By Nadia Lines

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Nadia Lines I go to a museum today and say hello to the light living there – what is gone, and imagine what I can let live on. I read a book today to remember an experience that I cannot understand and cannot have, to dredge up poetry. I paint […]


By Aldwin Li

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Aldwin Li Today I will go to a museum. I will greet its colours, both light and dark – I will wish its past well; welcome my future. Today I will read a book and recall little things, life, the lives of men – and call them to me; craft […]

According to Google Translate

By Olivia Todd

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Olivia Todd The inspiration to use Google Translate comes from my secondary school Spanish teacher Miss Qureshi, who always warned us against using it. Today I am going to go to a museum to go to work; greet those living things there, light and shine. To forget the past and […]


By Beth Bayliss

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Beth Bayliss today my task is to go to a museum; to meet the colours that call it home, to greet the lights and the shadows: to forget the past and to dream of the future. today my task is to read a book; to recall an everyday quality of […]

Today I’ll sit in the museum

By William Snelling

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by William Snelling Today I’ll sit in the museum to greet the gold-fringed things, the ancient masks in lit-up glass, to leave behind these drab habits and salvage some new light. Today I’ll sit between the pages that speak the street din and its pale dreams. Then I’ll write a poem […]

danse des vivants

By Daniel Baksi

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Daniel Baksi i roll down piccadilly to see Franz Kline capturing a room with his alphabet of black and white – i breathe through the bodies and chiaroscuro of it. to mayfair library, where the woman at the counter recommends me Àgua Viva. the spine harbours a resin of blood […]


By Isabella Jiang

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Isabella Jiang Today my work is found             in the depths of a museum—to greet the shadows, the many suns             & hues within: to sweep the past aside, as sooted hair, & let             the fancies pierce to the fore. Today my work is to read a book—to turn […]

I Saw

By Ellora Sutton

A translation of ‘Այսօր’ (‘Aysor’) by Lola Koundakjian, tr. Ellora Sutton Today I will go to a museum and embrace all the colours in the walls, the genius, the chiaroscuro. Gorge on the long spectrum of yesterdays, grow fat with the impossible embryo of tomorrow. Today I will read a book, break bread with dust, […]

Today I am

By Maia Brown

by Lola Koundakjian, translated by Maia Brown Today I am a gallery; my walls breathing colour, inviting ideas from the shadows into the visiting light of the present. Today I am a book, worlds recalled between my pages; lives exchanged and invigorated, crafting the everyday anew. Today I am a page of paper; paint teasing […]

Heading home, dusk

By Anna Szabó

Heading home, dusk, in the park the homeless chew their apples. In the bright, big, empty bank lights flicker on the plastic Christmas tree. A dark window catches her image and she steps out of this tight frame. Who emerges? She stops. She always stops here, she wants to know. Perhaps now it will make […]


By Tom Rowe

I am the first of a new genus. I say to the insulating skin. I say to the motor of the feet. I say to the dent in the femur. I say to the alloys of the alleles. I say to the polished gleam of the bicep. I say to the rusting of the curtseying […]


By Eve Perrins

I am very bothered when I remember all the terrible things I have heard. Especially when we are told the world is changing. If I am disgusted at the stories steeped in pain and left to brew in misery what do the victims feel? When their leggings/ skirts/ shorts are held under the weight of […]

More Than Organised Dust

By Olivia Todd

All women are more than organised dust. During those silent hours, my mind sailed. Put faith in the ones you know you can trust. My desire to learn was seen as lust. Eve set the world spinning for us — God failed. All women are more than organised dust. In Newington Green, I did what […]

On the Skagerrak Sea, with child

By Ellora Sutton

“It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy & sorrow, should only be organised dust … sometimes, when the sea was calm, I was amused by disturbing young star fish which floated just below the surface.” – Mary Wollstonecraft In the waves […]


By Rachel Bruce

“Taught from their infancy that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming around its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.” – Mary Wollstonecraft Bones bones bones, Hanging from my lips are bones. Seeing bones, feeling bones, Hips, ribs and hidden bones, A ribbed cage. I wrap tinsel […]


By Jack Cooper

My reputation died with me, so what? Decay is a wonderful smith. Bury a body of flesh or work, its skeleton slips through the fervid rot, awaiting a curious eye. Take these bare bones, do you see? I was the first of our genus, the squat fish to your swallow; dragging myself to new ground, […]

To my baby

By Alice Broadbent

“It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world.” – Mary Wollstonecraft Sweet girl, Don’t give too much, for people don’t always keep their promises, but love them anyway.

