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  • “Eve Labouring for 37 Hours, the yes poem” C. Murray

    May 15th, 2019

    Chris Murray's avatarPoethead by Chris Murray

    ring—

    Eve labouring for 37 hours; the yes poem

    Great
    monumental
    Eve in pain,

    will bring
    forth a Cain
    Abel
    —Cannibal

    Exhausted stretch
    rather/ rather/ rather
    rather/ rather/ rather
    dilate/ than die/ yes.

    So just, sous justice.
    en vertu de la justice,
    pour, 

    ‘In sorrow you shall bring forth children’

    Face present ?: Yes, yes–
    Hands? Yes-
    His image,
    Who conjured it?

    This mouth of dry twigs
    the sticks/stones
    bones / buttons
    a / knee-piece/ skulls.

    There are piles of skulls
    pushing through my grimacing cunt—

    all the pretty things,
    stones/bones/buttons
    a / knee-piece / skulls

    Sous justice.

    So just, sous justice.
    en vertu de la justice,
    pour,

    ‘In sorrow you shall bring forth children’

    Merci!

                                                                     …

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  • “Dreams of a Happy Ending” by Farideh Hassanzadeh

    May 12th, 2019

    Dreams of a Happy Ending

    I throw my nightmare
    into your arms
    with all my shaking and sweat,
    but you stick your hand
    into my heart
    to pluck my boobs.

    I throw my fear of losing words
    into a book,
    but you throw your shirt
    on the clouded pages
    to let me know
    “It is missing a button”.

    You have thrown in my face every day
    all the small particles of dust
    on the shelves and in every corner,
    more sharply than a magnifying glass,
    but you ignore the sandstorms
    devouring your mate.

    Ah! how simply you turn
    our shining marriage ring
    into a stinging snake
    slithering so fast towards
    my so-romantic dreams
    of a happy ending.

    “with many thanks for Becca Menon’s help recreating this poem in English”

     

    A song of despair

    People go to the park together
    People go to the cinema together
    People become friends now and then
    and write letters to each other
    they even marry each other sometimes
    and live at a home for long years
    always together
    but always apart
    like the books in the shelves
    or like the stones on the graves.

     

    Dreams of a Happy Ending & A Song of Despair © Farideh Hassanzadeh, English translation by Becca Menon

     

    Farideh Hassanzadeh is an Iranian poet, translator and freelance journalist. Her first book of poetry was published when she was twenty-two. Her poems appear in the anthologies Letters to the World, Contemporary Women Poets of Iran by Faramarz Soleimani, After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events, edited by Tom Lombardo, The Poetry Of Iranian Women by Sheema Kalbasi, Tonight, An Anthology of World Love Poetry by Amitabh Mitra.

    She is the author of Eternal Voices: Interviews with Poets East and West and The Last Night with Sylvia Plath: Essays on Poetry. In addition she has translated Selected Poems of T.S. Eliot, Federico Garcia Lorca: A Life by Ian Gibson, Anthology of Contemporary African Poetry, Selected Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva, Women Poets of the World, Twentieth Century Latin American Poetry, Selected Poems of Iaroslav Seifert, Pablo Neruda: A Passion for Life, Blood of Adonis by Samuel Hazo, The Beauty of Friendship: Selected Poems by Khalil Gibran, Love Poetry of the World, Classic and Contemporary, and Selected Poems by Blaga Dimitrova. the Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry.

    Her new book is Footprints of Cats in Poetry, Stories, Paintings, Politics, Religion, Medicine, Cinema and Science.

