Today’s choice
Previous poems
J.S.Watts
Beyond The Territory of Water
(In Response to The Territory of Water by Clare Crossman)
On Neptune Street
you may dream of the tide,
its drag and lure
but your feet walk
on solid pavement.
The bag weighted on your shoulder,
in cahoots with gravity,
pulls you in towards the ground.
This is the domain of earth
within the parameters of town.
A place to put down roots,
grow certain.
In this sure harbour
everything has its territory:
clod, flame, breath and breaker
but follow the line of gull up
into the watery expanse of sky,
walk away from certain,
to where the waves heave
their last salty gasp
and the land runs into sea,
you find a place of mergings and meltings,
black wet shingle, sodden brown sand
tide-strewn seaweed damply clinging
to a green surface that is
sometimes by the water
sometimes under water
sometimes the roaring sea itself.
The shore, the strand,
a place that is no place
where boundaries crumble
allegiances change and everything
is margin.
From here you can leave
or come back
but never stay.
How can you rest somewhere
that cannot remember itself?
J.S.Watts is a novelist and poet. She has published nine books: five of poetry, “Cats and Other Myths”, “Years Ago You Coloured Me”, “Songs of Steelyard Sue”, “The Submerged Sea” and “Underword”, plus four novels. See www.jswatts.co.uk & facebook.com/J.S.Watts
Jane Ayres
& my sub-tropical heart
will punctuate the idea of treacling hope
puncturing the sense of a book
Annette Iles
across the street
I am washed off my feet
my heart
splashes up into pieces
Marie Isabel Matthews-Schlinzig
Dusk is dancing & all the visual technologies at hand feel
overwhelmed: mobile eye, pit pastels, graphic card.
It’s down to language, then, imagine.
Antony Owen
Twenty- something sex are bodies.
thrown down like sophomore prose.
Martin Mooney
The footbridge was skinned in graffiti – slogans, threats,
declarations of love, swastikas. Grek. Kost. Lapse.
Aardhra Chandran
Canvas boots, pig-iron tacks.
At midnight, the wooden platform groans like a hull.
Jason Lovell
While children kneel at your cage in awe
edge offerings of cashew nuts, chopped fruit,
curse words into your magnificent beak,
mums settle carrier bags at tired wet feet
Elijah MacBean
My Name is My Name Ami never let anyone call my sister Sam – it always had to be Samina. She said she’d rather be waterboarded than let her daughter be whitewashed by whites too conservative to spare the extra syllables. Ami never let anyone call...
Damen O’Brien
The coastline’s smile is sharp with blackened teeth,
seabird shelters, scarps, cutaways, broken reefs:
the bloody mouth of a boxer who can’t be dropped,
punch drunk with the brain’s purple pounding . . .