Welcome to this latest edition of Poetry Space Online Quarterly Showcase featuring the very best of the poems we have received plus one of my own. If you would like to submit your poems or photographs for consideration please send to susan@poetryspace.co.uk by June 10th please for the summer edition. Though we prefer to receive new work, we will publish poems that have appeared in your own collections.
Hera
— Nick Cooke 2025
It seems lightning strikes as oftenas Zeus damn well pleases –him and his spear of a bolt,cleaving the earth on a whim. And so we walk in unquenchable fearof weather rising, spitting death,the gods at their sport again,no odds long enough. But the bolt needs its clarion-call, thunder,and so is not quite omnipotent,just as Zeus was sometimes cowedby his lava-hearted wife who turned his mistress to reptilethat she then made feast on its ownmost tender, still human progeny.A match for Hercules, she struck back whenever crossed, shovingthe notion of absolute powerup its cocksure fundament, makingthe bolt from the black fear itself.
Does this door lead to Camelot?
— Eileen Carney Hulme 2025
We are tie-dyed in Avalona hotel room namedby its ownerswith a four poster bedand slightly tatty wall hangings.After twice tripping overa patterned rugwe decide to move it.It reveals a trap-doorand a caution.The owners are notresponsible for injuriessustained due to opening. This is dare territoryto you but try as you doit will not budge.I walk over creakingfloorboards, place the rugas before and we leaveto explore, with a mapthat leads to Sweet Track.Later, cider-singedyou sleep as I dream-weavethe hours, waking to the whisperof a name, a voicechasing time.
The Lord’s Temptation
— Patricia Brody 2025
To those who gaze on thee / what language could they speak? – Lord Byron If he found mine, would he grabthis chance to pry her tight-shut lids –would his sham, vice-love fail, Would he turn, would he pause, once, just once, recallhis own three daughters lost, ill, pushed aside…Would he see this actual girl –– minegaze upon her, see her real? Would he then, could he thenhand her from his fragrant wreath“one matchless lily” Know you this? The poet made three –Three daughters, yes! Byron’s babes, actual babes.He did love, love them dear, love them pure. But no one then, saved himself for loveNot Byron, not Shelleynot for Mary, not for daughterNot his own, or anyone’s. Note: Ada, his only legal heir, who died at the same age, 36, as her lost father – on her hands and knees in agony from cancer; Allegra, his “natural child” with Clare (Mary Shelley’s half-sister) who died at 5 in an Italian convent; and probably, Medora.
In Which I Ask Forgiveness of My Body
— Rosie Jackson 2025
Dear body, I am trying so hard to love you,even as you lose your beauty. I give thanksfor the miracles, the way you fetch and carry, retrieve clean air, piss out yellow poison daily.I proclaim the wonder of your ligamentsand nerves, dozens of bones in the foot, trillions of synapses firing in the brain,the kindness of this tireless drumming heart.Yet still, I dream of sloughing you off so I can return sleek, unlined, surfthe inside of waves, fall in love againfor the first time, make heads turn. For you, dear body, are all remnant. You aretired flesh that can never be ironed smooth.Forgive me, old snail, my lack of tenderness. You’ve borne my soul so patientlyupon your crumbling back all these years,bear it still as we crawl towards our black hole. Oh body, there is no health in me. Teach meyour uncomplaining love, your path of selflessservice, even as you fail. from Love Leans over the Table, Two Rivers Press 2023.
