Today’s choice
Previous poems
J.S.Watts
Beyond The Territory of Water
(In Response to The Territory of Water by Clare Crossman)
On Neptune Street
you may dream of the tide,
its drag and lure
but your feet walk
on solid pavement.
The bag weighted on your shoulder,
in cahoots with gravity,
pulls you in towards the ground.
This is the domain of earth
within the parameters of town.
A place to put down roots,
grow certain.
In this sure harbour
everything has its territory:
clod, flame, breath and breaker
but follow the line of gull up
into the watery expanse of sky,
walk away from certain,
to where the waves heave
their last salty gasp
and the land runs into sea,
you find a place of mergings and meltings,
black wet shingle, sodden brown sand
tide-strewn seaweed damply clinging
to a green surface that is
sometimes by the water
sometimes under water
sometimes the roaring sea itself.
The shore, the strand,
a place that is no place
where boundaries crumble
allegiances change and everything
is margin.
From here you can leave
or come back
but never stay.
How can you rest somewhere
that cannot remember itself?
J.S.Watts is a novelist and poet. She has published nine books: five of poetry, “Cats and Other Myths”, “Years Ago You Coloured Me”, “Songs of Steelyard Sue”, “The Submerged Sea” and “Underword”, plus four novels. See www.jswatts.co.uk & facebook.com/J.S.Watts
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.
Emma Farmer
Your face was on a bus pass,
your hair falling around your face like a curly straw,
pressed in a puddle between the Queen’s old face
and an Aldi receipt for slippers and chicken.
Carson Wolfe
I owned a g-string like this,
the back connected by a rhinestone butterfly.
Starved myself at school to save
my dinner money, bought it from Poundland.
Poetry from Gurmeet Kaur, UEA’s Birch Family Scholar 2025/2026
I kill lines of ant. Heat arrives
in the wrong season. It feels important
to know the names of birds under
the thrum of a flight corridor.
Sarah Nathan
The ash that screams into the night,
the lake that dries, the child amongst the rubble,
the heat, the fire, the lack of books,
Anna Bowles
Akademichna Street
is bombed-out flats, is
the hot-pink Sweet Bakery Café, is
straggly new-planted trees, is
Philip Athans
Never shows up late to a single thing he’s invited to
Always brings the most thoughtful and carefully curated and perfect gift
Never shows up early and never once overstays his welcome
Always appears well groomed and clean and appropriately dressed
Michelle Diaz
This is just a woman,
sticking her life back together
after years spent recovering.