  • A celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2019

    May 9th, 2019

    “Yes” by Afric McGlinchey

    (after Molly Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses)

    …yes and then
    I touched my finger to his lips
    to stroke away the cider,
    and put it to mine
    and our tongues went plunging
    – such a lush sweetness –
    the grass so springy-soft on the cliff
    and the waves crashing below
    and I had to catch my breath
    and the night’s perfume drowned
    that tang of lamb
    and I thought of my first kiss
    – what was his name? Johnny? – yes,
    his tongue so unexpected,
    wriggling like an eel,
    but this time it felt different,
    and even his silence didn’t matter
    when he stared, stared at my breasts
    and I let my hair slip loose
    like that Cape Town girl,
    and you have moonlight in your eyes, he said
    so I took him in my hand
    and he whispered, would I,
    ma petite phalène, he said
    and I thought I may as well,
    as well him as another,
    and the sea was swirling below us in a froth
    the sky gorgeous with stars
    and I suggested with my eyes
    that he ask again
    and I knew he would
    and I wondered if I’d say yes
    and then I urged him down
    and he found his way
    through all my layers
    and I might, I thought, yes
    I think I will
    say yes.

    “Yes” is © Afric McGlinchey.
    First appeared in The Lucky Star Of Hidden Things, published by Salmon Poetry (2012)

    Afric McGlinchey is a multi-award winning West Cork poet, freelance book editor, reviewer and workshop facilitator. She has published two collections, The lucky star of hidden things (Salmon, 2012) and Ghost of the Fisher Cat (Salmon, 2016), the former of which was also translated into Italian by Lorenzo Mari and published by L’Arcolaio. McGlinchey’s work has been widely anthologized and translated, and recent poems have been published in The Stinging Fly, Otra Iglesia Es Imposible, The Same, New Contrast, Numéro Cinq, Poetry Ireland Review, Incroci, The Rochford Street Journal and Prelude. In 2016 McGlinchey was commissioned to write a poem for the Breast Check Clinic in Cork and also for the Irish Composers Collective, whose interpretations were performed at the Architectural Archive in Dublin. Her work has been broadcast on RTE’s Poetry Programme, Arena, Live FM and on The Poetry Jukebox in Belfast. McGlinchey has been awarded an Arts Council bursary to research her next project, a prose-poetry auto-fictional account of a peripatetic upbringing.


    “Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise” by Ellen Nic Thomás

    A dhílleachta linbh gan ainm, gan athair,
    Do chraiceann ar aondath le humha an nathair,
    A lúbann timpeall do thaobhán uiríseal,
    Mar bhata ceannródaí is sníomhanna sisil.

    Is trua liom ciseán do dhóchas a fhíochán,
    Do dhán a chaitheamh i bpoll an duibheagáin,
    D’eiseadh a chruthú ar bhunús baill séire,
    ‘Nois tá tú chomh cotúil leis an gCailleach Bhéarra.

    A iníon, a mhiceo, a ógfhlaith bocht,
    A leanbh truaillithe, maith dom mo locht,
    Imigh anois leat, ná bí do mo chrá,
    Le smaointe ciúinchiontacha ó mhaidin go lá.

    “Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise” is © Ellen Nic Thomás

    Ellen Nic Thomás is a bilingual poet from Dublin. She graduated from Trinity College with a BA in English and Irish. Her work has been published by headstuff.org, Tales From the Forest and The Attic.


    “Homage to Kinsale” by Linda Ibbotson

    As nights obsidian curtain lifted,
    the skylark heralds the dawn chorus
    in my demesne of duck egg blue.
    From my balcony,
    a mirage of matchstick masts
    navigate the thirsty mouth of the harbour,
    and my skin drinks it all in.
    Sometimes, when I bury myself, in myself.
    never quite reaching the point when thinking stops,
    I unlatch the door, drink tea, and savour wild berry tart
    at Poets Corner,
    or stroll to the Spaniard
    where the swans dance to Francesca’s mandolin,
    and in my solitude I feel quietly content.
    I look at life in black and white at The Gallery,
    buy a chiffon scarf from Stone Mad,
    peacock feathers with hand stitched beads
    and fly it like a kite on the beach.
    After sundown you’ll find me in The Black Pig
    sipping a glass of red,
    satisfied with the feeling that finally,
    I have arrived.

