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Bad Lilies
@badlilies.bsky.social
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A digital poetry journal, edited by @kathryngray.bsky.social and @andrewjamesneilson.bsky.social Enjoy our blooms! badlilies.uk
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Bad Lilies @badlilies.bsky.social · 26d
OUT NOW. Issue Twenty-Two: 'Ghost Ship'. badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two
Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies
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We have now reached 2,500 unique visitors for our latest issue! Read it here: badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two
Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies
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November 21, 2025 at 6:10 PM
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We have now reached 2,500 unique visitors for our latest issue! Read it here: badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two
Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies
badlilies.uk
November 21, 2025 at 6:10 PM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
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We've finished spotlighting the poets in our new issue! Read the whole thing here badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two
Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies
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November 8, 2025 at 5:44 PM
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bookgaga.bsky.social
"A professor
at an elite Canadian university tells us that
the whole of your work has little to sustain
a reader’s interest."

#TodaysPoem #poetry
In Defence of Red Caitlin by @zoebrigley.bsky.social (2025 @badlilies.bsky.social) www.badlilies.uk/zoe-brigley-1
Zoë Brigley — Bad Lilies
A poem by Zoë Brigley
www.badlilies.uk
November 7, 2025 at 3:04 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
We've finished spotlighting the poets in our new issue! Read the whole thing here badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two
Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies
badlilies.uk
November 8, 2025 at 5:44 PM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
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'Dissent at the Temple of Gemini' by @austinwriting.bsky.social badlilies.uk/austin-allen-2
Dissent at the Temple of Gemini None of us loves the Leader all that much, although, of course, we keep this to ourselves whenever Sphere and Azure are around. Azure might look the other way, but Sphere (always with that damn tablet in his garment) would have you written up before first light and E-5'd straight into the Outer Zone. True, that's his role, but it's the way he plays it—
November 7, 2025 at 4:39 PM
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Two poems by Rafael Peñas Cruz badlilies.uk/rafael-penas-cruz
from Running Thoughts 4 Unnerved at first by the buzzard's low flying approach towards me, diving so close that I could hear the displaced air as its wings cut through it, I understood the bird wished me away from the secret tree where it keeps its chicks. But perhaps it just wanted to befriend me. It keeps coming to me, hovering above, as I lie down to rest and take in the morning's scents and sounds, its colours. I pause for a while and try not to think about anything, just blanking out my mind, delving into the emptiness of everything, much as the buzzard delves into the great East Anglia sky.
November 7, 2025 at 2:42 PM
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'Dissent at the Temple of Gemini' by @austinwriting.bsky.social badlilies.uk/austin-allen-2
Dissent at the Temple of Gemini None of us loves the Leader all that much, although, of course, we keep this to ourselves whenever Sphere and Azure are around. Azure might look the other way, but Sphere (always with that damn tablet in his garment) would have you written up before first light and E-5'd straight into the Outer Zone. True, that's his role, but it's the way he plays it—
November 7, 2025 at 4:39 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
Two poems by Rafael Peñas Cruz badlilies.uk/rafael-penas-cruz
from Running Thoughts 4 Unnerved at first by the buzzard's low flying approach towards me, diving so close that I could hear the displaced air as its wings cut through it, I understood the bird wished me away from the secret tree where it keeps its chicks. But perhaps it just wanted to befriend me. It keeps coming to me, hovering above, as I lie down to rest and take in the morning's scents and sounds, its colours. I pause for a while and try not to think about anything, just blanking out my mind, delving into the emptiness of everything, much as the buzzard delves into the great East Anglia sky.
November 7, 2025 at 2:42 PM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
lkiew.bsky.social
Thrilled to have my poem out in such glorious company @badlilies.bsky.social
November 6, 2025 at 9:01 PM
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'Matrilinear' by @lkiew.bsky.social badlilies.uk/l-kiew
Matrilinear (after Gego, Tronco No 2, (Trunk), 1975) Mama Ele twists shadows left and right; long nose reaches, grabs, tugs and presses constantly. Sun warms networked neurons, hairlines of sway and slack. Trunk tip touches, tangles up planes, creates volumes and nets of space. She delineates worlds, the trails her daughters follow, how a line operates and beyond.
