Today’s choice

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Francis de Lima

 

 

 

Portrait

 

Oh London. U useless city. Map to
                                                                        nowhere land. Tight stretch 
                                                                        open eye. The underground metal. 

The night tube. The railway. Smog
Over coaltrip. The presence
                                                                          Of machine upon machine. U
behemoth. Sea urchin. Fricative city.
                                                                           And yet. Nightlamp burning into
                                                                           the chippy down and out. Art in 

the stuck gum on the Millenium. 

                                                                           And Wren
                                                                           turned St Pauls upside down to count 
                                                                           a broken weightline

distance into the future. Momentum scream. 
A liars’ cant. Tragedy at play. But so vast

                                                                           Life in the kingdom. Test tube. Raucous. 

Speakers in the round. Wringing poems.
Irish epiphany. Cream of glass. 
                                                                           Capable of cracking. Capable.
                                                                           Brittle plant. Chewing. 
                                                                           Something growing. On Primrose
Hill.

The heath. Episodes and vignettes. 
Untouchable happiness. Insulated time. 

 

 

Francis de Lima is a Finnish-Brazilian poet living in London, where they recently completed their MA in Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway. Many of their poems can be found in literature magazines and some have even been nominated for an award or two.

Lesley Burt

There’s a house in a suburb of between-the-wars pebble-dash & bay windows, where the soundtrack is sighs, tuts & bellows, the clash of plates & jangle of cutlery.

Gemma Blakeley

My Dad Complains That The Hedges Are Overgrown

and the word bemuses me, implying as it does
the concept of excess in what can only be good.

Nick Cooke

Molluscous receivers, would that you could
turn your talents inwards, and pick up
all that goes on in the cerebral swamp . . .

Siân Bentham

She doesn’t know what she is doing.
She chops and boils, snacks and sneezes, sits.
Classical radio plays, imbuing
the scene with comic dignity and wit.