Category: 25 Pins in a packet women creators
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I speak in those words suddenly
That rise once in the soul. So sharply comes
The musty odour of an old sachet,
A bee hums on a white chrysanthemum.
And the room , where light strikes through slits,
Cherishes love, for here it is still new.
A bed, with a french inscription over it,
Reading : ‘ Seigneur , ayez pitié de nous.
‘Of such a lived-through legend the sad strokes
You must not touch, my soul, nor seek to do…
of Sèvres statuettes the brilliant cloaks
I see are darkening and wearing through.
Yellow and heavy, one last ray has poured
Into a fresh bouquet of dahlias
And hardened there. And I hear viols play
And of a clavecin the rare accord..
- From: Anna Akhmatova, Selected Poems , Trans. D M Thomas with a foreword by Carol Ann Duffy.Vintage Books 2009.
- Image of Anna Akhmatova by Olga Della-Vos-Kardovskaya
- Alla Bayanova sings Anna Akhmatova: “Chernye kosy”
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko (1889 –1966) is better known by the pen name Anna Akhmatova. She was a Russian modernist poet, one of the most acclaimed writers in the Russian canon.Akhmatova’s work ranges from short lyric poems to intricately structured cycles, such as Requiem (1935–40), her tragic masterpiece about the Stalinist terror. Her style, characterised by its economy and emotional restraint, was strikingly original and distinctive to her contemporaries. The strong and clear leading female voice struck a new chord in Russian poetry. Her writing can be said to fall into two periods – the early work (1912–25) and her later work (from around 1936 until her death), divided by a decade of reduced literary output. Her work was condemned and censored by Stalinist authorities and she is notable for choosing not to emigrate, and remaining in Russia, acting as witness to the atrocities around her. Her perennial themes include meditations on time and memory, and the difficulties of living and writing in the shadow of Stalinism. (Wiki)
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Mo Mháistir Dorcha.
Táimse in aimsir ag an mbás
eadrainn tá coinníollacha tairrice
réitíomair le chéile ar feadh tréimhse is spás
aimsire, achar roinnt bliana is lae mar a cheapas-sa.Bhuaileas leis ag margadh na saoire.
D’iarr sé orm an rabhas hire-áilte.
‘Is maith mar a tharla ; máistir ag lorg cailín
is cailín ag lorg máistir .’Ní rabhas ach in aois a naoi déag
nuair a chuas leis ar dtúis faoi chonradh.
Do shíneas mo laímh leis an bpár
is bhí sé láithreacha ina mharghadh.Do chuir sé a chruacaí in lár
cé nar thug sé brútail ná drochíde orm.
Ba chosúla le greas suirí nó grá
an caidreamh a bhí eadrainn.Is tugam a tháinte dubha chun abhann,
buaibh ud na n-adharca fada.
Luíonn siad sios i móinéir.
Bím á n-aoireacht ar chnoc san imigéin
atá glas agus féarach.Seolaim ar imeall an uisce iad
is gaibheann siad scíth agus suaímhneas.
Treoraím lem shlat is lem bhacall iad
trí ghleannta an uaigneas .from : Poetry, Contemporary Irish poetry Oct-Nov 1995. Ed Chris Agee.
My Dark Master
Translated by Paul Muldoon
I’ve gone and hired myself out, I’ve hired myself out to
Death.
We drew up a contract and set the seal
on it by spitting in our palms. I would go with him to
Lateeve
for a year and a day—at least, that was the deal
–
as I remember it. When I met him at the hiring-fair
he inquired if I’d yet
been taken: ‘What a stroke of luck,’ he declared,
‘when a master who’s set on a maid finds a maid who’s set
–
on a master.’ I was only nineteen years old
at the time the bargain was struck.
I made my mark on a bit of paper and was indentured
on the spot. What a stroke of luck,
–
I declare, what a stroke of luck that I fell
into his clutches. Not, I should emphasize again,
that he meddled with or molested me for, to tell
you the truth, our relationship was always much more akin
–
to walking out, or going steady. I lead his blue-black cows
with their fabulously long horns
to water. They lie down in pastures of clover and fescue
and Lucerne. I follow them over hills faraway and green.
–
I lead them down beside Lough Duff
where they find rest and where they are restored.
