Today’s choice

Previous poems

Julian Dobson

 
 
 
The city asleep

Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain

is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging — but rain

twists senses, fractures distance, unzips
fences, chimneys, scaffolding. Everything but rain

rippled, colours drained: silhouetted pines,
apple trees in a park, a glowing cigarette butt. Rain

creeps in, up, around, so it never feels like drowning,
it’s sleepier. You hardly flinch from its cling. But rain’s

a key to endless life, infinities of drenching.
The first thrush knifes the dawn, its song

        nothing but rain.

 
 
Julian Dobson has poems in a wide range of journals, including The Rialto, Stand, Acumen and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Julian lives in Sheffield and can be found on Bluesky at @juliandobson.bsky.social

Zoe Davis

I joined a secret society
advertised in the back pages of a magazine.
I forget which, but I found it nestled
in 8pt font and fancy border
between time share apartments in Lanzarote
and the commemorative plates.

Callan Waldron-Hall

long weekend ← or ← perhaps ↑ summer holiday →
from the back of someone’s car boot ↑ the strange →
sweated plastic all pink and blue and folded →

Pat Edwards

Watching the ‘Strictly’ Results Show on a Sunday night
 
Knowing what we know about the pain of the world,
who wins and who loses might feel like a betrayal.

Jean Atkin

Wear a coat, you’ll pass through light rain at the wood-edge
under Helmeth. Sing loudly, so the snakes can hear you.