Today’s choice
Previous poems
Abigail Ottley
She remembers the house of her husband
He’s not, as they said he is: loathsome, most monstrous. He has a strange and sinister beauty. His eyes are obsidian, shot through with gold, a ruby burning in each. A noble brow, and magnificent cheekbones. You can imagine them chiselled in marble: sharp and high, clean as my kitchen, glinting with the promise of new knives. He calls me his queen but, wherever I go, his panopticon gaze is upon me. I can feel his attention on my naked shoulder: his gaze sears my flesh like a brand. We hardly ever go out. He prefers to stay home. He isn’t popular at parties. I have thought sometimes a little soiree might be pleasant; but how would that even be possible? He emanates a strangeness that people recoil from; they can’t bring themselves to utter his name. He has many brave epithets: The Hospitable One, The Receiver, The Host of Many Guests. Some more foolhardy souls, those with not much left to lose, like to call him The Rat in the Hat. But I don’t think he cares much what others might think. He regards most people with indifference. I am the exception, perhaps. He loves me to distraction, or says he does, at least. The truth is I don’t think he knows what love is – and I don’t think he likes me at all. He sits day brooding in his study in those ridiculous dark glasses while his capos and henchmen do business. He is pitiless. The poets were right about that, though I’ll admit he has a soft spot for the dog.
Abigail Ottley is a poet and writer who is based in the far west of Cornwall. She is a member of the all-female Mor poets Collective. Find her on Instagram at: https://www.instagram.com/abigail_elizabeth_ottley/
Steph Morris
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently,
Eryn McDonald
It is here that the day breaks apart
Like ice on frustrated frozen pond
Here in the grounds of Ashton Court
I wish to bury myself amongst the green
Gordan Struić
Outside,
the city slides by,
blurred lines
of glass and rain.
Stephen Keeler
The days were huge and kind
and sometimes after school
we’d buy a bag of broken biscuits
for the long walk home
across the heavy heat of afternoon
on lucky days she wouldn’t take
the pennies offered up in supplication
Joseph Blythe
I swear I felt the swirly patterned paper
rip from the walls of my childhood bedroom.
It was the same stained cream shade as my skin –
pockmarked, cut and scabbed, dry and peeling…..
Denise Bundred
Shadowed boats bereft of sail
absorb the surge and slap
constrained by a blue-grey chink
of mooring chains.
Rahma O. Jimoh
A bird skirts across the fence
& I rush to the window
to behold its flapping wings—
It’s been ages
since I last saw a bird.
Samuel A. Adeyemi
I can already hear the chorus of my tribe.
They want the ancient blade,
the guillotine that hovered
above my head like a halo of death.
Mofiyinfoluwa O.
when you
know that your time with someone has almost run out, that is what you do. you look for
tiny things buried in the sand so that you do not have to look at the huge broken thing
standing between you both.