I drive them with my rod and my staff
through the valleys of loneliness. Then I might herd
–
them to a mountain-pass, to a summit
where they browse on bog-asphodel and where I, when I
look down, get somewhat dizzy. His realm extends as far as the eye
–
can see and beyond, so much so
a body might be forgiven for thinking the whole
world’s under his sway. Particularly after the sough-sighs
of suffering souls
–
from the darkness. He himself has riches that are untold,
coming down as he is with jewels and gems.
Even John Damer of Shronel, even his piles of gold
would be horse-shit compared to them.
–
I’ve hired myself out to death. And I’m afraid that I’ll not
ever be let go. What I’ll have at the end of the day
I’ve absolutely no idea, either in terms of three hots and a cot
íor if I’ll be allowed to say my say. -
This morning it is reported that nine poets are disputing the Arts Council cuts in England. Poetry is an encounter, and always surprising, so I am adding in here the links and reports on what is (imo) a most utilitarian and pedestrian set of decisions regarding funding cuts across the water.
Nine leading poets call for ACE rethink on PBS cut.
“Nine of the UK’s leading poets, including laureate Carol Ann Duffy, Blake Morrison and Don Paterson, have called for Arts Council England (ACE) to “urgently reconsider their decision” to withdraw funding from the Poetry Book Society (PBS). The ACE has scheduled a meeting with PBS board members for Monday [4th April].
In a letter published in today’s Times, the poets said they were “shocked that the Arts Council has decided to withdraw all funding from the Poetry Book Society, a widely respected and unique organisation that selects outstanding poetry collections for readers and libraries.
The PBS also administers the T S Eliot Prize, an award for new collections of poetry in English, and has supported works in translation. It was established by Sir Stephen Spender, with T S Eliot and Philip Larkin among previous board members.
In the letter, the poets, which also included Simon Armitage, Wendy Cope, David Harsent, Jo Shapcott, Christopher Reid and George Szirtes, added: “We ask the Arts Council to urgently reconsider their decision which will have a devastating impact on poets, publishers and, especially, on readers of contemporary poetry.”
Vice-chair of the PBS board, Desmond Clarke, said ACE has now contacted the PBS and arranged a meeting for Monday [4th April]. He said: “Clearly the PBS and the T S Eliot Prize are the most high-profile casualty of the Arts Council cuts. This letter is very powerful and it’s great that nine of our country’s leading poets have come out in support. To lose the T S Eliot Prize, the highest profile prize in the English language, would be very very sad.”
Save the Poetry Book Society
Here is the Poetry Book Society Petition-link, both Salt Publishing and the Poetry Book Society have suffered 0% funding, similar indeed , to the cuts to our Irish Writer’s Centres, which are areas of resource for writers :
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Serenade: Any Man to Any Woman
Dark angel who art clear and straight
As canon shining in the air,
Your blackness doth invade my mind
And thunderous as the armored wind
That rained on Europe is your hair;And so I love you till I die—
(Unfaithful I, the canon’s mate):
Forgive my love of such brief span,
But fickle is the flesh of man,
and death’s cold puts the passion out.I’ll woo you with a serenade—
The wolfish howls the starving made;
And lies shall be your canopy
To shield you from the freezing sky.
Yet when I clasp you in my arms—
Who are my sleep, the zero hour
That clothes, instead of flesh, my heart,—
You in my heaven have no part,
For you, my mirage broken in flower,
Can never see what dead men know!
Then die with me and be my love:
The grave shall be your shady grove
And in your pleasaunce rivers flow
(To ripen this new paradise)
From a more universal flood
Than Noah knew: But yours is blood.
Yet still you will imperfect be
That in my heart the death’s chill grows,
—A rainbow shining in the night,
Born of my tears … your lips, the bright
Summer-old folly of the rose.
Serenade: Any Man to Any Woman by Edith Sitwell
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Strip-Tease
A poet
must talk in riddles
if he will not risk himself
for fear
of public eye and tongue
blaspheming privacies :
a host
of leeches sucking parallels
carnivores to strip his shivering secrecies
wrapped
intricately. he should be
silent or speak out.
No one
asked for
his arbitrary offerings.
- from Sarah in Passing , by Eithne Strong. Dolmen Books 1974.
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Silly Me …
by Nessa O Mahony
to think the beech would shiver differently today.
It’s felt the breeze for aeons though the leaves
still tremble to that touch.Why expect another shade of blue
behind those tossed-sheet clouds?Imagine thinking that the sun might dance
or my face would give the game away.
