Today’s choice
Previous poems
Raluca David
Here is a cross
You said you’d never die
here.
Here are your Sundays watching your children’s birthdays
on your screen. Here are your winters crating up grocery trucks,
pineapples scratching rough skin. Here are your summers
slating the roofs of Europe. You said you’d build
behind your elders’ house. A villa, bright orange concrete.
Here is a cross.
Upon the morning mist a divination line, a black bedsheet
a poem in dye, words fold onto each other: Hopes, Home, How
soon. A yellow T-shirt saying Ole Ole Ole. A pair of warm socks.
You will make it through, you know that much.
What through means, you don’t know.
What is on the other side
of through.
Raluca David has been shortlisted for the Queen Mary Wasafiri NW Prize as well as the Starkie and Dart Poetry Prizes, and longlisted for the National Poetry Competition. Her poetry has appeared in the Oxford Review of Books. Instagram: @ralucafdavid
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.
Autumn Richardson
What you are –
bodied light, a store of oil
a hive of warm blood
Rebecca Parfitt
In the back of the taxi on my way to the hospital,
thighs clenched together,
the driver asked me,
Samarth Agarwal
Here — in the absolute zero of space — fireworks!
Look how the crucibles of creation,
those million coloured fingers that stretch light years —
Jenny Scoones
We unlearn how it felt to touch
And resume our separate days in shirts and trousers,
Like hazmats against the sun and its longing,
The moon with its underbelly pulls.
Matt Bryden
Now a blanket is spread, offerings
of chutney and shin bones,
a taper held to the fire
that heats the tar beneath our boats.
Kit Duke
I didn’t know then,
moving for a mouth
that refused to yield an inch,
what it wasn’t.