November 6, 2025 at 2:23 PM
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'Shrimp Saganaki' by Paul Stephenson badlilies.uk/paul-stephenson-2
Shrimp Saganaki 'I really like things that straddle' was the last phrase that left Jim's mouth before he ran across the road to meet his girlfriend Lisa to catch the catamaran to the next small island at high-speed. 'Straddle' was his final word as he stood up at the pavement table unsure of paying inside or out, even of staying longer, until he got the sudden call, and if the truth be told, he was himself a straddler of sorts, something between
November 6, 2025 at 12:13 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
'Matrilinear' by @lkiew.bsky.social badlilies.uk/l-kiew
Matrilinear (after Gego, Tronco No 2, (Trunk), 1975) Mama Ele twists shadows left and right; long nose reaches, grabs, tugs and presses constantly. Sun warms networked neurons, hairlines of sway and slack. Trunk tip touches, tangles up planes, creates volumes and nets of space. She delineates worlds, the trails her daughters follow, how a line operates and beyond.
November 6, 2025 at 2:23 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
'Shrimp Saganaki' by Paul Stephenson badlilies.uk/paul-stephenson-2
Shrimp Saganaki 'I really like things that straddle' was the last phrase that left Jim's mouth before he ran across the road to meet his girlfriend Lisa to catch the catamaran to the next small island at high-speed. 'Straddle' was his final word as he stood up at the pavement table unsure of paying inside or out, even of staying longer, until he got the sudden call, and if the truth be told, he was himself a straddler of sorts, something between
November 6, 2025 at 12:13 PM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
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Three poems by @timturnbull.bsky.social badlilies.uk/tim-turnbull
Ghost Ship In the umbrous gloom of the North Atlantic a familiar but indistinct shape glides, slipping quietly between ice bergs and floes. No one sees it pass. Lookouts of warships and cargo vessels alike turn away while sonar registers nothing at all. Under the surface, bathyscaphe footage confirms a soundlessly decaying hulk, iron plates and bulkheads crumbling in salt, obscured by algal blooms and encrustations, host to rubbery, dead-eyed brutish things, home to scuttling, awful armoured things,
November 5, 2025 at 2:08 PM
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'Oregon' by Mel Tibbs badlilies.uk/mel-tibbs
Oregon We drive so far. Places slide past the window: Chuckanut, Samish, Tillicum. A paper bag greased with the spice of Portland potatoes, jojos - quirk of the country's upper left corner.
November 5, 2025 at 10:35 AM
badlilies.bsky.social
Three poems by @timturnbull.bsky.social badlilies.uk/tim-turnbull
Ghost Ship In the umbrous gloom of the North Atlantic a familiar but indistinct shape glides, slipping quietly between ice bergs and floes. No one sees it pass. Lookouts of warships and cargo vessels alike turn away while sonar registers nothing at all. Under the surface, bathyscaphe footage confirms a soundlessly decaying hulk, iron plates and bulkheads crumbling in salt, obscured by algal blooms and encrustations, host to rubbery, dead-eyed brutish things, home to scuttling, awful armoured things,
November 5, 2025 at 2:08 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
'Oregon' by Mel Tibbs badlilies.uk/mel-tibbs
Oregon We drive so far. Places slide past the window: Chuckanut, Samish, Tillicum. A paper bag greased with the spice of Portland potatoes, jojos - quirk of the country's upper left corner.
November 5, 2025 at 10:35 AM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
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Three poems by @ravoon.bsky.social badlilies.uk/graeme-richardson-1
Oxford Triptych In Holywell Cemetery Swirling iron, craquelure and rust, shuddering with slowly crawling cars. Earth absorbs the poison with the dust; graves await an amaranthine grass. Tourists come to look for Kenneth Grahame's, noting that it first contained his son. Elder covers up the single names, Heberden and Pater overrun. Study a disaster, love a grief. Trying to make it better makes it worse. Restoration left to a naif brandishing the bluntest secateurs. Loving without knowing isn't love. Knowing without loving is half-known. Lovers know they never know enough. Scholars know they end up here alone. So, through love or wisdom, we perform homage to what's dead as though we must. Sunset glows against the coming storm: swirling iron, craquelure and rust.