Ramadan, 2019

By Fathima Zahra

We stalk the moon all month round, lick  our lips, till the Adhan goes off on our phones, dig our teeth into the soft flesh of dates, wash it down with Roohafza, rinse and repeat. The  scholars paste their eyes to the sky, the crowds  trade their eyeballs for telescopes, watch the  moon turn bashful, […]

For Exile, or Chang’e Speaks from the Moon

By Natalie Linh Bolderston

Here, I am closer to the gaps in the sky where nine suns fell. I can touch the trails left by my husband’s arrows, where the night was almost unseamed. And Mother, I can look down at the clouds that drag like the hem of your dress. I can see the valley where you taught […]

Christmas Moon

By Max Dixon

The moon looking down at the carol singers. The moon looking down at carrots for the reindeer, wishing he could eat them.

Moon Watching

By Sophie Orman

I’m in my bedroom staring at the moon, wondering if I could ever visit him. From here, it looks like the moon is      dancing in the light, as my shadow creeps across it.


By Ellora Sutton

laying in a bed of forget-me-nots and wild garlic all Ophelia       all bone and froth, you know, the way they paint girls             I saw a dolphin arc over the moon, that great voluptuous croak                         (I kid you not) and then I looked around and                         I was laying on the moon, and it […]


By Jack Cooper

The Earth held tight to what it had been given; those clear skies, that startling life. It held me to be a woman, gravity-bound. Wife with no husband, mother to the stars. A goring crescent. Sharp slice of lithium consuming itself. I was Selene and Sina, stray Chang’e, a goddess dissolving on the night’s tongue […]

Abe no Nakamaro’s moon

By Charlotte Chalkley

old Mount Mikasa under the unchanging glow waited, too – in vain nightly rose the cry: two shipwrecks and a war away lies my native land but the rabbit, hunched, pounding eternal rice cakes lends no ears to sorrow and so the poet immortalised by his longing lays his brush to rest.

“Oh you know how it is, women and their little phases…”

By Amy Wolstenholme

Still they say I am moon full, swollen with light and spilling over floorboards. Rippling with tides, roaring with dreams, ready to consume and ready to release,           bleached          white bones                          flung           to a bleached  white beach. Still they say I am moon stung, hymning […]

The Moon as Different Types of Food

By Nadia Lines

What about Cheerios, awash  in the milk of the night or the chalk dust of toast – imagine the stars swiped from the sky by a napkin.  A cereal bar, with rivers  of yogurt and chocolate  aliens of dried apple – I am decorated with wrappers like aeronautical debris.   My granddad told me the moon […]

My mother’s last mid-autumn festival in Saigon, 1977

By Natalie Linh Bolderston

A Golden Shovel after ‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’ by Ocean Vuong You light candles for every ghost of your blood, bend to say your prayers, burn joss to mask the smell of surrender. You pile plastic fruit at the shrine and queue for rations. Remember to say cảm ơn, even in the eye of […]

Morning After

By Mathilda Armiger

A Golden Shovel after‘Party Piece’ by Brian Patten   let’s   forget it           how we cut flares like night steamers          the way we can clip and unclip   each other’s bright wires        worm our currents down to earth         our […]

Brown girls’ anthem

By Fathima Zahra

A Golden Shovel after ‘Call Me by Your Name’ by André Aciman We die so many deaths before we turn twenty. We, the schoolyard Kardashians. We sew our stories, rip them out as the schoolbus pulls up at our door. We out cast our vile tongues so the aunties won’t. Scrape it so they won’t […]

Hilly City Ode

By William Snelling

A Golden Shovel after ‘Fern Hill’ by Dylan Thomas Funny how the spring rain unscrews the time sending the clouds scattered ahead that had been held fixed like memory for months, nowhere for me to look; now branches drip overhead, fat and green droplets like crystal earrings glittering and singing on tarmac like there’s no […]