Today’s choice
Previous poems
Pamilerin Jacob
Annette’s Ode
Slithering through incisor-gap, English leapt
from your lips to mine, a string
between you & me, ringed
with hot coals we slide back & forth
in the air like abacus beads. Coals
that warm & warn: lighting the way
as best they can, although
Yoruba is the exact shape
of the bulb in the room, & we have,
like plants learnt to tilt
in the direction of that Light,
prayers pouring out of you unhindered
like water from a hose
left in the lawn all night, every
cranny of me grateful to be
soaked & nourished
Annette the gap-toothed,
You kissed a man & I was born. You gave him
your laughter & he built an empire,
died, leaving you to mourn. Your one love,
muttering psalms in the grave’s dark
wishing he could return, seeing only
your gap-tooth in the distance
thinking it a door, through which
years ago English leapt, lip to lip
anxious to fulfil the injunction of blood.
Pamilerin Jacob’s poems have appeared in POETRY, Lolwe, The Rumpus, Agbowó, Palette, 20.35 Africa, & elsewhere. He is the Founding Editor of Poetry Column-NND, Poetry Sango-Ota, among others. His manuscript, Blight Fantasia, was a finalist in the Walt McDonald First-Book Poetry Competition 2024.
Seán Street
There was a time when I took my radio
into the night wood and tuned its pyracantha
needle along the dial through noise jungles
to silent darkness at the waveband’s end.
J.S. Dorothy
Find yourself by the lake,
its icy membrane split by the long
arrow of a skein, reflected
flurry of wings, cries
bawling.
Sarah Rowland Jones
The terns lift as one
from the salt-pools behind the beach
– a thick undulating line
Jean O’Brien
Winter soil is hard and hoar crusted,
birds peck with blunted beaks,
pushing up are the blind green pods
of what will soon be yellow daffodils,
given light and air.
Jean Atkin
We scoured the parish tip most weeks, when we were kids.
We clambered it in wellies. Ferals, we scavenged
in the debris of the adults’ lives.
Sally Festing
Life lines still arc round the base of each thumb
though the bulk of hand’s muscle mass
Joe Crocker
There was always, of course, the cold
– its freezing pretty fingerprints on our side of the pane.
Julie Sheridan
They married in a chapel of black steel
bars, tethered up their feathers to serve as
stained glass. . .
Maxine Sibihwana
here, water does not run. instead it
sits obediently in old plastic containers