Today’s choice
Previous poems
Paul Bavister
Jigsaw
A family photo, blown up and chopped
into a thousand pieces then tipped
on the table. We found our eyes first,
as they swirled through fragments
of black jumper, dark pine trees
and an orange sunset sky.
The jigsaw became a winter tradition,
and as we got older, the worn pieces
got harder to push together.
Sometimes we’d panic
that one was lost, but then find it
still rattling in the box.
When a side was completed
or a face stared back at us,
we’d nod in recognition.
We were always silent
as we put us all back together
in the winter sunlight.
Paul Bavister has published three volumes of poetry, including The Prawn Season (Two Rivers Press). His work has appeared in numerous magazines.
Dmitry Blizniuk for World Poetry Day
God in his worn, greasy jeans like a car mechanic
is lighting a new life from an old one.
Jeff Skinner
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Annabelle Markwick-Staff
I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.
Charles G. Lauder
beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated encrusted enigmatic cold
Arlo Kean
we are at a cafe just round
the corner from hampstead
heath & sipping berry sunrise
Paul Stephenson
Goya was an octopus that smelt of funerals on Mondays.
Sundays, the scent of getting ready.
Jessica Mookherjee for International Women’s Day
The pain comes plucked from a field
in a garland of sunlight.
Jenny Pagdin for International Women’s Day
After many moons
I am perhaps readying to speak.
Kate Noakes for International Women’s Day
Each year in March, on the eighth day,
the one we’re allowed to call ours,
slowly, Jess reads our names . . .