Today’s choice
Previous poems
Samarth Agarwal
Object M16- The Pillars of Creation
He who created all things, and bears up the pillars of creation, hath now become so weak, that He must be carried by a woman! – Charles Spurgeon
*
Here — in the absolute zero of space — fireworks!
Look how the crucibles of creation,
those million coloured fingers that stretch light years —
force fusion, squeeze hydrogen, become
furnaces of light birthing suns.
Yes, they birth suns — which means they are dying.
With each new star the pillars suffer:
erosion, cremation, photoevaporation.
All creation has a sacrifice.
All creation has a birth.
*
All creation has a Mother.
*
Why am I remembering now the star-empty nights?
When — having crossed the event horizon of my mind,
I would run to you.
You would take me close, lie down by my bedside,
like stars strewn across midnight’s floor,
lit only by the mosquito light’s red dwarf glow.
I would wake the next day, your only trace
the gentle warmth in my hands,
slowly cooling into the universe.
Mike Duggan
A decapitated road sign
Spears the yellow verge,
Meaningless as a symbol
Of progress. A vain strut.
Sue Spiers
I wrote a metaphor using eel
for blue-light reflections in water
on a flooded motorway
Oenone Thomas
Because I don’t know any other way
I replace my left hand
with a hook, my feet
with jackhammers, both
my eyes with spangled
mirror balls.
Adele Evershed
Some Things My Mother Forgot to Teach Me (Before She Died)
A while ago I saw this prompt on Instagram
though I added ‘before she died’
because mine did—long before
anyway, I made a list
Sally Jenkins
Funny how Year 8 is doing bones
now, of all the weeks. In the prep room
we strip flesh off chicken wings
Chris Hardy
Memento Vivere We lived here once. The rain we heard fell everywhere. Silence except the wind across the ground. It’s best to keep quiet. Words are like dead seeds, they vanish when they’re said. * New Year’s Eve without stars or...
Siobhan Logan
There’s something wrong with the sky
it’s the colour of a bruise and smells
of burnt toast. Do you hear that noise?
Someone’s shredding the blue
Alex Searle
Something started you to wake,
Leaving sockprints in the parquet
H.J. Thomas
We ate it leaning against the rail
above the harbour –
black cherry,
melting down the cone