Today’s choice
Previous poems
Hannah Coyle
Watching my grandmother view ‘The Song of the Lark’ ‘89/‘26: a Snám Suad
Peach skin wrists,
Watch persists
Her through time
Suffusing.
Scythe in hand,
Walk the land-
Heart commands
Amusing.
Lark in song
Sings along,
Mind made of
Believing.
Setting sun,
Not rising one,
Times hands hung
Deceiving.
Watch face cracked,
Ghosts give fact
To the mind
Diminished.
Full moon’s light,
Worse the blight,
Still her plight
Unfinished:
In her dreams,
Bird song schemes;
She’s back in Chicago.
What is true
Her time’s through,
Too far to
Chicago.
Hannah Coyle is an Irish poet, poetic artist, and creative journalist, based in Wales whose work focuses on challenging institutions and oppressive structures. Her recent work has featured familial, cultural and political voices from the North of Ireland, from which she draws most of her inspiration. Coyle graduation from Cardiff University with a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing in 2025 and has since started her own creative journalism platform to elevate other creatives called The Heron Took Flight.
Betty Doyle
Both cast out to sea, I wonder –
did your ashes ever meet?
It was under the same sun setting,
although years and miles apart.
Mark Rutter
when the people are gone
and the wooden house
has been burned down
to recover its nails
Gráinne Daly
Not for me the tomb of Irish soil.
Put me on a plane
and let me make one last journey
before my final departure.
Rebecca Cohen
If you don’t believe in God, my friend says,
why don’t you eat pork?
Rhian Thomas
On my phone a newsreel shows a car boot lifting
just above the flood. Tail lights like eyes
caught in a comic gasp, while its body, like the carriageway,
lies under sixty million litres of last night’s rain.
Sue Norton
Today I tipped the packet of coffee
into the cafetiere instead of the tin.
Caught myself in time, didn’t pour water in.
Steph Morris
Who’s idea was it? I think his, as I’d started
wearing everything from Oxfam. Among my finds
collarless shirts.
Kathy Pimlott
Going down to do lights and curtains to fool any burglars Twilight: one after another security lights click on illuminating pathways, steps, empty front lawns, triggered by my benign progress, then, disappointed, click off. The sky is a layer cake...
Sharon Black
My thoughts are skittish,
peck at whatever they find.
I flick each whitewash flake
into the bin. Shadows on the walls