    Homage to Kinsale published in Irish Examiner 27/10/2015, Iodine Spring/Summer Issue XVI 2015 Editor- Jonathan K. Rice, Eastern World– Editor Asror Allayarov, Douglas Post Issue 1216 w/e 30/04/2016, Live Encounters December 2016 Editor- Mark Ulyseas

    Linda Ibbotson was born in Sheffield, England, lived in Switzerland and Germany and travelled extensively before finally settling in County Cork, S. Ireland in 1995. A poet, artist and photographer her work has been published in various international journals including Levure Litteraire, The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, Iodine, Irish Examiner, Asian Signature, Live Encounters, Fekt and California Quarterly. Linda was also invited to read at the Abroad Writers Conference, Lismore Castle, Co. Waterford, Butlers Townhouse, Dublin, and Kinsale, Ireland. One of her poems ‘A Celtic Legacy’ was performed in France at Theatre des Marronniers, Lyon, the village of Saint Pierre de Chartreuse and 59 Rivoli, Paris by Irish actor and musician Davog Rynne. Her painting Cascade has been featured as a CD cover.


    “Symphony of Skin” by Audrey Molloy

    i. Tuning up

    They are there if you listen.
    On the train, in the Laundromat—
    the instruments, I mean;
    bells, stirring in two-way stretch cotton,
    (their owner slumped in the window seat,
    his work boots tapping a secret rhythm);
    timpani buttoned under a cashier’s blouse,
    a cello bound by polyester pinafore
    in salmon pink. She thinks
    the air is flecked with soap dust,
    doesn’t realise it’s rosin from her bow.
    Air flows through apertures
    where, later, fingers will flutter,
    strings blur under the rub of horsehair;
    their discordant mewl barely heard
    above the swish of the train,
    the hum of machine,
    louder in the darkness of tunnel
    or the lull of rinse cycle, then soft again.
    Tuning up, they’re getting ready
    for this evening’s symphony of skin
    to begin at precisely 10.15.

    ii. Skin music

    And you can never explain it in physical terms—
    what happens between two people
    on an ordinary bed, in an ordinary room.
    Let me ask you, could you school the cuttlefish
    in Ludwig’s Emperor (second movement)
    in terms of anvil, hammer and stirrup?
    Paint the hues of daybreak for the mole?
    There is only air, compressed and stretched.
    There is always space between skins,
    no matter how closely they press.

    No touch, only the music of skin;
    an oboe sings, a cello answers.
    Locked within the strands of collagen,
    atoms built of smaller blocks,
    each one a capsule packed with strings,
    each string a note that’s yet to play.

    iii. Reverberation

    Afterwards, they lie curled,
    two bass clefs facing this way, that.
    They talk of anything, of childhood;
    croak the lyrics to every Paul Simon song
    they can recall; this, the highlight,
    now the players have left the stage.
    They will meet people
    who promise them more than this,
    more than you could write about this.
    Sleep will come later, a raft
    pushed out on a starred sea.
    What oak bed? Which room?
    There is nothing here
    but phosphorescence
    undulating along their border.
    Only this tiny stage
    drifting on the night swell,
    a single baton on its floor.

    Symphony of Skin, first published in Meanjin Volume 76, ed. Bronwyn Lea

    Audrey Molloy was born in Dublin and grew up in rural Wexford. She now lives in Sydney, where she works as an optometrist and medical writer. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Moth, Crannog, The Irish Times, Orbis, Meanjin and Cordite. Audrey’s work has been nominated for the Forward Prize and she is one of Eyewear Publishing’s Best New British and Irish Poets 2018. She was runner up for the 2017 Moth Poetry Prize and has been shortlisted for several other poetry awards.

    Website: www.audreymolloy.com


    “Sanctus” by Kimberly Campanello

    And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? – James Joyce

    I.

