Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mark A. Hill
Marseilles Road
-She calls him up-
She wills his brush in colour,
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas,
She uses a dark outline and replaces
his image with cholic fumes.
-He doesn’t pick up-
He wants to place her in
two horizontal bands
of dense tormented paint,
she passes before him in ochre framed sunglasses.
On paper, she is studious, perfect and elegant.
He scratches a beach with rocks,
fishing nets, a silver storm,
a full blue light in retreat,
which devours her opaque form.
-She wants to despise him for how he makes her feel. She calls again-
She draws a cemetery behind the beach
and he reflects that this is not what
he wants from this painting,
she must be more attentive to nature,
the changeability of the skies.
-This time he picks up and they speak long and full-
His last picture is lighter,
rendering her clearer.
The vertical lights reduce her throat
to a simple furrow,
echoing thin blue lines in the sky.
Space is flattened like in the Japanese prints
Monet loved so well.
The boats are these small delicate brush strokes,
he will use to push her off to sea.
-he asks that they might learn colour together,
she replies she cannot, and that he must respect form-
Mark A. Hill is a poet who has lived in Cagliari, Italy for 33 years. He has been published in several literary journals and magazines. His debut poetry collection Death and the insatiable was published by Hidden Hand Press in September 2025.
Alicia Byrne Keane
I’ve been reading about ghost apples.
They are a real phenomenon, like how
everyone we can see on the wide street
outside this building is still living,
Gareth Culshaw
I tried to work from a van. Sitting in the passenger
seat listening to a guy whistle. His frown, a cloud
he lost when his mother died. Each wrinkle
Jennie Howitt
Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands.
Matt Bryden
at the cider farm, eight minutes
before handover, we strike on
feeding the donkeys –
Colin Pink
to embrace you is like clasping
a fist full of briars
Simon Williams
What were these fairies called
before we knew of hummingbirds?
Bumblebee moth because of the size?
Reed-nose moth because of the proboscis?
Elizabeth Barton
On Diamond Hill
I didn’t
think of you once
as I climbed
past stunted willows
straggles of gorse
Susan Jane Sims on Mothering Sunday
Matter cannot be created and it cannot be destroyed.
I think of this as I pour the almost white ash from
the green plastic container that came in the post
into the vibrant red metal urn I have ready.
Daniel Sluman
just as the night sky shifts
beyond the minds
of the animals outside
the ceilings
we are pressed beneath change
in aspect & colour