Today’s choice
Previous poems
Karina Jutzi
Lot’s Wife
I think today of the boy in choir class
who closed his eyes when we sang
about Jesus. Who swayed, as if the Lord
himself was in the room.
I sat in the back row and braided
my girlfriend’s hair. Men are allowed
to worship each other. To bow down
at the feet of fellow men. But not to touch them.
They stand shoulder to shoulder,
eyes forward, staring at the same thing.
Women, on the other hand,
must also save their worship for men,
but their touches can go wherever they
damn well want to put their fingers.
The boy told me the story of
Lot’s nameless wife.
Who turned into a pillar of salt,
because she was disobedient.
Why not Ketchup, I said
Why not butter?
But I was missing the point,
which was: These are the rules of men,
follow them.
Karina Jutzi is a multi-genre writer whose work meets at the intersection of art and spirituality. Her poetry, plays, essays, and comedy writing have been featured in various literary magazines and publications. The main themes in her work are death, birth, and anything that peers into the void. She currently lives on a small farm in Vermont with her husband and young children.
Julian Dobson
You too I guess
have studied the surviving starlings
as they swoop and whistle
by the snack trailer at Moorfoot
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.
Clare Bryden
seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear
hear
Gail Webb
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
Kim Cullen
I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair
Mark G. Pennington
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets
Ivan McGuinness
Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
Elizabeth Wilson Davies
There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas
Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,