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
Ursula Kelly
When I Can Make it to the Pub Again
It’s not so much the pain but
fear of pain, that makes me hesitate.
I am learning to bear my own weight again,
with crutches and a moonboot.
Every tiny step’s a giant leap of faith
that a rearticulated ankle will still hold,
the pins will not give way.
Moonboots sound magical. I’ve dreamed of dancing
in the County Feis, defying gravity with scissor kicks
and slip steps, treble shoes clattering on a wooden floor,
finding my feet in speed and fury.
But reality begs to differ, when every visit
to the bathroom must be choreographed.
I pace myself in steady clunks, relinquishing the safety
of the zimmer frame, then managing to make do
with just one crutch. Next up, a walking stick.
When I can make it to the pub again,
I’ll buy you all a drink.
Jayant Kashyap
Child as a Piano
During the ultrasound, it lies there,
dormant, like a landmine inside you.
Later, it erupts – a months-quiet volcano
of its own. Now the constant ticks,
the continuous whirring of me, me,
me, mommy, me. A four-legged
sinister machine in the beginning,
advancing with growth, now it can
multitask – handle scissors before age,
snip your hare/hair carelessly, throw
styrofoam at the dog to feed, or feed
itself, spill water, urine, oil on the floor,
its generous slickiness. This small
machine of easy wear and tear,
easy blithering, breaking, bleeding,
becoming bone-hard, voluntary
but still the hum of mommy, me,
prized possession, precious substance,
jewel, gem, loved, loving learns melting,
waking under warmth.
More Guest Poems
Paul Surman
Sparrowhawk You have come to rest on a stave of the low wooden fence yards from our window, a desperate look of tired ferocity in your eye. Next to our neighbour's forsythia, your feather cloak's duller shine. You look haughty, like an old nobility fallen on hard...
Frank McMahon
Saving Byzantium Every time he asks, is this allowed? They do not paint God’s face, our enemies. They are ocean, plague, unanswered swords, surely God must love them more? They tell him: this is a settled question and this is your commission, The Triumph of Orthodoxy....
Bert Molsom
Inside the house I am safe, all I want is here. These people tell me – what I think is right. They are my family, think like me, speak like me, behave like me. Outside it doesn’t work as my family say it must. Outside is danger, weakness. We know what is right, the...
Dinah Livingstone
Rose Garden I see things in black and white, he says. He means he sees them plainly with a will proudly to describe the truth in prose and strip away the fantasy and frill. Red rose of passion, yellow rose of peace, the flaming orange and soft violet stir feelings as...
Louise Walker
Jug after Vermeer’s Milkmaid She knows to hold it steady with her left hand, as her right hand tilts the heavy jug – too much milk and the children won’t eat the pudding of yesterday’s bread, crumbled ready on the blue cloth, the Virgin’s colour, like her apron, yet...
Samuel Prince
Agent is Typing... In order to help, I need to get you to the right person, a few questions now, to confirm your identity. Where shall I send the transcript of our conversation? We’ve all got hologram thoughts, biases, perversions, you may feel you were born in the...
Jennie Osborne
On the Line It's cows that block our journey, leave us wrapped in a tunnel of trees,learning – because we have no choice – to be stopped, somewhere near Crewkerne, to look at leaves unblurred by speed, speak to our neighbours, stretch and peer – although we can't see...
Lucinda Carey
Wild Swans of Torquay Queuing in a traffic jam driving to the seafront pre-dusk. Emerald, garnet and diamond illuminations flicker. Oblique shadows crisscross the road. Dwindling rays glance off wing mirrors and chrome fittings. The sea soothes in soft grey, Devon...
Gordon Scapens
Kingfisher A colourful fantasy flung between river banks splashing a drab winter day. It wedges its ego through excited heartbeats of this wrapped-up walker, seeming to ask if I know how to be me. I feel that the flight is a zip opening my mind. I get a feeling of...
Aidan Baker
A Movement Does there exist, and has there ever existed a movement to make the muddy plain strewn with wrecks and lost goods west of Lisbon, that people witnessed some time All Saints' Day morning 1755, the new Atlantic normal all oceans should aspire to? In less than...
Kevin Kiely
Shall I Compare Thee to a Winter’s Day Thank you, Will Shakespeare shall I compare thee to a winter’s day thou art more cold and icy than the snows rough words come clanging as the pay off, red hot anger in your face shows season’s sun as frozen; that’s your lot – nor...
Doris Corti
Through the window Early morning, a small glimpse of cobalt blue, light through a veil of mist and glint of pearl on frosty paths. Silver tipped, the larches gleam in this white light. Strong impression of the sky widening; here and there tints of mauve, a flush of...
Robin Lindsay Wilson
Love and Quantum Theory Nerve end memories of you flicker until the light from so many daybreaks dissolves the searching iris and lens and my flesh edges from its purpose revealing basic bone and mineral. How do we promise everlasting love when only sockets in skulls...
Virginia Betts
Two Benches I never imagined this. Outside a blank, white room, with its blank, white walls. Inside, the clock unwinds; seconds drip steadily down the line, waiting for nature to call time. On a cold metallic bench I wait, suspended; Stop-motion faces speed by;...
Joan McGavin
The Look I’m thinking of the look a woman gave as the mudslide rushed towards her and she turned her face upwards and threw her baby clear. I’m thinking what the last person who saw her saw in her face. No photo fixes it. No artist had time to paint that look....