    At the English pub in Indianapolis, we discuss technology. He says he can already hear the robot’s footsteps on his grave. In the worst neighbourhoods, the prairie is coming back. Cattails are pushing up through old sidewalks and nearly all the important species of sparrows have returned. A Future Farmer of America—in other words, a 14-year-old white kid from the pesticide-drenched heartland—slips backwards from a mall railing and falls to his death among the Super Pretzels and Dippin’ Dots down in the food court. I get reminded of incest dreams and the two I’ve had, one for each parent. My mother calls and gives me the run-down on which of her friends is on a morphine drip and which is in remission, and she tells me that when I get back to Miami I should get a job and always keep a full tank of gas. The homilitic style of evangelical Christianity is the same in Ghana, San Diego, Little Havana, and on Ellettsville, Indiana’s Hart Strait Road where in the abortion scene of the Halloween morality play she yanks a skinned squirrel soaked in beet juice from the screaming girl’s crotch and holds it up with food-service tongs before tossing it on a cookie sheet. You’ll have a clean slate if you accept Jesus, right now. We’ll all have a clean slate, if you accept Jesus, now. The body of Christ. Amen. The body of Christ. Amen. The body of Christ. Amen. Don’t drop it. Use a metal plate with a handle that could guillotine a communicant’s neck. And on the third day, I drank poitín at an Irish pub in Bloomington, Indiana, in fulfillment of the scriptures. Take this, all of you, and drink it. This is the bloodshine of the newest and most everlasting covenant. Don’t drop it.

    II.

    Death is a real bummer. We live through and for our parents and still Freud was wrong. You should hurry up and put your face right in it for an hour and that is definitely a sacrament, more so than that night in Garrucha at the misa flamenca, though the music was nice. Even the Sanctus didn’t offend me. Finally, I would add that the world is falling apart, always has been, ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerent, etc., and that my favorite sounds are when you say things like, Everything is fine, or, That cunt is mine. I hear them and I clench and unclench and I. love. you.

    Tell me it’s too much. Amen.
    Tell me it’s too much. Amen.
    Tell me it’s too much. Amen.

    Let us kneel down facing each other, holding razors.
    Lather up my head and I will lather yours.
    I am worthy to receive you.
    I am your mirror. On which a razor
    lay crossed. We’ll shave it all off.
    If our knees can handle it, let’s stay like this
    until it grows back, softer than before.
    If they can’t, let’s make love, and say,
    These are our bodies,
    which will not be given up
    for any of you.
    Let us say our own word
    and we shall be healed.

    Sanctus is © Kimberly Campanello, from Consent. Published Doire Press, 2013

    Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana. She now lives in Dublin and London. She was the featured poet in the Summer 2010 issue of The Stinging Fly, and her pamphlet Spinning Cities was published by Wurm Press in 2011. Her poems have appeared in magazines in the US, UK, and Ireland, including nthposition , Burning Bush II, Abridged, and The Irish Left Review. Her books are Consent published by Doire Press, and Strange Country Published by Penny Dreadful (2015) ZimZalla published MOTHERBABYHOME, a book of conceptual poetry in 2018.


    “Being Your Mother” by Karen O’Connor

    I eat the things you spit out
    I bend to your will
    at night when I hold you
    my shoulders breaking
    from the strain
    of your two-year
    two-stone body
    like my ribs will crack
    and turn to dust
    deep inside a place
    I never knew existed
    I sing, my breath catching
    in my throat
    your fingers instinctively
    milking mine
    settling into sleep
    and still I hold you
    pull you close
    my muscles burn
    the night ploughs on
    but you and I are still suspended
    in my mother’s arms
    her fingers curling in my hair
    her breath, like mine
    breathing in with yours
    so close, I often think
    it’s you are holding both of us.

    © Karen O’Connor from her collection Between The Lines Doghouse Books

    Karen O’Connor is a winner of Listowel Writers’ Week Single Poem Prize, The Allingham Poetry Award, The Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Award for Poetry and the Nora Fahy Literary Awards for Short Story. She is a poet and short story writer and her work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. Karen’s first poetry collection, FINGERPRINTS (On Canvas) was published by Doghouse Books in 2005. Her second collection, Between The Lines, also from Doghouse Books (2011), was featured on RTE Radio 1 Arts Programme, Arena.

