Today’s choice
Previous poems
Ashia Mirza
Heartbust: (Plato’s Allegory of the Cave)
Someone is taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb.
The prodigal sun casts shadows in your cave
of
someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
There’s a roar of a truck
the hiss of a missile
the boom of a dumb bomb –
breaking your shackles.
You leave the cave blinded
scrambling over
broken lines … broken bones … broken dreams.
Your eyes switch channels.
There’s a dread it’s real.
You swipe up.
There’s a dread it’s real.
There’s a feeling beyond helpless
which you can’t stop: Heartbust.
You gasp for air
like you’re the one trapped
in the rubble
dying to get out.
You return to your shackles
in the cave watching
someone taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.
Ashia Mirza is a writer from Bolton. Her poetry has been shortlisted for the Aurora Prize and highly commended by the University of Greater Manchester. Her short fiction has been shortlisted for the HG Wells Prize and published in the anthology Motion and on CafeLit. Her novels have been longlisted and shortlisted in competitions run by The Times/Chicken House, Guppy, Northern Writers, and Commonword. Alongside her writing, she works as an informatics pharmacist.
Amanda Bell
We clipped a window through the currant, sat on folding chairs with keep-cups,
wrapped in blankets as we yelled through the prescribed two-metre gap.
Then took to mending – darning socks and patching favourite denims
Anna Maughan
Illness had left me
brittle as frost, icicle-thin
swaddled in borrowed warmth
Angeliki Ampelogianni
on marble tiles bird like
I am a pin measuring drops in the toilet bowl
A W Earl
Doors
My parents’ house became a place of closed white doors,
where sound hung spare and echoes found no junk
or clutter to rest themselves upon.
Finola Scott
Winter dusk soughs in, dark
clouds threaten, tangle her wool.
Huw Gwynn-Jones
Black is the colour inside black light on
blackened brick and slats
Clare Morris
Necessity, that scold’s bridle, held her humble and mean,
So that she no longer spoke, just looked –
Her world reduced to a search for special offers . . .
Alison Jones
Mrs Norris had thought ascension
would be whirligig rides in bright violet rays,
as the training books all implied.
Sandra Noel
The tide unpleats from her godet,
zig-zags in running stitch
round the base of the côtil.