Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gwen Sayers
Her Funeral
Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.
I wade with the others
through the mud clench,
she’s beyond now, until
the weight of her.
My eyes hide behind
dark. Damp pallbearers
lower her. When clods
fall, I smell Noir de Noir.
Once she’s below, skies
peel off grey sheets,
expose ancient wounds
covered by frayed crepe.
Carmine seeps above
sallow light, clotted cream
and kisses. Black wings
spread, fly to the next.
Gwen Sayers was a joint winner in Fool for Poetry Chapbook Competition. Her chapbook, Ghost Sojourn, is a Poetry Book Society Choice (2024). She is a 2025 SFPA Rhysling Award Finalist, and winner of the Magma Poetry Competition.
Holly Magill
. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .
Dave Simmons
My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.
Paul Fenn
To impress you, I became
a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon
marching down the page.
Ruth Aylett
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
Chris Campbell
The View From This Hospital Window
I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.
Patrick Deeley
He sees a stainless-steel spoon
burned off at the base,
a bunch of wild flowers dropped,
Eliot North
Explaining to my little man
about proportion,
he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy
with thousands of fingers.
Jeanette Burton
What is this, a family outing?
Yes, dad, that’s exactly what this is, I want to say to him
as I open the car door, climb into the front seat,
remembering those marvellous trips to the tip at Loscoe.
CS Crowe
Lines He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the...