    Website: https://www.karenoconnor.co.uk/

    Poethead Indices

    • Contemporary Irish Women Poets https://poethead.wordpress.com/contemporary-irish-women-poets/
    • An Index of Women Poets (International & translated works) https://poethead.wordpress.com/index-of-women-poets/

     

  • Poems written in Dublin by Sarah Chen

    May 6th, 2019

    The Defamiliarizing Effects of Walking Around as a Passerby in Dublin City

    The defamiliarizing effects of walking around
    as a passerby in Dublin city
    a camera in hand and a greater
    inclination to look up
    are sweeping and various.

    You suspend dizzy with secrets –
    knowledge of red bricks and grass blades
    spoon-songs echoing from street to streets
    teal bikes intertwined in leggy daydream
    watching beer barrels sleep –
    or is this just the hangover
    from last night?

    The pink lady and the blue lady
    glide past the Celtic refrain
    but are enchanted yet
    same as you.

    The many lovers in the green
    are the same as the bookish man beside you
    is the same as the jogging woman in heels
    is the same as the boy feeding the seagulls
    is the same as the man laughing at the boy feeding the seagulls
    is the same as the seagulls
    are the same as you.

    Jerking back and spinning forward
    many times and many “sorry’s”
    sudden stops and the ever-present hesitance to street-cross
    you’re swept dizzy again with barks and cars
    and smoky smells and sea air
    and sameness and Self and sky.

    You stumble onto this street again
    different stumble than the empty swollen nights
    the same cobbled hands
    that caught your bare feet frenzied
    now cradles flower stands
    now upholds sand-man and backwards-guitar-man and you
    are the same as them.

    Yet it is different
    the way burgundy edges sharpen
    with just a bit of sun
    like wind wakes
    or is it you?

    Through the wade of beauty
    the Wave of All Things
    you see her still –
    radiant.

    Take her hand and pull her
    into the curtainless shower
    of red bricks
    and unnoticed upper stories
    and Guinness with or without black currant liqueur
    and grass blades
    sharing simultaneously
    secret knowledge.

    Well, you walk and wave
    and wonder now
    will you see her again?

    But only fleet glimpses on Front Square
    only know casinos on O’Connell
    only love her on a sunlit day
    only a passerby.

     

    I’m Falling in Love With Myself

    I’m falling in love with myself
    Bed serenaded by sun-soaked singers
    Beep beep beep of backing truck lingers
    Ever running rivers on my skinny fingers
    I’m falling in love with myself.

    I’m falling in love with myself
    Sister wakes up and sighs delight
    Dappled movie drawings loop in our minds
    Arm hairs seem to multiply
    I’m falling in love with myself.

    I’m falling in love with myself
    Sunk too deeply in ethnic pride
    Took brother’s mayonnaise and shifted my eyes
    Rose up, texted, apologized
    I’m falling in love with myself.

    So large and small and dual am I
    Coloured and black and white am I
    Take the lift and face the sky
    Siblings below and siblings above
    All cloud-kids and mirror tell
    “I’m falling in love with myself!”

     

    That Last Night

    Spark me once more
    in your watery ways,
    in your absent wars,
    in your sharp-eyed face.

    Charm me once more
    in your cloudy gaze,
    in your secret shore,
    in your steady haze.

    They told me in your early days
    you built roads that led to nowhere.
    Draw my threads down wandering
    the roads that lead to nowhere.

    Spell me once more
    in your timestuck pace.
    Close your colored doors
    and forget my face.

    I’ll tell you once more
    the words I wrote
    and give you some American advice.
    You’ll smile sweet,
    I’ll stand and go
    Quickly and hide my eyes.

