Dave Stannard

arts The Committee Weighs In I tell my mother I’ve won the Nobel Prize. Again? she says. Which discipline this time? It’s a little game we play: I pretend I’m somebody, she pretends she isn’t dead. We are no doubt guilty, in this weekly feature, of erring on the side of earnestness, as if poetry might best be defined by its capacity to educate, redress, move, depress or just plain baffle.

arts Nurse at a Bus Stop The slow traffic takes a good long look. Jilted bride of public transport, alone in the shelter, the fireproof bin and shatter-proof glass scrawled with the cave-art of cocks and hearts. It’s late, Friday, the graveyard shift, you’re ready to dab blood from a split lip, to hold the hand of cancer till the line goes flat. Cardigan, sensible shoes, the kids with a neighbour, fobwatch pinned like a medal to your breast. Winter sharpens the day.

arts Eton Mess she added whipped cream took the knife without fuss smashed the blade through and watched the meringue crack like every bad man she was ever taught to love. Laurie Bolger's poem is conspicuous in its brevity, like a stage whisper.