Today’s choice
Previous poems
Mark G. Pennington
The sea organ city
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets
in narrow alleys
or chestnut groves
leading to the sands
listen to me
hola
gracias
and other various offences
and when I rest in the mainland
there is a man in a pornographic suit
beside an old olive tree
shading from the sun
and with him is a briefcase
open
showing the box of sandwiches
along comes a water dog
sniffing for explosives
the line trying to catch hake for zarzuela
he closes the case
then waves the animal away
palatially swatting in steaming air
its owner
comes over with the leash
hanging limp
and nooses the dog
ahead of an oyster stall
in the street
and all is beautiful again in the sea organ city
Mark G. Pennington has published three collections of poetry, one chapbook which finished runner-up in the Cerasus chapbook competition, and one novel. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas we bring you Rachel Burns, Lauren Middleton, Hedy Hume
I start the day early with a cup of tea.
A new diary asks I make an affirmation,
while cleaning my teeth.
I have nothing to offer –
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas we bring you Mary Mulholland, Edward Heathman, Edward Alport
No Nordmann firs in Bethlehem.
No holly or ivy. But pomegranate,
almond, fig and olive trees to anoint
with signs of blessing and peace.
And houses don’t smell of Balsam
On the Tenth Day of Christmas we bring you Rupert Loydell, Ruth Aylett, Eithne Cullen
The village is made of darkness and wood smoke
and the hunting owls sounding from the garrigue.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas we bring you Mark Connors, Michelle Diaz, Sue Finch
Today I am in church again. I have come for silent reflection in one of my favourite seats, but it feels a little closer to the edge than usual.
On the First Day of Christmas we bring you Sarah Mnatzaganian, Rebecca Gethin, Jenni Thorne
Towards the Solstice
owls fly closer in December twilight,
call to each other across the garden.
Martin Fisher
Inside, in the half-light, the iron rot took hold.
Forgotten service–obsolete.
Salt-coin neglect.
The money flowed inland,
Moored on an hourglass choke.
No one told the sea.
Craig Dobson
Out of morning
a misted light,
glowing fire
in the air.
Steven Taylor
A very long time ago
Stephen Fry’s godfather, the
Justice, Sir Oliver Popplewell
Who chaired the inquiry
Into the Bradford City
Amirah Al Wassif
Beneath my armpit lives a Sinbad the size of a thumb.
His imagination feeds through an umbilical cord tied to my womb.
Now and then, people hear him speaking through a giant microphone—
Singing,
Cracking jokes,