Ice
Of course you’re hard and cold,
you have teeth, a grip
that sticks to the skin
and peels it off,
but where you come from is liquid,
you were formed like a thought
out of the water
and when I pop you
in my mouth, you melt
into every nerve,
so that even my toes
understand you,
and my eyes reflect
the brief secret of your flesh.
Chris Beckett won first prize in the 2001 Poetry London competition and was shortlisted in the Arvon Competition 2000. His work has been published in Smiths Knoll, Tabla, Poetry London and Tears in the Fence. He lives in London and works in the sugar trade.
Page(s) 74
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
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- Atlas
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
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- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
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- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
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- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The