Today’s choice
Previous poems
Liz Byrne
I want to be two-tongued again
To go back to the time when I slipped
from one language to another with ease,
when I knew the contours of my Irish home.
To stand with Dad by the window, chat
in the room of our own tongue about my day,
my dreams. I want him to listen, really listen.
To be fluent again in the language I forget.
It’s a different house now, furniture sharp-edged,
doors and windows in the wrong place.
Irish says: I have sadness, joy upon me.
There are no words for yes or no. Dying
is caught, like a cold or a breath.
There are four words for family.
I always choose the wrong one.
Duolingo takes my hearts away.
Liz Byrne is from Dublin and now lives near Manchester. Her poetry appears in Orbis, Agenda, Butcher’s Dog, Crannog, Strix, The North and Under the Radar. She won the Best Landscape Poem, Ginkgo Prize, 2020 and was placed third in the Ginkgo Prize, 2021.
Helen T Curtis
You seemed to be born blind.
At first in cracked pot, in frosted compost
Your leaves pined – jaded limp swords
Christine Moore
If only my tongue were context then my teeth would be meaning and when I opened my mouth
to eat I would find a story there each time.
Rachael Davey
That particular, chemical clarity,
sun into blue, ripples on the ceiling.
Rare days when water rests
between the ropes, unbroken . . .
Christopher M James
I suppose
this beautiful bright dawn
is the sky trying to offset
the wild gusts of last night
like a rescue mission…
Chrissy Banks
. . . Yes, I’ve tasted pomegranates
and I know what they do. The sense of vertigo:
happily dizzy at first, as if you’ve downed
a bottle of Shiraz or Merlot. You live by night . . .
Jenny Hockey
I knew the earth rolling by
was red, smelt its tang on the wind,
felt woods weighing green
Karen Luke
My sister’s father wound is the flush cut
on the bark where she lost her foothold
and fell,
the trunk burning red between her thighs
all the way down the tree to the ground…
Suzanna Fitzpatrick
Half five. The sky thickens to darkness
through the grime on the tall windows,
the claw marks of rain. Someone whistles
in the corridor…
Robin Vaughan-Williams
Something is pulling at my T-shirt.
Something is holding my hand.
I can feel it walking beside me…