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
John Greening
On the Morning of
Christmas Day it’s mild
across our ungrazed field
whose thorns and clay have yet to know a freeze.
The clouds in the east proclaim
how every wise man’s dream
of frost fair, snow and angel, is old news.
Nature, abandoned at the Pole,
feels something cracking behind her icy veil.
From that crazed mouth
a surge of blushing truth
rushes to swell the tide in our affairs,
our coal, our oil, our gas.
We sing of joy and peace
in sun and wind as each new breaker rears.
Too late the call from Greta’s green:
tooth and claw are tearing the ceremonial groyne.
You wish upon a star.
Meanwhile, behind you there
the planet’s jilted ghost wreaks her revenge:
Nature’s pantomime.
If some climatic scrim
dropped a marsh or fen, would that be change?
Still they’d stand, those ancient flats.
It’s when the next field or the one above it floods
that’s never flooded, swells
from unknown wells and spills
across your patio, the singing stops.
Silently you’ll watch
what just came in the porch
and climbs your stairs. Then Mrs Noah hopes
you have a happy Christmas, the news
crackles its last good laugh and the power goes.
Duncan Forbes
Nativity Scene
Besançon Book of Hours (15th Century)
The saddled donkey seems to be eating
Joseph’s cake-like halo or at least testing
with mouth and nostrils
whether it might be edible.
In his carpenter’s hands,
bald and bearded Joseph is holding the baby
wrapped in orange swaddling.
Seated at the feet of Mary,
Joseph wears an overskirt
of Madonna blue.
A horned cow with a pewter cowbell
on a halter round her neck
is eyeing Mary with an expression
of bovine incredulity
from behind a woven fence of wattle hurdles.
The grass is alpine green.
Apparently oblivious,
Mary is wearing a luxurious
vermilion red rug or foot-mantle
stippled with golden stars.
White-wimpled and in a yellow blouse,
she is sitting on a wooden settle,
gazing at an open book on her lap.
But what is Mary reading
with downcast eyes?
Scripture, prayers or book of hours?
As are the future and the past,
the letters are illegible from here.
More Guest Poems
Peter Sutton
Here I Stand Here I stand for I can do no other,tied to my neighbours, my enemies, friends,cousins and siblings, ancestors, offspring,pushing and shoving and reaching for light,building up brawn and strengthening sinews,bartering messages, crisscrossing limbs,digging...
A. C. Clarke
Crossing the language divide We commit to speech as we do to a bridgein the faith it will bring us to the further shorewithout cracking, in the faiththe further shore is where we want to be.What if our words shape themselves differentlyin the listener’s ear, distorted...
Charlene Langfur
On the Cusp of Climate Change Days are like thimbles now, full of small needs,whatever works, potluck, making do.I plant aloe in clay pots on the porch, arugula,orange nasturtium, parsley because it matters.I am a woman walking under the fan palmsunderneath the desert...
George Davey
Goldilocks and the three percent inflation rate Three bowls of porridgeall differing in sizes,her silver spoon risesto herrosy red lips.She sips.She gulps.She convulses. Porridge icylike her harsh moral code.Three skinny bears,return to their humble abode. Fur ragged...
Mike McNamara
Writing in Ice It gets harder to claimthe lie of few summers livedwhen so many wintershave taken their toll. The deceiver fools you.More fool you. Writing in ice on frozen bonecontusions of ruptured words,mortality’s woundson the immortal soul. The reaver robs...
Jennifer Horgan
Gap ione birdfor weeks the young boy saw one bird on every wire iiyesterday, it fanned its tail feathersand he felt his growing bones reacta shared balancing act, a mirroron the northside of the citydown as far as the dock bridge iiiwhere yesterday toohe saw an otter...
Peter Lockhart
Winter in these parts We lug paving slabs onto wheelie bins,Coax the smaller animals into the spare room,Sling frayed hawsers over outhouses and hen coops.Glacial swamps appear from underground.We cradle our children from school, weight them downWith rocks, free up...
Liz Adams
apple blossom if I were to disappear from here, beneaththe wing of the day, where the apple blossomsemerge a whitish pink, and the bee hovers mesmerised – where the hellos gather upthen spill open like flowers, and the beeretreats as the light fades, the white petals...
D. A. Hickman
The Dreamer’s Song We wish, we worry, we long to conquer things,but is the world stage ours to impose on like perpetual star gazers, never satisfied or contentwith a spinning planet that needs our care? What is it about the wild storm inside? Fuellingour edginess, we...
Anthony Head
Angels My Angels don’t answer. They never do. Sources disagreeon how many each of us has, but often have I pleadedfor mine to show themselves or leave at least some evidence.Never a whisper or sign, no sudden ruffling air on a windlessday, no bright light at the end...
David Ball
To those who will come after us after Bertolt Brecht who will work longer to pay off the debtswe have accumulated, rememberhow many things we had to buy,how many interesting things there were to do,how many places in the world to visit.The cars, in which we went...
Kim Moore
And As When And as when the houses of Pompeiwere covered in ash, heavy enoughto cause buildings to collapse, and the pyroclastic flows,mixtures of lava blobs and gasran through the city faster than a horse could run,the horses trapped in harnessin the stable, bodies...
Alicia Byrne Keane
Sceach / Uncommon Knowledge The last days of January lap & settlebut, twice now, I have heard birdsat dusk. The skylight that slantson the landing of my parents’ houselooks unfamiliar for a second:some things are seen and seen again.Dust-mauve, that swatheof clear...
Ben Banyard
Car Boot Sale Stall as a Metaphor For Life Do you turn up at 8am, front of the queue,car full of desirable items from an elderly relativewhich savvy buyers peer at through cupped hands,eyes creased, noses fogging the glass,clammy at the thought of bagging a Clarice...
Nick Pearson
Water He spends fifteen minutes bringing stuff in,makes himself at home on the bathroom flooras if he’s arrived at a favourite camp site. I hear him thinking behind the door,his expertise the commodity of silence. He reminds me of a person I’ve seen before,a...

