Today’s choice
Previous poems
T N Kennedy
Forever Spring
inside the apiary it is always spring
human beings and honey bees cohabiting
pursuing life everlasting for our species
which is the universe opening its eyes
50 per cent humidity 21 degrees celsius
simulated sunlight cold and bone white
substitute pollen surrogate nectar
tricks to tempt the bees to linger
and keep the honey flowing the keepers
do not live there but wish to farm
those tiny furred workers mining
for a different kind of gold a perpetual
nourishment machine some kind
of twenty-first century alchemy
T N Kennedy is a Londoner of Irish heritage who writes poetry, fiction and songs. In 2025, her written work appeared in The Amphibian and Ink Sweat & Tears. She is currently working on a debut poetry collection and a novel. She blogs at apostilian.com
On the first day of Christmas, we bring you Hannah Linden, John White and Stephen Keeler
. . . Now the villages is
en fête: dressed for a party in the dark,
across the fields, along uneven paths . . .
Anna Chorlton
She curled emerald
tights about the core of
an oak
slumbering with thick bare
limbs.
John Greening
On Stage in a home-made model theatre, c.1967 Glued to your block, in paint and ink you wait for Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life to stop. Smell of hardboard and hot bakelite. The lino curtain’s ready to go up. At which, the straightened coat hanger is shoved and on you...
Anna Bowles
Nothing bad can happen on a plane.
Engine fires, earache, hijackers; but no new grief.
Kirsty Fox
Winged Kirsty Fox is a writer and artist specialising in ecopoetics. She writes lyric essays and poetry, and has had work published by Apricot Press, Arachne Press, and Streetcake Magazine. She has a Masters in Creative Writing and is currently studying...
Jason Ryberg
Sometimes I’d swear that
the ancient box fan I’ve hauled
around with me for
years is a receiver for
the conversations of ghosts
Peter Wallis
Dead in a chest,
are folded matinee jackets, bonnets, bootees and mitts.
Tissue sighs like the sea at Lowestoft,
always Third week in August
Amanda Bell
We clipped a window through the currant, sat on folding chairs with keep-cups,
wrapped in blankets as we yelled through the prescribed two-metre gap.
Then took to mending – darning socks and patching favourite denims
Anna Maughan
Illness had left me
brittle as frost, icicle-thin
swaddled in borrowed warmth