Today’s choice
Previous poems
Michelle Diaz
The Fallen Angel
This is just a woman,
sticking her life back together
after years spent recovering.
But the sky blackens,
everything grows dark and minor.
Unasked for, he appears again.
What instruments does the demon use?
Metal spoons on corrugated iron.
A cacophony of slammed doors.
Which smell does he summon?
Unbreathable rage,
with a hint of sulphur.
What is the essence of the visitation?
All hell let loose in a terraced house.
A loss of compass bearings.
Which God does she call on?
The one she’s always known.
The only one she can depend on.
Will the heavens intercede?
Let’s call it a work in progress.
Michelle Diaz has been published by Poetry Wales, Under the Radar, 14 Magazine and numerous poetry journals. Her debut pamphlet The Dancing Boy was published in 2019 by Against the Grain. Her pamphlet Raising Ghosts was published in 2026 by Atomic Bohemian.
Sylvia Banham
Pigeons have invaded the garden, two then four, then a flock.
They roost in the apple tree to nest, reconnoitre or mate
ignore my sorties to deter them and shit without stint
on patio and herb bed, foul lovely hyssop and thyme.
Daniel Naawenkangua Abukuri
What matters now is the feast of this survival.
The glory of our own light, black light.
Look at us: the deeper the root, the sweeter the juice.
Glory of the blacker berry, split wide open to the sun.
Robert Billinski
the sky met the water where the birds met the fish
the sky met the water where the fish met the birds
the sky met the birds where the water met the fish
Gordon Vells
Impotent in family life and ineffectual at work,
sometimes he would spend a full quarter-hour
just circulating the mini-roundabout on his moped,
dizzy from the power of blocking everyone else.
Patrick Wright
i protest say how when i’m gone i’d like to rest before the choice to return & go through
all this again you sigh as though that’s absurd & endings are just endings we’re mulch
& nothing but endless fucking
L. Haiman
My baby is hungry. Grabs
me with both hands. I am
an apple, apparently no will.
Francis de Lima
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
Miriam Swales
When I was 12, I knew the weight of a human head.
8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (a bit of dark comedy).
It grew from there. The curiosity. The calculations.
Alison Pritchard
By what rough science
were you given
this migraine of a name