    Greener grass grows fed with tears
    and swallows steps inside.
    Did I tread too softly here –
    leave no traces behind?

     

    Seymour’s Fat Lady and My Mom
    
    Seymour’s Fat Lady and my mom
    anticipate me at the gates
    so I will remind myself 
         that I’ve crashed twice already
         and I can’t read directions
         and I’m full of highways
    so let them drive me off the plane
    and I’ll sing ‘em a song.
    
    
    

    
    In Vocation Of Now
    
    From home to here
    From “only there I cannot say where” 
    From bright-starred field to Dartry Road
    Rathmines Dublin Six
    
    Seven cities this semester
    Half-ten heart tanglements 
    And probably too many poems
    
    Now I am a now-vessel
    Shaped and painted and ever still
     	I will put on my Isbell playlist
     	I will dip my salmon in sesame
     	I will set a reminder to call Mom
    
    I will mend the nets 
    To fly by
    

    Poems written in Dublin are © Sarah Chen

    Sarah Chen is an emerging poet and 19-year old college student. Raised by Chinese-immigrant parents in Texas, she moved to Dublin in August 2018 to study English. Her writing experience was previously limited to songs performed with her rock band, but now is expanding into the territory of written poetry. Her collection of poems, Poems Written in Dublin was written in the span of a morning upon completion of her first year of college.

  • “Pomegranate heart” and other poems by Miriam Calleja

    April 21st, 2019

    Four million years of eyes

    Heady honeysuckle sweat
    Skin ripe fruit

    Lips floating
    Scents

    Four millions years
    Of eyes

    (first published in Pomegranate Heart by Edebooks)

    Pomegranate heart

    She counts the seeds
    Of my pomegranate heart
    The same, always the same
    No matter how many times she counts.
    Her fingers are stained
    And though she may wash and scrub
    There I will be
    In her skin, lodged in places
    Where she cannot wash me out

    (first published in Pomegranate Heart by Edebooks)

    A new kind of courage

    You give me a new kind of courage
    you’ve seen me crawl out of my own skin
    frustrated beyond words
    shaking my fists and my beliefs
    at a world that
    just
    won’t
    understand

    because, who am I?
    and who are you?
    and what is it we are doing collectively that
    would matter at all?

    you’ve seen me rise out of the destruction
    of my own dreams
    bright-eyed
    brushing every bloody tear off my face
    in the way only long, hot showers and music can

    you’ve seen me run and crash
    and change direction
    breathless, jaw-clenched, eyes circles that don’t
    stop
    believing

    you’ve seen me consistent and committed
    to the grave
    I started to dig
    in my own creation of a beautiful garden
    and then smile with conviction
    as I covered it up and swore to you
    it will never happen again
    and I believed it

    and we both know
    that I am a fool.

     

    Without end

    Translation by the author of ‘Bla tarf’ – a poem originally written in Maltese

    A fire without edges
    I’d cuddle up inside of it
    but without hesitation
    it gets away

    melts between my fingers

    darkness without edges
    I cannot figure it out
    it falls to the ground spreading out
    it cannot be picked up

    darkness without ends
    I’ve forgotten where I’ve put it
    I cannot understand how it opens

    darkness of memories
    of another world
    you’ve already forgotten about me in the dark

    I’m going to find the darkness
    I’m worried that I’ll never find you in the dark
    it’s dark as I finally get home to settle in for the night
    I’m full of joy for you

    I open the windows to let some light in
    but instead, I let in the dark

     

    October

    Translation by the author of ‘Ottubru’ – a poem originally written in Maltese

    I’ve left the saltiness behind
    the scents of the sun
    the ground still warm beneath bare feet

    I let the months drag on
    then at the end, in the last few hours,
    I melted them in sweet ambrosia

    (I wish you’d told me
    you’d help me turn a new leaf
    it’s as though we’ve started over)

     

