Oatleaf

... I have such respect  For this robin Red breast: how whole he Holds himself, unified And serene. He sensed me as I  Walked up the path, But it was no more my House, my garden, Than his. Sometimes I wonder how He can hold himself so still, How he can be so sure Of the ways of things, And how the wind, and the clear sky, and The heat on his wings are all that Matter. And so I watch him: the poise That is his, his surety of purpose, His elegant disregard of misfortunes that Harangue me every so often, and I think, then, that This, this is respect;   And this is how I hope to be, Wise, in tune with the Wind, the heartbeat and syncopations  Of life. It is the question of reaping the robin  Red breast’s guerdon that troubles me.  ... Bracha K. Sharp was published in the American Poetry Review, the Birmingham Arts Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Wild Roof Journal, Rogue Agent Journal, and the Thimble Literary Magazine, among others. She placed first in t...

... I do not love you because it’s easy. A crop that flowers without water to bloom, yet wilts just as quickly. I love you, Odysseus, because our threads are so intertwined that even the gods could never unravel them. Each day I look out across the rocky crag, a land far beneath the weight of your status and the quiet command of your voice. Yet I never question why you love it so. The light settling gently on open fields, the lambs springing into life. A people not great in wealth, but in character, and in love for their king. You and this island are entwined in fate, as we are in marriage. But it weighs on me, Odysseus. I see you in every blade of grass, every glisten of joy in our son’s eyes. I see you in every inch of our home, and yet your ship is nowhere to be seen on the horizon. The war may have changed you beyond recognition. The husband I waved off with silent tears may never return from Troy. But if all that remains beneath those white sails, sped on by an aged crew, is a str...

... We wandered through dimly lit streets Entertainingly tipsy and talking trouble. The night was young and the moon Danced in your eyes as we stood out of the car roof. My laughter echoing against the Horns that protested us. Your breath was honey whiskey but that Wasn’t what left me intoxicated. It was the memory of us, Living our teenage dreams in our twenties The main character vibes where we didn’t wonder what our next chapter would be ... E. L. Amos is an emerging poet based in the East of England, where she lives with her two cats, Monty and Rasmus. She has earned the 21st Century Emily Dickinson Award for her poetry, and also writes short stories and screenplays. Her works can be found on her Instagram account @elamospoetry. 

September has come to an end and we'd like to say thank you to our wonderful contributors! We are so, so glad that you chose Oatleaf to showcase your work. ... We are grateful to: Joseph K. Wells | Time Is... Claudia Wysocky |  The Melting Clock Bernard Pearson |  Life Guard Luke Meyers |  On the Old High Street Helen Smith |  Washed Up  (September 2025 Competition Winner) ... We appreciate the work you put out into the world!

What got you interested in writing poetry? There was always a great love of language in my home when I was growing up. My parents were enthusiastic readers, and my dad in particular took great pleasure in the sounds of language and words. He would sit me on his knee every night from when I was a tiny toddler, reading stories and poems out loud. I taught myself to read at the age of two, eventually exhausting the children’s section of my local library. Though I didn’t enjoy the study of English Literature at secondary school, I retained that deep internal love of language, holding onto the poetic thread by scribbling song lyrics in the margins of my exercise books. It was a move across the Atlantic in my mid twenties that got me writing properly again; an attempt to fill long empty days and process difficult emotions. Back in the UK, joining the poetry group at my local library encouraged me to share my writing, and it really took off from there. I love how I can capture and distill a f...

... My feet fall down the centre Of the old high street Right past the boarded windows And long closed doors, Your feet fell too, beside mine On the old high street Corners of your mouth turned down At cold dead stores. A hundred other feet fall On the old high street Faces pointed downward and Awash with blue You tugged my sleeve and pointed Down the old high street At zombies that surrounded Both me, and you They shuffled through the shambles Of the old high street None set foot inside a shop All baskets full We stood there, in the centre Of the old high street Whilst husks just wandered, soulless Down the high street new. ... Luke Meyers is a Welsh writer and poet who started writing during Lockdown. He has been published in anthologies by Icebreakers Lit, From One Line, and Muse Pie Press, as well as writing on Bluesky. @sonnetsmith.bsky.social