Today’s choice
Previous poems
Eve Chancellor
Kafkaesque
Imagine waking up one day and discovering
that you are a horse. At first, you might not
believe it and think you are dreaming. Gradually,
you would come to realise and go, hahaha!
Oh my god! A horse? You would look down
at this body that was not the body you went
to sleep in. All this new hair and nobody
has taught you how to shave it. Suddenly
you have difficulty getting out of bed. You try
to explain to your parents, but they won’t
put up with your whinnying. Instead, you must
get used to taking all your meals outside,
in the stables, with all the other mares who dreamt
that maybe, one day, they too could be different.
Eve Chancellor is an English Teacher in Manchester. Her poetry is featured online and in multiple anthologies, including: ‘Atrium,’ ‘Dust,’ ‘The Dawntreader’ and Ink Sweat & Tears.
Paul Moclair
Their shore leave over,
. . . the spirits of the dead are bid farewell
until that time next year, when ritual
grants them reprieve again.
Susan Elizabeth Hale
Sometimes words are the only thing
that get you through,
But not the words you think,
not a word like love or hope
those are imprecise.
Seán Street
We lit a candle for you
that day in Sacre Coeur,
under its white-flame dome
as high as Paris could go
Marjory Woodfield
On Kinley’s Lane, quince tree, wild blackberries, branches of feijoa reaching over a fence, fallen fruit.
Ian Seed
What was the Welsh for ‘hedgehog’? That was what he wanted to know.
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Rectangular, with corners cut off like an octagon, muddy brown shows through the cream exterior where the edges are chipped.
Cally Ann Kerr on International Transgender Day of Visibility
How many blows does it take to crack an egg?
Is a question I never expected to ask
If you don’t know, I should tell you, an egg
Is what they call the girl inside the male mask
Gita Ralleigh, Julian Matthews, Jackie Taylor on Colouring Outside the Lines
The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna.
Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth.
Sue Moules
I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.