Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gita Ralleigh, Julian Matthews, Jackie Taylor on Colouring Outside the Lines
Summoning
“Pink is the navy blue of India.”
Diana Vreeland
The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna.
Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth.
Beneath a virginal sky, weren’t we confections?
Pistachio and rosewater, saffron and cardamom,
greyed to drab by conker, navy and wine-bottle.
What we called home was only tarmac, ashes, dim
with tea stains, ink flecked. Candy-stripe days lost
under jalebi light. Slatted blinds slid shut against
Time, always stalking us. Her cape of night, lined
in clouds. When did colour seep from our blood?
Gita Ralleigh is a poet, writer and ex-doctor born to Indian immigrant parents in London. Her books are A Terrible Thing (Bad Betty Press)Siren (Broken Sleep Books) and Empirical (The Braag) She teaches creative writing at Imperial College.
LINES
Colour inside the lines. Line up. Underline. Straight line. Come online. Pickup line. Cross the line. Go offline. Decline. Keep in line. Don’t park on the yellow line. Sign on the dotted line. Meet your bottom line. Bee line. Snort a line. Shots in a line. Line dance. Deadlines. Front line. Firing line. Hook, line and sinker. Toe the line. Tread the fine line. Walk the line. Run lines. Poetic lines. Line breaks. Remember your lines. Fluffed your lines. One-liners. Setup and punchline. Deliver your lines. Fall in line. Crooked lines. Feed them some line. Line their pockets. Hotline. Throw them a line. Ass on the line. Hold the line. Blur the line. Clear the lines. End of the line. There are no lines…
Julian Matthews is a Malaysian poet published in 60 literary journals, anthologies and websites in 17 countries. http://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
paper chromatography
we shared a pipette
as part of the experiment
leaning into electron shudder
shoulder touching shoulder
observing the stutter-steps
of pigment
on white
paper : molecular
array of desire
paths
unstoppable
bleed
Jackie Taylor is a Cornwall-based writer of poetry and short fiction. Her short story collection, Strange Waters, was published by Arachne Press, and she holds an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow.
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.
Ellora Sutton
My heart is breaking, so I’m setting up my new Wonder Oven.
The waft of toxicity as I run it on empty for ten minutes
is a welcome distraction.
Erin Poppy Koronis
Naked feet rush
over cold pebbles,
phone-torches light
our pathway to the sea.
Bob King
The first wristwatch was first worn
in 1810, despite what old turn-it-up
Flintstones episodes might have you
believe.
Brandon Arnold
Alone, I drive along the midnight, winter road. My left hand at the 12 o’clock position of the steering wheel. And I coast. I let out the day’s long breath, which started out today as a sigh.