Today’s choice
Previous poems
Bel Wallace
My dad is thinking geometrically,
eyes closed; he waves his arms
to describe how he can transform
a circle into a square.
Did you know
a line has only one dimension?
That means it takes up no space.
Perhaps trigonometry can save us.
You need two fixed points for triangulation.
We have none.
There’s a square, he says, which needs
to be a circle.
And then he speaks of a continuous plane
perforated by endless stars
Bel Wallace practises yoga and likes very long walks. It was on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela that she found a story which wanted to be told. She’s still working on that, but poetry was her first love and plenty of other stories and poems have emerged along the way.
Andy Hoaen
On flat plains of low juniper scrub
monolithic, massive remnants of ice
dwarf the land, draws the herds: mammoth, deer, horse
Gordon Vells
Not the boring twin.
Not even benign.
This is a proper island:
rocks, foghorn, lighthouse.
Jacob Burgess Rollo
Jacob Burgess Rollo is a poet and prose writer based in Dorset, his work is featured in From the Lighthouse and Avant Cardigan, a zine he founded with friends. He has an English Literature BA from Durham and is going on to study for a master's in...
Dilys Wyndham Thomas
we walk through the exhibition hall lost
amongst water-logged bones, a sunk haul lost
Ruth Lexton
It is late at night and the kettle is boiling,
a quire of steam fanning out in the white kitchen
you are holding me as if I were your girl again
Stewart Carswell
It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath.
Chris Kinsey
Hey cat, you’re doing really well,
three fields stalked and only one to go.
Holly Magill
. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .
Dave Simmons
My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.