Jewel in the night
— Judy Dinnen 2025
A jewel born in the night,a fossil bound in layers of time,you blew with the wind,finding your own east and west. You had the strata of an angel;rich seams washed by the tide,pockets of salt and grit,wings that were silver, tarnished all coloursof left and right.Hidden between the notes,the key was ambiguous. You are the sound,heard by the batsin the cave, the tuneI never heard. We meet at 60,with a hundred meaningsin the jet stream,that engulfs us. Ty Newydd 2012
The Dance of Fire
— Judy Dinnen 2025
You remember the fire,the slow simmering,the red-hot coals. They burnt your feetand made you dance. You danced on the stairs.You danced in the night.You danced as you prayed,you danced in your sleep.The day seethed.The night boiled. You danced away from me,away from the seat of the fire.You danced into the starless night,leaving trails of cinders,residues of ash,footprints of pain. I still hold your secrets,in case you want to know.They whisper in empty rooms,smoulder in dark corners,stamp and rage in the shadows.Should I scatter them in the deep? I rarely see you now,so I want to ask;Did you dance the years?Did you dance your story,weave your stepsof heat and mystery?How long was your dance?
Stream
— Lizzie Ballagher 2025
She wanders over fields,her clothes wet with dew,her hair unpinned,and carrying with herthe sound of hemsswishing across grasses,rattling between pebbles. Ignoring pathwaysmade by othersshe creates her own direction:finds, each day,the simplest course.Does not concern herselfabout others’ plans upended,or old adversaries—rock-hard obstructionsin the grit. Sinuously, reflectively,she just windsherself around them—ducks between celandines & violets,carves new waysthrough the field’s old muddles.She is, without apology,herself.
Hellebores
— Lizzie Ballagher 2025
Above sodden earth and under the hiss of rain,waxen buds sprout in January’s drear,unfolding green translucent flamesin this early season of the year. Waxen buds sprout in January’s drear.With brittle days too short of lightin this early season of the year,I long for fire in winter’s blight. With brittle days too short of lightI mark each candle’s flareand long for fire in winter’s blightwhen the moon’s cold face is white and bare. I mark each candle’s lambent flareas petals open once again—white as the moon’s cold face is barein dying winter’s dull moraine. Petals open once again,unfolding green translucent flames.In dying winter’s dull moraine,they rise from damp earth in fresh spring rain.
The Arrival
— Susan Jane Sims 2025
Insidesomeone was playingthe piano.And though unexpectedit seemed fittingfor there to be musicbehind this front door. We had caught up with youin arrivals,having your ID checked.You’d been sent in a taxi.We had followed by tube.Ended with a walk through streets linedwith grand houses. Laterbehind curtains,you undressedand answered their questions,whilst we satin a bright octagonal roomeating sandwiches. A head had popped roundthe door.Prof will be up late afternoonto see Mark,and to talk with all of you.I’ll let you knowwhen he arrives. We nodded.We had run out of words. from Splitting Sunlight, Dempsey & Windle, 2018. Shortlisted in the Second Light Poetry Competition 2017.
Grand Unions
— Andrew Scotson 2025
The land lies flat here and passing through a thick hedge you go under a low bridge and emerge onto the canal bank from were you can see the church spire and hear the bells calling as a swan drifts past. Keep to the main path as the field is wet and the only way to avoid Wistow’s clinging mud is there. You can see cows in the distance grazing on the common ground as a heron passes overhead on its way to the woods. Your ears can’t hear the gunshots or sense the news as it breaks, no station plays in your head as the North screams and peace is shattered here only a canal boat pulls slightly on it’s mooring rope in the soft caress of cold air. Touch the stone as you arrive in the graveyard and read unknown names and unheard dates, there is always a fresh supply as soon will become clear. Touch the soil, feel the grass damp against your palm choose new paths with endings unknown while you still can.
About the editor
Poet, editor and artist, Susan Jane Sims has been running Poetry Space since 2010. She has three collections to her name and has edited or joint-edited many anthologies. Poetry Space is a social enterprise operating from Susan’s home in Beaminster, Dorset, where she is also a chef in the food and arts business she runs with her husband Chris (Tangerine Cafe & Gallery). She has been a poet in schools for many years, a judge in a regional heat of The Poetry by Heart competition and a Hawthornden Fellow in 2018. Susan loves nothing better than bringing people together with community events; her latest venture is a monthly collage group supported by Dorset START.