Today’s choice
Previous poems
Abraham Aondoana
Inheritance of Smoke
We did not inherit land,
only remnants of fields they burned—
black fields scorched before we understood
what it meant to sow.
Fathers left us silence:
not of cruelty, but some shattering fear.
Growing up, we learned
to decipher flames as letters.
In family portraits, smoke curls,
ghosting over faces for whom
no one could name.
Discussing lineage,
we speak in burnt edges and shattered verses,
not gold— our legacy is ash—
a handful of heat passed down
from gnarled palm to trembling wrist.
A torch fashioned to sear
before it illumined the path.
Abraham Aondoana is a poet, novelist and scriptwriter. He holds a degree in law. He was recently longlisted for the Renard Poetry Press 2025. He enjoys reading and writing.
Clare Morris
Necessity, that scold’s bridle, held her humble and mean,
So that she no longer spoke, just looked –
Her world reduced to a search for special offers . . .
Alison Jones
Mrs Norris had thought ascension
would be whirligig rides in bright violet rays,
as the training books all implied.
Sandra Noel
The tide unpleats from her godet,
zig-zags in running stitch
round the base of the côtil.
Matthew Caley
supposedly: if I am to render
‘a man’ then
this ‘man’ must I guess resemble me‹›
Jenny Robb
The nun in charge of the children is thin, her back straight as punishment.
Ken Evans
You try doing star-jumps, steps,
or squats, in knee-high wellies.
Joe Williams
I was born in a town of shadows.
Anne Symons
She was only a little woman
five feet nothing in nylon stockings.
‘If I stood sideways they’d mark me absent.’
Ben
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges.