Guest Poems

We love to read your poetry and, even though we receive over 1,000 poems per month, we always take time to read every single one.

A few of the poems we especially enjoyed and which were selected for publication in our Journal are reprinted below.

For more information, please see our Submissions page.

Guest Poems

Isabel Miles

Isabel Miles

Night Vision

At noon the garden’s open as a flower,
its beauty fitting to our spectrum and our scale.
Green lawn, brown earth
and flashing red, black, white,
three partridges that sprint across the grass.
Plain everyday.

The midnight garden’s a dark pool.
Upon it strands of brightness float.
Tonight the moon has picked some flowers
from the blossoming plum tree.

All else is shadow, liquid,
darkly bright,
more full of wonder than a solstice dawn.

A whispering of wings, a snuffling on the lawn.
Hedgehog and owl are hunting
prey invisible to us.
For them this night is commonplace
and day’s too dazzling strange to linger in.

Michael Tanner

Michael Tanner

Pavement Poppies

A half dozen or so
lending a delicate beauty
to vertical brick,
trodden tarmac,
swayed by the passage
of traffic down to the town.

None noticed their green emergence
from the crack that time digs
at the base of walls –
big enough to admit dust
and water, the staples
of their being.

One day, perhaps,
their progeny will cross
to the other side
though that does not receive the sun:
something they knew from the start.

More Guest Poems

Patrick Osada

Sunflower Down at the pub, the rumours had soon spread : our local farmer’s selling off his land. When goat-man left and pheasant farm shut down, we realised there was truth in what was said. Soon, other tenants left their grazing land – moved horses on, their meadows...

Jonathan Steffen

Portuguese Churches They tower on the hilltops of the far Reconquest, Holding up their crosses to the heavens – Tall centuries of flinty faith Piled high to fill the sky with their conviction. Once new, once bright, once bold, They groan now under their own history,...

Avaughan Watkins

The Beekeeper She is veiled, white gowned, holding by its neck a metal rooster that clucks with smoke. Under the cottage cheese blossom there’s a fae circle of wooden homes. With a gloved hand she snaps the propolis under the gabled roof; a behemoth bride revealing a...

Sheila Spense

How to know a bumblebee Try to draw each golden stripe and silver-veined wing each jointed leg and claw, the furry bee-ness of it busy on sun-drenched lavender. Listen to the bombination and buzz of it its hum and hear the voice of summer.

Gill Learner

Let it Be Like This The smell will arrive first – ylang ylang, perhaps, or sandalwood. It will be followed by a cloud of a colour never seen before: this will surround me, block the light. Faintly at first I’ll hear music – violins and cellos at the start, then, as...

Samantha Carr

Moon Landing Some say that it was a hoax, but I remember every moment of when The Men arrived. They set down their craft upon my soft craters. No permission to land requested. Claimed me as though a flag could limit the gravity of my moonlight. A crescent shaped...

Matt Bryden

Rich and Poor in the Underworld I should choose, so I might live on Earth, to serve as the hireling of another, some landless man with hardly enough to live on, rather than be lord over all the dead that have perished. Odyssey 11, 489 – 491 See this tanned...

Gill McEvoy

Ivy Wreaths are Multiplying by the River in the Woods This is a lonely path, and that’s what I prefer: a chance to watch the dipper in the stream, the deer come down to drink, the wren that bobs along the bank. But lately all my pleasure’s spoiled by ivy wreaths hung...

Owen Gallagher

‘And Yourself?’ ‘Donegal,’ I say. I see the stone and oak pier, Inishboffin, Inishdooey and Tory Island, seals sunbathing on the sandbanks, the sky, blue as a Greek door. I imagine you carrying me, in a hold-all across the dunes to Falcarragh Strand, and then...

Wendy French

Truth The air asks the wind about the silence it carries and the wind scours the mountain for a reply but the mountain looks down on the departing river the river that carries the stone to the fading sea’s edge the stone does not speak of the weight that it carries....

William Virgil Davis

Journey I step into my shadow and the shadow goes away. How many blackbirds are sitting in that tree? If snow fell sideways would the flakes spin or stop? Old cats eat slowly. The colour I most want to inherit is blue, colour of clouds and water. When fog obscures the...

J.S Watts

Monkey Night at the Circus Monkey see. Monkey do. Monkey gone. No longer my monkey. No longer my circus. Say goodbye to the red haired clowns, the tension, the drama, the spangled tears. No more balancing on an impossible wire, spinning dizzily up high with no way...

Gina Wilson

Somewhere to Live I like the way this privet stands its ground, the waist-high lavender, crazy paving, tubs. These winter trees, that never touch, remind me of Mother and the Aunts, how, in the end, I felt their twigs, like children’s fingers, tug. I want to join...

Elizabeth Barton

Absence In the quiet forest, nothing stirs. I hear no sigh of leaves, no woodlark’s song, only the moaning of the bracken. I see your boot prints in the sand, puddled with rain, the claws of a dog beside you. Your lips are silent as the pines encircling us. I follow...

Sandra Fulton

Sea-Roads I have come to talk to you Because the days draw in And because I can hear the sea – The distant, long sigh of it. I hear the gull-cry. But mostly, I hear the sea. And, farthest of all, the thunder The ominous deep dirge of it: A shape on the mind’s horizon,...