Today’s choice
Previous poems
Rebecca Cohen
Why don’t you eat pork?
If you don’t believe in God, my friend says,
why don’t you eat pork?
I have no answer for her. I have only
the blue-tacked mezuzah stuck to the doorway of my bedroom,
the dried wax still wedged in stubborn clots
on each branch of a bronze menorah,
the framed parsha, hooked onto a bent nail
crowding the far wall of my living room.
I have only the memory of a six-year-old
who sat on the floor at Ohel Leah
and hummed along to the davening,
cradling a wooden cat in her lap.
Her braided hair was longer than mine, her eyes wider.
But my mother always says, if she squints,
we share the same smile.
Rebecca Cohen is a poet based in London. Her work has appeared in West Branch, Across the Margin, and The Lincoln Review and she received her MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London.
Jan Swann
You seem very far from home
and who would after all choose a grit pocked
pavement to languish on
Gwen Sayers
Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.
Dave Wynne-Jones
And did she break your heart?
A woman asks, perhaps imagining
A fallen chalice . . .
Simon Maddrell
Four years in Knockaloe was a living
inspiration for inventor Joseph Pilates.
Tom Kelly
At thirteen I am competing with James Joyce,
encouraging pain, at the very least discomfort.
Nick McGaughey
And here you are slid from the rain
under my door, “s” -ing along the cool
checks in the hallway.
Poetry from UEA MA Scholars 2024/2025: Grace Phillips and On Zi Rui
You bought peppermint and bubbles,
monologued in the corner.
You barely looked at me twice.
– Grace Phillips
I looked at the neon lights
Gazing, I asked myself :
“What am I sourcing for now that I am without you ?”
– On Zi Rui
Jade Prince
What is here for us but these walls and the
pearls of sweet yearning behind them
Esha Volvoikar
The earth cracks and we are left
with the same shared moon.
She peers through my lattice window
and hides behind your city’s smoke.
