Today’s choice
Previous poems
Clara-Læïla Laudette
The purpose
I’m six days late and this is known
as a delinquent period.
We’re amused by this
if nothing else.
The first thing you do
after I say pregnancy out loud
is sit on the loo and search
sensory deprivation tank London.
I see you typing as I brush my teeth.
You find one in Angel
three sessions for £90
which seems like a good deal;
tell me about the tonne of salt
guaranteeing buoyancy
the music they play at first
the lid they shut over you
then silence
and I am very touched
by the slim pellucid fear
folding and unfolding
in the space behind your neck.
I spit, say I’ll come too
and you say that would
defeat the purpose
Clara-Læïla Laudette is a writer, facilitator and journalist. She won Magma’s Judge’s Prize, placed third in the Poetry London Prize, and has been shortlisted for the Oxford Poetry Prize, Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, and longlisted for the National Poetry Competition. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Poetry Review, Propel, Beloit Poetry Journal, fourteen poems and Wet Grain, among others.
Jennifer A. McGowan
You have buried your mother and put
a memorial bench on a high hillside where
the wind blows sunsets straight through
and it’s always better to wear something warm.
Matt Bryden
You used to wind yourself in curtain turning taut,
look down at your feet, pirouette
as the fabric hugged you in.
James Coghill
the undershrub, shored up,
stakes its waspish claim,
its hereabouts
Peter Bickerton
The gull
on the meadow
taps her little yellow feet
like a shovel-snouted lizard
dancing on a floor of lava
Lydia Harris
ask this place
ask the silver day
the steady horizon
the self-heal the buttercup
the hard fern in the ditch
ask the bee and the tormentil
Seán Street
Dogs in spring park light
pulled by intent wet noses
through luminous grass
Becky Cherriman
What does it wake me to
as sky is hearthed by morning
and my home warms slow?
Mark Carson
he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.
Elizabeth Worthen
This is how (I like to think) it begins:
night-time, August, the Devon cottage, where
the darkness is so complete . . .