November 4, 2025 at 12:08 PM
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'Melted cockerel' by @betarish.bsky.social badlilies.uk/rishi-dastidar
Melted cockerel At Notre-Dame Selfies under a crown of thorns. An American explains the cockerel to the tour guide; I presume she curses him silently in a third language. A girl in lace, eyes candle-wicked shut, prays to Saint Joan. Her flag is sharp; god I'd like to believe; how do you do it, turn it on like a tap? Always, They text, with these questions, when you step into this gilded Time Machine. I can read your mind; so I know you said Luther was right. You'd like to lose the fear, disappear? Faith is a texture. Buy the rosary, pretend it's a bracelet; enjoy the crucifix digging into your veins, gently. Feeling alive isn't the sin you think it is, but believing it trumps all is.
November 4, 2025 at 10:28 AM
badlilies.bsky.social
Three poems by @ravoon.bsky.social badlilies.uk/graeme-richardson-1
Oxford Triptych In Holywell Cemetery Swirling iron, craquelure and rust, shuddering with slowly crawling cars. Earth absorbs the poison with the dust; graves await an amaranthine grass. Tourists come to look for Kenneth Grahame's, noting that it first contained his son. Elder covers up the single names, Heberden and Pater overrun. Study a disaster, love a grief. Trying to make it better makes it worse. Restoration left to a naif brandishing the bluntest secateurs. Loving without knowing isn't love. Knowing without loving is half-known. Lovers know they never know enough. Scholars know they end up here alone. So, through love or wisdom, we perform homage to what's dead as though we must. Sunset glows against the coming storm: swirling iron, craquelure and rust.
November 4, 2025 at 12:08 PM
badlilies.bsky.social
'Melted cockerel' by @betarish.bsky.social badlilies.uk/rishi-dastidar
Melted cockerel At Notre-Dame Selfies under a crown of thorns. An American explains the cockerel to the tour guide; I presume she curses him silently in a third language. A girl in lace, eyes candle-wicked shut, prays to Saint Joan. Her flag is sharp; god I'd like to believe; how do you do it, turn it on like a tap? Always, They text, with these questions, when you step into this gilded Time Machine. I can read your mind; so I know you said Luther was right. You'd like to lose the fear, disappear? Faith is a texture. Buy the rosary, pretend it's a bracelet; enjoy the crucifix digging into your veins, gently. Feeling alive isn't the sin you think it is, but believing it trumps all is.
November 4, 2025 at 10:28 AM
Reposted by Bad Lilies
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'In Defence of Red Caitlin' by
@zoebrigley.bsky.social
badlilies.uk/zoe-brigley-1
In Defence of Red Caitlin i.m. Caitlin Macnamara (later Thomas, wife of the poet Dylan Thomas) 1913-1994 Dear Caitlin, all those things they said when they reviewed your grim autobiography. They tell us you are haunted and confused, that the chapters describing your happy childhood with your bisexual, bohemian mother are dull, but you are also outrageous, obnoxious and irresponsible leading a life of squalor and madness, neglectful of children, full of hatred and self-loathing,
November 3, 2025 at 1:40 PM
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Three poems by @kristianevans.bsky.social badlilies.uk/kristian-evans
Nettles i.m. my father Eifion Evans 1956-2022 Someone has gone down the lane, taken it upon themselves to slash the nettles back. In the sky a busy pungent ghost is telling tales, dumb riddles, breathless clecs in perfume, the sweet aftermath. Once upon a time. As night follows day. How many years now have passed? I remember your magnifying glass, pointing out the brittle needles. I need prayer, solid words to cry, a sting to sign. My hand in your hand held fast.
November 3, 2025 at 10:17 AM
badlilies.bsky.social
'In Defence of Red Caitlin' by
@zoebrigley.bsky.social
badlilies.uk/zoe-brigley-1
In Defence of Red Caitlin i.m. Caitlin Macnamara (later Thomas, wife of the poet Dylan Thomas) 1913-1994 Dear Caitlin, all those things they said when they reviewed your grim autobiography. They tell us you are haunted and confused, that the chapters describing your happy childhood with your bisexual, bohemian mother are dull, but you are also outrageous, obnoxious and irresponsible leading a life of squalor and madness, neglectful of children, full of hatred and self-loathing,
November 3, 2025 at 1:40 PM