Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mark Smith
Divining
In the portacabin that morning, men smoked
and looked at last week’s paper again.
There was no water to fill the urn.
The first job – to get connected
to water and power. A slow hour went by
of dirtied cards landing on the table.
I was less than a year out of school.
This is what work was going to be.
The foreman stamped in demanding to know
why no work was done. ‘No water. No cement,’
he was informed. The foreman stamped out
and through the perspex window we saw
him snap two thin branches from a dead tree.
‘Right, lazy bastards, after me!’
Boots shuffled on the cement-dust floor.
Roll-ups were folded into ashtrays.
The foreman held the branches.
I followed the men through the door.
The hunched back of his reflective jacket
turned to the east, to the south, to the east
again, until he tapped a current
strong enough to set the rods twitching.
The rods crossed and we all stood around,
until somebody lifted a shovel
and started to dig for the pipe that held
living water in the living ground.
Mark Ryan Smith lives in the Shetland Islands
Anna Vercambre
Shall we build you out of cardboard? Shall we build you out of tin cans?
Sue Johns
To keep an engine thrumming,
to perform the perfect cleft
how much strength, how many attempts?
Freya Cook, Amii Griffith and The Mollusc Dimension on our fourth and final day of our Pride Feature
Love Poem to June After Paul Monette if every window filled with light it would refract ten thousand rainbows at least twelve would hit you and if i say you are beautiful in this light you would say this is your light the only one you want to be...
Aisha Odette and Carmilla for the Third Day of our Pride Feature
Glitch
Last night
my brain dreamt
of freshly-braided hair
mine, cocoa sipped pre-bedtime
yours, morning-wet mascara…
– Aisha Odette
(un)natural
They are unfamiliar to me.
Every sand grain,
every stone,
every leaf,
every needle,
every trunk,
every path…
– Carmilla
Beth Davies, Fee Marshall and Fiona Broadhurst for Day 2 of our Pride Feature
Trick Question
It was a simple game.
One wall meant Yes. The other meant No.
The teacher would ask a question and we’d each run towards our answer.
Once, she asked “Have you ever been in love?”
At six years old, I ran with certainty towards Yes.
I reached it but found myself alone.
Surprised, I looked over at the others
crowded together on the other side.
“Don’t you love your parents?” I asked,
with all the indignance of a child
who doesn’t understand her mistake.
“Don’t you love your friends?”
Beth Davies
Ace Sex
Sex is when a train runs into a portal
Flies off to outer space
It’s when you suddenly remember the old block tellie
With no channels
That you had to switch on at the block
Sex is
I think it’s an ice cream
One of them novelty flavours like
Popping Raspberry Unicorn
It’s a weird fad but we’re pretty sure
Salted Caramel’s making a comeback
Fee Marshall
Polyamory is wrong
(Mixing Greek and Latin roots? Wrong!)
Polyamory is less orgies, or threesomes
& more Google calendar, blocking out
precious time, increments of love
portioned out as slices of 3.14159,
infinite, neverending & always fulfilling
Fiona Broadhurst
Lara Mae Simpson and Siobhan Dunlop for Day 1 of our Pride Feature
How to Love the Word “Lesbian”
We took the bus in tutus & fairy wings,
gripped on to the cowboy hat
trying to fly from your curls in July’s breeze.
In Trafalgar Square, floats of rainbow
companies waltzed by & we rolled
our eyes, couldn’t see past tall men,
– Lara Mae Simpson (they/she)
On nights I am
a girl again
I am unemployable as
woman don’t do the
work beg at corner
of ends on leg
too short for the cripwalk
-Noah Jacob
dreaming of the velvet goldmines
i want to be a skinny pretty boy rockstar
without the height or the coke habit
or needing to strictly be a boy at all
-Siobhan Dunlop (they/them)
Paul Stephenson
The Conversation
It’s been quite a while now and…
You know we get on like a house…
August twelfth, a year ago, can you…
I bet you thank your lucky…
Things have evolved, haven’t…
Can you believe we’re both still …
Hannah Linden
She gives me a word to look up
in a dictionary of obscure sorrows.
I, who try to decipher echoes from
other people’s reaction to my words
throw down a bucket into the well
recognise water when people tell me
Nelly Bryce
Longing curls its legs up on the sofa in our house.
There’s a dip there now.
How I long to turn us into a day trip.
You belong in that chair over there
asking what happened with that text
and where I bought this jumper,