Today’s choice
Previous poems
SJ Lunn-Rockliffe
Pillar saint
Crammed onto his high
stone square, he cranes
to see the whole number
of eternity as it unwinds
its relentless gilded length,
trailed by bi-plane cherubim
and their seraphic cousins –
but he is granted only
a raw bald pate
horned thoughts
of silk and bells
an alkaline draught
from a far-off well
fire ants beading
their wrath into
his toe folds
and the sour
roar of believers
at his column base,
begging for a
sign, a word,
a fingernail of
hope for
their cattle
their bellies
their men,
a swelling on
the jaw,
cyclical
fevers,
failing milk,
the cries of a
nameless newborn –
while he awaits the
blank
of the seventh day.
SJ Lunn-Rockliffe is Associate Professor in the Divinity Faculty at the University of Cambridge, where she teaches, reads and writes about the histories of ancient religions. She works on ideas about thinly embodied beings like demons.
Kathy Pimlott
Going down to do lights and curtains to fool any burglars Twilight: one after another security lights click on illuminating pathways, steps, empty front lawns, triggered by my benign progress, then, disappointed, click off. The sky is a layer cake...
Sharon Black
My thoughts are skittish,
peck at whatever they find.
I flick each whitewash flake
into the bin. Shadows on the walls
Vanessa Napolitano
Floors are unvacuumed. Spices remain un-alphabetised.
I bless the spaces between the furniture to keep everyone safe. Seven.
Ben Verinder
Nostalgia as Yogi Bear
Ruminates through you for something tasty,
prizes of the Jellystone mind.
Jane Spray
I’m just an ordinary dryad
not like fancy Eurydice with her sun god father
keep things simple I say I don’t have her dilemmas
Paul Stephenson
The poem of the mask disguises meaning.
The poem of the diet lost seven words.
The poem of the snowman melted.
The poem of the invisible man.
Alex Josephy
Let us now praise hi-vis men
who gather together
round a pothole, filling the gap
with their sticky black remedy.
Claire Lynn
I lie back, arch my throat,
pretend to relax. Contemplate
ceiling tiles . . .
Peter Daniels
This is not you, but someone soaked in fake Brut
coming at me in a gesture of fake generosity.