Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jean O’Brien
Spring is in the Air
Winter soil is hard and hoar crusted,
birds peck with blunted beaks,
pushing up are the blind green pods
of what will soon be yellow daffodils,
given light and air.
I wait to hear news about you,
hear that you resurfaced,
struggled up throught the ether,
your broken ribs tied tight
with titanium wire
holding your heart in place.
Your spread chest stapled together
skin taut like delicate tissue
and pocked with steel.
I am afraid with spring unfolding
you will ripen and split apart
your heart bursting with daffodils.
Jean O’Brien is an award winning poet whose latest collection Stars Burn Regardless was published by Salmon Poetry (Irl) in 2022. She was most recently shortlisted in this year’s Bridport Prize. She currently tutors in poetry/creative writing. www.jeanobrienpoet.ie
Antoinette Moses
Gold A shower of gold? Old Zeus? That’s the village gossip except I saw her legs wide to the sun. Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we, girls? And if a passing goatherd happened to linger in a jangle of leaping bells what do you expect? It was...
Stuart Charlesworth
Hello, I’ve crafted myself a god from the kind of modelling clay you fire in your kitchen oven. I can lift my god with my hands, carry god around. Look, my god has fourteen heads, each one mounted on its own elegant neck — fourteen necks rising...
Anna Blasiak translates Robert Kania
I saw I saw American night in broad daylight I saw houses worth millions of dollars and houses without windows on the outskirts Detroit I saw my ancestors’ American dream several Mexicans cleaning in a hotel where I danced YMCA at a wedding...
Graham Clifford
Revivifying Bees in the PRU* (*Pupil Referral Unit) A tennis racquet leaves a waffle imprint on the forehead of the boys that get too close. The Jackson 5 at full blast at 08:45 bounces off the Georgian townhouses that surround the PRU. This...
Louise Devismes
fish! that year, the summer was nosebleeds and candy apples. none of our clothes fit us anymore — our bellies burst with fruit and sugar and all the sun we could swallow. we scratched mosquito bites the size of grapes until yellow scabs peeled off, our...
Millie Godwin
Tendril Tongues Why do I keep trying to rekindle old flames when I’ve told her time and time again that a relit cigarette just doesn’t taste the same Willow Becomes Butterfly Our love flows heavy then lingers like tired...
Alice Neal
Helen (Mother) My mother was alone when she gave birth, save for the flocks of anonymous doctors who removed me from her bloodied womb with spears and forceps, whilst my father marked her agony with stains on the bar. When I arrived late, pink,...
Jessica Mayhew
Clippers We took turns on the wooden chair, feet bare-soled on the kitchen tiles, head bent forward as if in prayer, the old towel around your shoulders. As the clippers purred, nape to crown, I folded each of your ears in turn, while outside, beyond our...
L Kiew
You who stand in the red dust know that frogs no longer croak for rain. Bare ground cracks across remains of drains, windows in the taman-taman gape-broken and houses semi-detach, uprooting terraces. Absence is only flaking paint. Blown away are...