Today’s choice
Previous poems
Phil Vernon
Something (almost) understood
Firle Beacon, South Downs
These hills that look towards both weald and waves
hold – in their homesteads, fenced and open land,
trackways and contours – all that’s happened here,
but hide their mysteries in riddles: how
whole flints were wrapped – by nature’s sleight of hand –
in chalk laid down as plankton long ago,
how giants squeezed the land to form a dome
aeons of wind and rain made disappear,
why hills were shaped with steep or shallow sides,
how minor streams once cut their way through towering
tons of rock and soil to reach the sea,
how continents and islands drifted casually;
why ancient people scraped and heaped the earth
to make these hilltop mounds now overgrown;
why this stone church fell into disrepair.
Did prophets and messiah walk where books describe,
know what we’re told – and wish to believe – they knew?
Did what they said mean what we read or hear?
And did they speak with whom the writings say?
Did simple silence also serve as prayer,
as simple silence serves, up here, today?
Phil Vernon is retired, after an international peacebuilding and humanitarian career. His most recent collection is Guerilla Country (Flight of the Dragonfly, 2024). www.philvernon.net
Mary Mulholland
It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself
in my head where no one can reach it,
laugh, tear it to shreds, or
call it a waste of space, a disgrace.
Afolabi Ezra
It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.
Karina Jutzi
I think today of the boy in choir class
who closed his eyes when we sang
about Jesus. Who swayed, as if the Lord
Isabelle Thompson
We saw a kingfisher threading the bright needle
of his body along the river. We saw a shag, stamping
her prehistoric shadow on the sky. We saw a hobby,
Roger Robinson
We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet
Amirah Al Wassif
My double sits before me now. I stare deep into her, as I do every day after midnight. When I raise my hands, she raises hers.
Sophie Lankarani
Even though I only once traced your streets with my own feet,
you wandered into my dreams anyway
sliding in through my grandmother’s stories,
Mark A. Hill
She wills his brush in colour
and chalking, fierce hued flaws,
which fall flat on the canvas
Rebecca Wheatley
He thought his heart was broken yet the day began again.