I capture nebulae
with my deft fingers.
I pluck them from the sky,
then squeeze and mould
There are solar flares on
the back of my hands,
the skin aged with experience.
I snap clouds of stars in half
and savour the spark as
burning jewels fly out
into my palms,
scattered, like glitter
or dust.

By Nora Selmani



There’s an empty space between us – you and me,
An inter-stellar gulf so deep, so wide I cannot cross.
But you across the distance I can see,
And life without you is no win, just loss.

So I can only type these miserable lines
That lack all meter, just pathetic rhymes –
As if with these I may set out my thoughts
And feelings in mock-epic stanzas wrought

With emotions real or imagined ‘cause they should
Be in my head, and be with you I would
If I had but ability or skill
With words and actions, but your looks they kill
Me when I try to speak;

I am reduced to parroting your speech,
And lose myself deep in your steely eyes
To wake up castaway on some far beach:
Carried there tossed by wind on waves and tide,
Seagulls croak your name from mocking beaks,
I am forgotten, in misery deep I hide.

I have no one to blame but me:
I left the ‘empty field’ for another,
Thought I had nothing to give, everything to take –
Which could well be true:
I wanted no ‘rebound’ love.

Do I want you, or the idea of you?
I want to say you,
But He has the horrific ‘rights’ of you.
Between us, we brokered your soul.
My Faustus to his Mephistopheles,
A bargain I thought meant little:
It meant everything.

By William Taylor  


They never knew that
there would be a final civilisation.
Crowded their towns to the brim
and migrated to Metropolis.
They concreted the city on all sides
architects of their own disintegration
building bricks into space.

Plato watches them from a Tower
peering through the stratosphere
laughing or crying.

The rulers are anonymous.
They cherish vacuum
and  hide away and appreciate luxuries
and Epicurean fantasies
that they do not deserve.

They congregate in the basements
of buildings derelict and vandalised
and paint images on the walls

To deceive and destroy the people
Who are misled and
manipulated by mosaics;


This is art for money.
Not love.

By James Reeve

Miss Doldrum & The Space Man.

Fitting so well into the skyline
The horizon wouldn’t look the same
without you pointing church-spire fingers to
an open sky.

Daring not to take up space,
Her shrinking circumference is
a carved out apple core,
an hourglass losing sand.

You belch your baritone across continents
the ripples of your footsteps
are still being felt.
You are an earthquake.

While the four corners of her bed,
are a perimeter of calm
The dead spaces between her words,
a chasm.

By Jessica Syposz


The sky is a canvas full of bullet holes,
shot through to see the other side.
I lie in my metal pod and imagine a light
brighter than a thousand interrogation bulbs.

There are stars on my ceiling where the paint
chipped off. Constellations burn behind my eyelids.
Plastic monsters used to glow from my ceiling.
I dreamt of walking with dinosaurs.
Now my eyes paint galaxies onto the walls
which spin at my command.

Five hundred men
in five hundred beds
imagine five hundred skies
and never meet.

By Georgie Tindale


Each week The Student Review publishes a collection of poems about a particular topic or theme. For this week’s theme, or to submit a poem, go here.