    Pomegranate heart and other poems are © Miriam Calleja

    Miriam CallejaMiriam Calleja is a bilingual author from Malta. Her poetry collections, Pomegranate Heart (EDE Books, 2015) and Inside Skin (EDE Books, 2016), have been described as ‘fresh’, ‘intimate’, and ‘sensual’. In 2015 she was shortlisted for a literary excellence award for her poem Burying the Dark, which has been published in an anthology by Magic Oxygen in the UK. She dedicates her time facilitating creative writing workshops, writing for performances or publications and devouring words. She has read at events in Malta, London, and New York. In 2017 she was recognised by the Network of Young Women Leaders as a leading female artist in Malta. She moonlights as a pharmacist, loves the sea, cats, and coffee, and would like to travel as much as her poetry does.

  • “Damascus” and other poems by Rebecca Ruth Gould

    April 21st, 2019

    Yerevan in Winter

    As we hewed words from the stone tower,
    the planets completed their orbit.
    Ice cracked & froze.

    Our glass walls gazed on the circus below.
    Cars sailed through smog.
    Buses creaked their way to work.

    As we sat secluded in our icy fortress,
    the firmaments lit the horizons
    that translated our union into words.

    I watched you stare into the abyss.
    I watched the passage of
    the lives we could have lived.

    I watched our fates diverge,
    & our shadows merge.
    I watched the images

    from our quarry twist & turn,
    then melt like snowflakes
    in the crisp morning snow.

     

    Isfahan

    When we recited poetry in Isfahan,
    the Bridge of Thirty-Three Arcs
    stretched to embrace the firmament.

    The songs you brought to life
    were meteorites, detonating
    in the sockets of our eyes.

    If time had been reversed,
    the poet’s tomb would have
    been our pilgrimage.

    Water would have flowed
    from the Ziyandeh’s shores,
    & every point on the bridge

    would have echoed
    the sky’s demand
    for release from the earth.

    But time had no time—
    & eternity no purpose—
    for our meandering.

    So I took the book
    you left for me,
    without saying goodbye.

     

    Damascus

    There is no straight man in the world
    said starry eyed Rima, as we returned
    from the Damascus book fair where,
    for the hundredth time, I fell in love.

    No straight man in the world—
    only cheaters, pimps, addicts, & bores.
    Rima passed her days on the rooftop
    watching the world unfurl,

    watching her rivals fall in love.
    She once had a man more beautiful
    than herself, she said.
    She didn’t want children.

    She wanted just a touch, a hand,
    to grant release from
    her celestial observatory,
    to aim arrows at her stars.

    Damascus in the month of Ramadan
    is an affliction that multiplies hourly
    the hunger inside, the longing to be touched,
    until prayer brings roof banging at dawn.

    I thought I had bested Rima’s forecasts.
    Until the plane landed. I tried
    to remember the name of the book fair man
    whose smile had stolen my heart.

    His syllables merged with others’ words.
    His nomadic soul hitched onto Rima’s stars.

     

    Marrakesh

    The neon eyes of black
    Moroccan cats light
    the dusky souk where
    two strangers chat.

    The strangers pass
    in heated conversation
    using this land as a map
    for exploring their futures

    & their pasts. Marrakesh:
    a frame that questions why
    one would live
    with a body more fragile

    than the sultan’s ruined tombs,
    with memories that oppress
    more than patterned arabesques,
    with questions God cannot address.

    Cats travel alone.
    They do not feel the pull
    that turns our coffees
    into hours, or the hunger

    that keeps us walking forward,
    feasting on our wounds.
    They do not know why
    we interrupt each other.

    Least of all do they understand
    why we stare at the neon signs
    in their eyes & then
    at each other. Bemused, intent,

    friends headed in opposite directions,
    shaking each others’ hands,
    moving at different paces,
    steadily, to the same end.

     

    A Pagan in Islamic Egypt

    Like two woman’s breasts, Giza’s pyramids rise
    above these scorching sands. I tighten my belt
    & bow to the unknown god, remembering my
    companions in the south, where the sun does not set.