If I remember not to smile.From Bartalk, by Nessa O Mahony
.
Sancreed Well
by Nessa O Mahony
A mouth into the earth,
a gape of flags
beside the rubble
of the early church.
No other sign,
no fragment cloths
tied to twigs with faith.
Just steps deep down,
worn slippy by the weight
of pilgrim hopes
and the steady drip,
the water-carried beat
of prayer.
In the clammy air
nowhere to look
but down, deep down
into the blackened pool,
and in the moss-lined font
nothing to see
but your own face,
staring your rippled question
back at you.from Bartalk, http://www.irishliteraryrevival.com/nessa-omahony/
Re: Irish Literary Revival and Creative Commons Licences.
This means that the works can be shared under the licensing of Attribution, no derivatives (alterations or adaptions) and not for commercial purposes. I am linking here to the wonderful Irish literary Revival Site and to Nessa’s blog-space: For information on Poetry and blogging, those people interested in Intellectual property rights and literary dissemination should look at Creative Commons and a Poetry Foundation Document, which I have previously published here.
Related Links.
- Code of Best practices in Fair Use for Poetry, Poetry Foundation
- Creative Commons Homepage
- http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/legalcode
- Nessa O Mahony blog http://nessaomahony.wordpress.com/
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In the Storm of Roses, by Ingeborg Bachmann.
“Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.”The Broken Heart by Ingeborg Bachmann
“News o’ grief had overteaken
Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken;
There she zot, wi’ breast a-heaven,
While vrom zide to zide, wi’ grieven,
Vell her head, wi’ tears a-creepen
Down her cheaks, in bitter weepen.
There wer still the ribbon-bow
She tied avore her hour ov woe,
An’ there wer still the hans that tied it
Hangen white,
Or wringen tight,
In ceare that drowned all ceare bezide it.When a man, wi’ heartless slighten,
Mid become a maiden’s blighten,
He mid cearelessly vorseake her,
But must answer to her Meaker;
He mid slight, wi’ selfish blindness,
All her deeds o’ loven-kindness,
God wull waigh ’em wi’ the slighten
That mid be her love’s requiten;
He do look on each deceiver,
He do know
What weight o’ woe
Do break the heart ov ev’ry griever.”
-
Flaxman
by Margaret Fuller.
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone,
Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought,
And in forms of gods and heroes wrought
Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone,-
A higher charm than modern culture won
With all the wealth of metaphysic won
With all the wealth of metaphysic lore,
Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore.
A many-coloured light flows from one sun;
Art, ‘neath its beams, a motley thread was spun;
The prism modifies the perfect day;
But thou hast known such mediums to shun,
And cast once more on life a pure, white ray.
Absorbed in the creations of thy mind,
Forgetting daily self, my truest self I find.This poem comes from the wonderful Norton Anthology, The Making Of A Sonnet, Edited by Edward Hirsch and poet Eavan Boland, Norton, 2008. Information on Margaret Fuller’s feminism, journalism and poetry can be gotten from her Wikipedia page and online. In the context of discussions begun by VIDA on women reviewers,poets and literatry advocates, I thought it an excellent idea to place here a poem by the first full-time female book-reviewer in journalism. Calls have been made to explain the absences of women from the 2010 lists. I am adding in here the relevant links :
- Margaret Fuller’s Wikipedia Pages
- Anne Hays letter to the New Yorker Magazine
- VIDA articles and Links
- A Saturday Woman Poet Archive on Poethead
- The Making of a Sonnet, Hirsch and Boland
Daguerrotype of Margaret Fuller from Wikipedia. -
Cóiced.
‘ The word for a ‘province’ in Irish is ‘fifth’.
The fifth one : Meath or ‘middle’ place,
is secret : a drawer, or priest-hole,
Omphallos
a sliding door oiled into space
rock-faced , as in sheer of cliff.‘We’ll find them’, callow children laughed
on mid-term breaks
in plastic macs.
‘Don’t drive. We’ll walk.’
They held a compass : North, North-West
and tied a thread to leave a trail.We found one body in a field
metal-detected teeth through lime
walking-shoes out on a ledge.
One child survived. Now ninety-nine
one plain, one purl, hand-knitted
time of sorrow. For
‘Wherever you walk in Ireland
you reach the edge.’by Mark Patrick Hederman
Discussed here
Chris Murray 