Imogen Wade
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imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
Imogen Wade
@imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
270 followers 170 following 9 posts
Here for the poems ❤️
https://lutyensrubinstein.co.uk/authors/imogen-wade
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imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
‘Argos’ from The Montreal Poetry Prize Anthology 2024, which arrived last week 🌼

#poetry #poem #writer
July 11, 2025 at 9:47 PM
imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
A bit of Ada Limón to keep you company 🩷
May 15, 2025 at 9:20 PM
imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
Congratulations to Fran McMahon, our 18+ winner of the inaugural Harlow Open Poetry Competition, as well as our eight other poets ✍🏻

How amazing to have supported community arts in my hometown!

Thank you to the other judges Carmella de Keyser, Ruth Stickley and Kasey Brazier 👏🏻

#harlow
May 12, 2025 at 10:06 AM
imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
I found a signed copy of ‘Dwell’ by Simon Armitage, illustrated by Beth Munro, in The Edge of the World Bookshop in Penzance. What a tender and important book 🍃 🌳
May 10, 2025 at 7:33 AM
imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
I’m so happy to be part of Seashells Magazine, honouring creative women with a connection to Cornwall, edited by Claire Wilde. I’m honoured to be featured alongside other female artists spanning two hundred years 💛
Messages From Heaven Boscawen Park, Truro I live next to a pond and have spent three years carefully studying its inhabitants— geese, mallards, pintails, swans. I’ve seen them fight; howl cacophony like an opera; fall in love; fall in hate; become entangled in murderous conspiracies; kill each other’s babies; call out the names of those who’ve wronged them. But I’ve never seen them bother with the stars. It’s human beings who pray—which is unfashionable but everyone does it anyway. We all worship something and only the moon knows quite what. I think, unlike me, birds sense the quiet apathy of the world. Or maybe all that exists for them is pond, river, sky. Or maybe they wrestle with the all-knowing rain. Leaving Cornwall Did you hear that I’m leaving the turquoise sea, the cairns, the white lighthouse, a round castle, a lounge level with the trees; the gorse that my friend says smells like coconut if you crush it, but I never crushed it; graves, yes, even the graves and dolmens under the moon? Did you hear that I’m leaving the silver stars and buzzards poised in question; temples of rainforest; clear water; purple flowers sprouting from cliffs; hills of clay; mine chimneys like exclamation marks over the fields? The high tide sings like ellipses and I’m a comma trapped inside a raindrop. Oh, I say, like a refrain in an old poem—oh, I say, I’ll miss you like the honeybees miss sun.
April 26, 2025 at 6:49 AM
imogen-wade-poetry.bsky.social
‘Message’, first published by The London Magazine 🦗 🌙
March 21, 2025 at 8:00 PM