Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anita Karla Kelly, CE Collins, Clare Painter on International Women’s Day
Eve’s Bite
In the beginning of the end she bit the thing she wasn’t meant to bite.
Apple stuck in her throat, one bite taken, then swallowed whole.
Seeds wait in stomach for sprout, roots climb through veins, branch
pushes through her mouth. White blossom tells tales of what she’s done.
She offers apples out her eyes to any woman hungry for fruit.
And then, branches grow fast, apples everywhere, eyes, face, hair.
Gardener comes home with shears, mutters about order, threatens
lock, key, begs:
he says ‘be good’
‘stay still’ he says
wants her to come to heel like a dog
‘sit’ he says to himself in the kitchen
While she’s outside roots deep in earth
sap strong, trunk bark quickening.
Trees cannot bend in half to sit in a chair made of their own skin.
Anita Karla Kelly is a bi-sexual poet and playwright who writes about sexuality, mental health and motherhood. She has been published by Comma Press, Bath Flash Fiction and Dangerous Women. Highly commended in BBC Audio awards for her writing for radio Red Flags and The Night of the Living Flatpacks with Naked Productions. Her play Buzzing has been shown with Bristol Old Vic and she has worked with Graeae theatre, Theatre Royal Plymouth. Anita has been part of Royal Court Playwrights group and Bristol Old Vic’s Open Circle playwrights group.
Scold’s Bridle
Every day I wake up chewing
A lump that squats on my tongue.
Regolith crunchy, slime sticky –
So round and big it takes pints of water
To choke it down.
All day, my breath stinks loud with it.
And sometimes, sodden crumbs of it
Fall out before I catch them in my palm,
The names of another year’s dead women,
And all the other ones we wade through
That go on and on, ancient as decay –
Ancient as violence. I snort them back to spit them out
With fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
C. E. Collins is a Morris-dancing, shanty-singing English teacher who writes. Her poetry has appeared in Sudo Journal, Not Very Quiet, Frazzled Lit Mag, Seedlings, and Sardine Can Collective, among others. Come for the energy on Instagram @chriswithawitcheye.
Terms of Engagement
After Artemisia Gentileschi’s ‘Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria’ (painted c.1615-17).
That I shall paint as well as any man,
Mix freedoms on my palette while I may.
That life tilts in your favour, not in mine.
That though I’ll be musician, saint or queen
For your commission, you will not forget
That I submitted to the pain required
At law, endured until the task was done.
That I shall suffer you to hold my gaze,
A long reminder from these silent walls.
That though I’ll play your saint and you’ll parade
My name to your fine guests, be in no doubt
That should you merit an accuser, I
Shall stand and paint, unfold your debts in light.
Clare Painter lives in Oxfordshire, speaks fluent Italian and works in publishing with a special interest in copyright. Bluesky: @clarepainter.bsky.social
Jean O’Brien
Winter soil is hard and hoar crusted,
birds peck with blunted beaks,
pushing up are the blind green pods
of what will soon be yellow daffodils,
given light and air.
Jean Atkin
We scoured the parish tip most weeks, when we were kids.
We clambered it in wellies. Ferals, we scavenged
in the debris of the adults’ lives.
Sally Festing
Life lines still arc round the base of each thumb
though the bulk of hand’s muscle mass
Joe Crocker
There was always, of course, the cold
– its freezing pretty fingerprints on our side of the pane.
Julie Sheridan
They married in a chapel of black steel
bars, tethered up their feathers to serve as
stained glass. . .
Maxine Sibihwana
here, water does not run. instead it
sits obediently in old plastic containers
Lesley Curwen
Her feet snagged in a cleverly-placed net
my sister waits for him to untangle her,
to hold her head still between thick fingers . . .
From the Archives: In Memory of Jean Cardy
Denizens Mice live in the London Tube. A train leaves and small pieces of sooty black detach themselves from the sooty black walls and forage for crumbs in the rubbish under the rails that are death to man. You can’t see their feet move. They...
Tina Cole
Mr. Pig modelling his best Sunday suit of farmyard smells,
flees from the cook’s cleaver to find himself a sow.