Poem of the day

The defiance of a flower

by Chiranan Pitpreecha

21 August

They Are Closing The Stations With Beautiful Names

by Claire Lockwood

Even now, and now again, I have it

in mind. Such care to prepare

you little thin things.

 

I would not have you suffer

gristle. One chew, two,

then swallow. Precious little

 

time remains waiting for something

better to come along. It cannot

help but impress and it will like

 

sudden concrete. The ice

cream van arrives. It

jingles. So very neat

 

conclusions are envisaged.

Just enjoy the little

things. The stumble-down

 

rickety fire-escape leant

against rickety house leant

against the pink

 

sky. Its black shambles.

I have it now –

now you see it

 

wrecking the horizon.

The ground beneath

its feet may never move

 

again. It is petrified

by the thought.

Such just cause

 

to hurry about. Skip

steps. Fervent on bambi-legs.

Each small fall calls out:

 

‘Action must be taken!’

20 August

Keys

by Jo Bell

At the corner shop on Union Street,

I dosey-doe around a man my age

who’s just popped out for milk.

He scoots back to his door and opens up.

That serrated sound – the house key going home,

the scrappy jangle of the others on the fob –

is how it was when my door opened to another hand.

I would have been behind him with the fish and chips,

some shopping; finishing a phone call as he let us in.

He would push the door closed with one foot,

step unlooking to the kitchen and the coat hook,

throw the keys onto the side.

There’s the lover’s jingle, there’s the key

that opens a house and clicks it into occupancy.

19 August

My Beautiful Son Cooks Me an Octopus

by Julian Stannard

by hiring a boat in the fishing village of Camogli and heading off

for the waters of Zoagli. He has his hand firmly on the tiller

and he’s telling me that one day he’s going to be a champion boxer.

 

He’s taking me to Zoagli because he wants me to see the fish.

I don’t tell him that when he was born the fish leapt clean out of the sea

nor do I tell him that when his mother was going crazy

 

the fish of Zoagli flew straight into my head and flapped.

I don’t say, Son if you could open my head and let the fish go free

I might take the day off and pretend that life was sweet.

 

18 August

Running a boat

by Tito (Stephen Gill)

17 August

Circling Zero

by Ana Ristovic

16 August

Memory

by Nguyen Bao Chan