Today’s choice
Previous poems
Samantha Carr
Unexploded Bombs
You became obsessed with nucleated red blood cells when you peeked through an
aperture window at your liquid, viscous nature. You became obsessed with maps
after an unexploded bomb exposed a Second World War timeline fault sleeping in a
garden in your city. Several results on the pathology printout are marked with carets.
The Bomb Book marks the location of dropped devices with sticky red dots.
You don’t have a garden, so you revert to the sanctuary of one of the few places to
survive the Blitz, the cobblestones of the historic Barbican. These are pebbles and
sandstones taken from the riverbed. Edges eroded by centuries of foot traffic, horse-
drawn carriages and even the advent of the modern car, something it was never
designed to sustain. Outside the Admiral MacBride, these stones have
been puked on, fought on, slept on, bled on. How many memories remain in
the sand or have been washed away with the Mayflower Steps and castle
fortifications to rest on Sutton Pool’s harbour floor? Are nucleated red blood cells
dangerous? The GP says it’s not something we normally look at. The internet
says they’re rarely present in healthy adults. The Pathologist says the results should
have been suppressed. You paste your discoveries into the Bomb Book.
Samantha is based in Plymouth, UK, where she is a PhD Creative Writing candidate exploring the lived experience of chronic illness and the healthcare system through prose poetry. She also formerly worked in the NHS as a nurse. Her work has been published in several places, including Arc, Acumen, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mslexia, and Room. In her spare time, she enjoys experimenting with surrealist art. She can be found on Instagram @samc4_rr, and on Facebook @samantha.carr.9275.
James Norcliffe
Sarsaparilla Road
travels through swamps
and reeds, over a black
water creek and a narrow bridge
David Hanlon
Not in that parking lot,
not in that residential area,
not in that blue car
splashed with mud.
Mana Misaghi
we make sure to pack a deck of cards for the train, or a sunday afternoon visit to the park. the cards will give our hands something tangible to do . . .
Taḋg Paul
An algorithm guides me through the keys
Each stanza nested in a formal loop
Mat Riches
Hey kid, this won’t mean that much to you yet,
but I didn’t taste my first proper curry
till at least twenty-one . . .
David Sapp
Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .
Gareth Writer-Davies
it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky
Sam Szanto
It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.
Tamara Evans
Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.
