Today’s choice
Previous poems
Kay Feneley
Office Workers Against Sewage
Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others
Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated
Some days on the shore silence as we change
snuggle mugs, pass biscuits around
Tuesday 15.01- a sewage overflow has activated
Some days the choppiness is fun
we bounce along together
Wednesday 11:17 – a sewage overflow has activated
These days should make me buoyant
give purpose, community, bread
Thursday 17.47 – a sewage overflow has activated
Some days the mist disguises, I float
undisturbed by particulates of shit
Friday 12:52 – a sewage overflow has activated
Some days the smell lingers, stomach turns
mid-morning start to shiver
Sunday 23.59 – a sewage overflow has activated
Some days I dread going in
These days are more than others
Kay Feneley lives and writes in London, mostly as a civil servant but also poetry making sense of life as a disabled, neurodiverse woman. She was shortlisted in the Bridport Poetry Prize and publication includes Black Iris and Wildfire Words.
George Sandifer-Smith
Spring 1833 – mists folding their sheets in the fields.
Isaac Roberts feels the turned earth, his father’s
farm an island in the hurtling Milky Way –
Sharon Phillips
Wet tarmac blinks red and gold,
names shine outside the Gaumont.
‘Stop dreaming, you’ll get lost.’
Bill Greenwell
Before the first turn of the key, before
adjusting the mirror, before releasing the handbrake even,
Dad said: there are two things you need to know.
Matt Gilbert
Alive, but not exactly,
as it fills the frame, flicker-lit
by lightning. . .
Rebecca Gethin
This morning
the room is bright with snowlight
and everything seems illuminated differently.
Lorraine Carey
Every Sunday he insists on beef
from Boggs’s butchers, a forty minute drive
away.
Gabriel Moreno
It’s hard to say what he did, my father.
His shoulders portaged crates,
he captained boats in the night,
chocolate eggs would appear
which smelt of ChefChaouen.
Henry Wilkinson
I rolled an orange across daybreak;
I waited for the moon to ripen.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, we bring you KB Ballentine, J.S. Watts and Terry Dyson
as wind whispers your name.
Summer’s breaking down and a starker calling comes –
leaves saturated with sunset before surrendering.