Today’s choice
Previous poems
Hilary Thompson
Hot Cross Buns
Ambling up North Street
on a Saturday afternoon
at the end of a long Winter,
I am stopped by two women,
elderly, smiling eyes and mouths,
lip-sticked, offering an open pack
of hot cross buns from the NISA shop
down the road. The shorter of the two
with red hair folded back behind her head
says: would you like a hot cross bun, dear?
I look, smile back at the kind offer and say:
thank you but I’m gluten free.
She looks me straight in the eye, holds me there
for a long moment and says: Jesus still loves you, dear.
Thank you, I say, still smiling.
Hilary Thompson writes poetry as an everyday occupation.
Glenn Hubbard
The cart stands axle deep in seething water.
The blade emerges from the foam, its load
bituminous and black . . .
Kushal Poddar
The child resurfaces.
The morning has no colour yet.
Philip Rösel Baker
He allows the sound to pour
through invisible canals inside his body,
outpacing dull analysis,
quickening cells, illuminating mind,
like blinds lit from within.
LGBT Feature with Elizabeth Gibson, Jay Whittaker and Rob Miles
Syncing
Butch elegy
If he asked about the grave
LGBT Feature with Jaime Lock and Simon Maddrell
Transmasculine kiss
To The Committee on Homosexual Offences
LGBT Feature with Helen A Porter, Kat Dixon and Milla van der Have
i told her she had plum cheeks
(poly)grammatical gymnastics
girl wild moon
LGBT Feature with Godelieve de Bree, Casey Garfield and Anna Maughan
buffoon
untitled exhale
To My Child
Sophie Kearing
sometimes i miss
those carefree days
of driving around
listening to crucial conflict…
Alison Jones
Each year I am looking for signs,
a white pebble, a dropped feather,
shy shadow’s shape, red thread burning…