Today’s choice
Previous poems
Roz Doe
28th April 2015
The night before,
I paced London’s streets
sparkling and fizzing with ideas
the pills used to dull and destroy.
I felt awake, alive.
Thoughts popped like fireworks,
I couldn’t sleep for flashes and
Bang! I solved a Pure Maths problem so powerful
I could singlehandedly ruin the banks –
just like that.
You remember, that’s why MI5 were watching me,
trying to kill me?
My feet walked me to Blackfriars
as the darkness disappeared.
Glass buildings glared back orange dawn,
I needed to go. I got a train out of the city
for a day, a week, who knows?
You know I never liked to plan ahead.
*
In Brighton, sea stretches blue
expanding the space in my head,
you get that, don’t you?
I can breathe again, doze on pebbles.
Check into the Royal Albion,
safe. From my room
white cliffs shine bright calling me out.
I walk and walk and walk
past cars, shops and Marina until
I reach the grassy clifftop path,
find quiet. Lift the flimsy wire,
crawl through to the edge
as close to the sea below as I can be.
Looking down,
waves rush towards and rush away
like my breaths in and out.
Gulls float, clouds turn pink in the sky.
I reach out to hold
the sea, sky, birds.
Roz Doe has poems in South Bank Poetry magazine, The Lincoln Review, forthcoming in DreamCatcher magazine and in various anthologies. She was runner up in the 2024 Freedom from Torture poetry competition. Her first poetry collection, Welcoming Blue Robins was published by Palewell Press in 2024.
Oz Hardwick
The ghost of my mother knows the names of everything, but
she can’t tell me, because ghosts, whatever you have heard
to the contrary, can’t speak.
McLord Selasi
I walk the flat barefoot,
step over old dreams
still curled like cats
in the corners.
Warren Mortimer
& you’ll understand if i leave open this theatre of air
not as the invite for another loss
but to honour their world unwilling to collapse
Jena Woodhouse
Language reinvents itself,
coruscates in signs on walls;
falls silent, mute as clay and stone
on tablets that enshrine its form.
Martin Rieser
The river is an old demon
& my heart is an infirm creature
The river is sure of its way
& my heart is capable of lies.
Sreeja Naskar
glass-tooth morning.
salt mouth.
i left the stove on just to feel wanted.
Gordan Struić
Still —
I kept
writing.
Sometimes
just:
“Hi.”
Margaret Poynor-Clark
Inside my bedroom I take a fresh blade
pull off my jumper, examine the ladder
in front of the mirror cut through my laces
rung by rung
Jenny Hockey
That’s when she went to ground,
after she disobeyed, painted her plastic tea set
red, hidden away in the playhouse they built
down where bindweed draped