Today’s choice
Previous poems
Stephen Keeler
How to get here
Among the joys of love was when we got
our first apartment on a boulevard
above the trams and tree-tops and the wires
that cut the street like tangram puzzles and
our friends would come with olives and cheap wine
they found the place by following the maps
I drew in coloured inks with metro stops
hand-lettered street names and my drawing of
the dappled fountain they must pass to find
us and I drew these maps for you so that
you’d find me too I having been brought up
on maps and globes and paths marked out for on
and off the beaten track the map of you
the glorious map of you that even now
I could bring back in inks from memory
indelible as tram-lines and the paths
that crossed the park the dogs on leads the girls
with prams the foreign grass marked out with signs.
Stephen Keeler’s award-winning poetry is widely published in journals, magazines, anthologies and online. His small collection ‘They Spoke No English’ is published by Nine Pens Press and his (prose) memoir, ’50 Words for Love in Swedish’, won the 2022/23 People’s Book Prize. He was long-listed in this year’s National Poetry Competition and has edited anthologies for, among others, Candlestick Press. Substack @stephenkeelerwriter
Kate Bonfield
Coming home to days of heat
trapped beyond the door, to time skewed
by time away, the house bigger and
smaller than before.
Precious Ejim
I don’t know why I look to my mother
for her shadow never stays.
Jackson
I want to tell my mother,
I made a successful loaf
in the bread machine you didn’t know
you were leaving me
Kath Mckay
How to become two-dimensional
Die. You’re soon reduced to a photograph.
Lugubrious Co-op undertakers will zip you in a bag
and keep you cold . . .
Cindy Botha
atlas bear
black-footed ferret
cape lion
Jasmine Gibbs
This morning – Blackstar,
Bowie, those jazz swan songs
sputtering from the CD player,
wild trumpets that convulse
through negative space
Jane Pearn
the pool holds my face
my breath
ripples the water
Robin Lindsay Wilson
The single crimson rose
she wears in her lapel,
to test his imperfections,
draws him into detail
Ian Hickey
When the half-light drops below the horizon
the birth of darkness comes