ghost of my mother knows the names of everything, but
she can’t tell me, because ghosts, whatever you have heard
to the contrary, can’t speak.

Warren Mortimer

& you’ll understand if i leave open this theatre of air
not as the invite for another loss
but to honour their world unwilling to collapse

Jena Woodhouse

Language reinvents itself,
coruscates in signs on walls;
falls silent, mute as clay and stone
on tablets that enshrine its form.

Jenny Hockey

That’s when she went to ground,
after she disobeyed, painted her plastic tea set
red, hidden away in the playhouse they built
down where bindweed draped