Today’s choice
Previous poems
Myra Schneider
Cloud
Forget the invisible network of servers which stores
and manages or mismanages data in the unending sky
far above our heads, and ignore the shroud-grey layers
louring today – they seem to have sucked all the colour
out of this world which struggles every day to cope
with disasters. Slow down and try to immerse yourself
in the whiteness above the distant rows of houses,
spread your arms and let them rise above your head.
Think of them as dancing clouds and lightness will fill you,
ease your aching body. On evenings when scarlet
floods inky layers of sky, watch the incandescent globe
above the viaduct in the park as it sinks into darkness.
Now imagine clouds sucking in water vapour until heavy
as milky udders, they release rain that cleanses the air
and seeps into the over-dry ground beneath it.
The moisture will soften clods, feed worms, sticklebacks,
beetles, all the creatures living below the surface.
Go into your drenched garden, breathe in the sweet air
and think of Wordsworth wandering lonely as a cloud
through field after sodden field. Then close your eyes,
picture the moment he caught sight of the daffodils.
Myra Schneider’s most recent collection is Believing in the Planet, (Poetry Space 2024). Her other publications include fiction for children and teenagers, books about personal writing, in particular Writing My Way Through Cancer and Writing Your Self (with John Killick). She has had 14 full collections of poetry published and her work has been broadcast on Radio BBC4 and BBC3. She was consultant to the Second Light Network for women poets during its 25 years and frequently wrote reviews for its magazine Artemis. An in-depth interview about her poetry and books appeared in Acumen in September (2025). Her work has been widely published in printed and online poetry magazines, also occasionally in newspapers. She has finalized a new collection The Disappearing which is due late in 2026 from Poetry Space. She has co-edited anthologies of poetry by women poets and she has been a poetry tutor for many years.
Note: Dancing clouds is a Tai Chi/Gigong exercise
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
Angeliki Ampelogianni
on marble tiles bird like
I am a pin measuring drops in the toilet bowl