Today’s choice
Previous poems
Steph Morris
Tag
He arrived with a Christian name stitched
in place, forwards and backwards down each folded-back
end. On the first day the other boys
and girls tore it off, taking the surrounding cloth along.
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently, hung
all sissy, who ran from balls, read poufy books.
All sorts poured into the gash at first, nice words
said in some nice place, like Butterfly or Flower, but not
said by those hardened kids, entitled to hurt, who
sharpened their hate to turn Stephen
to Stephanie. That label stuck, glued over the hole
for good. Or bad? Either way Steph kept it.
Steph Morris’ poems have been published in his pamphlet Please don’t trample us; we are trying to grow! (Fair Acre Press), in the anthologies Joy//Us – Poems of Queer Joy and Becoming, from the Poetry Pharmacy, and in magazines and gardens.
Hélène Demetriades
The Elixir It began with nectar weeping from your tear ducts. Your mother shone like a martyr. It dripped from your nostrils – the ambrose became mixed with the stink of the house. It oozed from your ears, hardened. Your father called you...
Jane Frank
Sign I can visualise the street sign— its unfamiliar name— but not your face. Not really— flecks of shooting star shone in your hair then. I remember that but a friend tells me you are bald now. Standing on that corner: sage, bay leaf, baklava,...
Vanessa Y. Niu
Llorona, Llorona Midnight is blurry like a rapid photograph Blinding streaks of light slamming through my skull and vibrating Zzzzzzz Zzzzzz Zzzzzzz There are snakes writhing around my brain This flesh is the optimal hunting ground, so full of...
Claire Smith
Never to the Ball undressing herself continually & dirty in her habits* Bruises buttoned down to my naval. My bust goose- pimple decorations, arms embroidered with a tattoo-sleeve. Nurses throw blankets over me, protect my immodesty, brand me...
Anna Milan
Early-stage menopausal psychosis, Nyhavn hotel room, 5 October 2019 There’s a red eye / in the corner of the ceiling / yesterday it was a smoke detector / today it’s pretending to look elsewhere / seeking out fire The stilettos by the bed listen /...
Rojbîn Arjen Yiğit
Neşûştî / Unwashed unbutton my spine towards the shitty full sounds of istanbul throw my discs at the drunkard as the imam punctures our howls into the mosque lucid green walls may he hang us let us be examples is there anyone who loves like us?...
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Question Mark I live in Question Mark. It’s at the end of the sentence. The road to get here has a sharp bend. It’s not easy to guess what folk who live here think. There’s always a slight doubt. The town itself has a querulous nature; people are...
James Cochran
Dry January I. to be like the box turtle, constantly contained in rigid carapace, opened and closed at will, always at home. to be like the lawnmower run till empty at end of season, no fuel gelling in brittle lines, awaiting fresh gas in spring....
Julian Dobson
Superpower You’d imagine they’d make more of it, that feathered superpower of theirs, leaping across this planet ripe with air. Take the wren: there she hops, perpetually earthed in topsoil and grubs, happiest hidden behind a rock. The sex-crazed...