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.
 

Samarth is a poet currently living in London,UK. He spends his time participating in writing workshops, volunteering at local charity shops and attending to his cat. His work has been featured or is forthcoming in Cerasus, The Poetry Habitat, Nova Literary Art’s Mag and Bacopa Lit Review amongst others.

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

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