    Though they call me pagan, I’m just hedging
    my bets, playing like Pascal,
    looking out for the long term, bidding
    for immortality before the wager is called.

    Dear river god, please stop swelling
    the Nile as if there were no tomorrow.
    Stop demanding the sacred cow.
    The revelation has come. Sacrifices are done.

    God has won. The Crusades are over.
    Allah rules Jerusalem.
    Universities churn out doctorates on every subject
    known since the Prophet’s Hijra.

    Time moves slower than the caravans.
    My skin is roughened by the sand
    that sheltered me as I awaited revelation,
    & forgot to prostrate before the pyramids.

    The pilgrim who, on his way to Mecca,
    heeds not the wonders he passes
    on his journey across the desert,
    finds no paradise at the end of his road.

     

    Damascus and other poems are © Rebecca Ruth Gould

    Author’s Note

    Damascus, Isfahan and Yerevan were originally published in Empty Mirror. Also Helen: A Literary Magazine originally published A Pagan in Islamic Egypt, and Milestones published Marrakesh.

    Rebecca Ruth Gould’s poems and translations have appeared in Nimrod, Kenyon Review, Tin House, The Hudson Review, Salt Hill, and The Atlantic Review. She translates from Persian, Russian, and Georgian, and has translated books such as After Tomorrow the Days Disappear: Ghazals and Other Poems of Hasan Sijzi of Delhi (Northwestern University Press, 2016) and The Death of Bagrat Zakharych and other Stories by Vazha-Pshavela (Paper & Ink, 2019). Her poem Grocery Shopping was a finalist for the Luminaire Award for Best Poetry in 2017, and she is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

  • Another Good Friday by Maria McManus

    April 19th, 2019

    Maria McManus on the murder of Lyra McKee

    Poetry Jukebox - Quotidian - Word on the Street Limited's avatarmariamcmanus

    I hardly know where or how to begin. I feel waves of grief for the family and partner of Lyra McKee  and for all of us, after her murder. Here we are, twenty-one Good Fridays after our peace agreement and we wake to the news of another life lost. Lyra McKee,  was doing her job as a journalist and was shot dead by Republican terrorists in Derry. Some coward in the night stepped out of the shadows with a gun and shot. She is dead.

    My generation inherited The Troubles, but we have failed to finish them, to deal with them so definitively that we can instead focus, fully and constructively, on creating a life-affirming future. The future will happen anyway; it will come as time comes, second by second.  So what now? How will we make it better?

    I wrote  this poem for TURF, a dance theatre piece I…

    View original post 218 more words

  • “After a deadly aerial engagement, a cup of tea” by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

    April 16th, 2019

    Past the news of war, you sleep in a litter of cacophony
    knowing the dead will forever bind their miasma to your hair

    knot their shrouds to every hook in the house,
    hem the sound of sirens to your head

    Between tonight’s brocade sky, inked textile of tomorrow,
    and tomorrow, there will be an hour of war, creeping like a reptile

    across the fields where two countries grow rice with their backs
    to each other and fly kites this time of the year to welcome spring

    The sort of night an emperor could create from the shudder of mortality
    a marble mausoleum to house his love after death— moonbeams

    sewing the lips of loss, light swirling through filigrees, carved tulips and fruit buds,
    turning time to flesh — it is early spring, you too feel a tingle in your fingertips,

    tremble a moment like a Shalimar cypress, but the masonry of your body
    is recalled when warplanes approach, when all around you are loved ones

    asleep, and what the newscasters will later call aerial engagement
    has been the chase all along— the flute song in your dream chased

    by steam engines, swooped up by MiG-21s, chased by surface-to-air missiles
    The air as sharp, the trees as majestic this side of the border, the pilot

    of the downed plane asks hysterically which country he is in. Which way
    should he run? As a prisoner of war, he is recorded saying, between sips

    of tea, the officers of the Pakistani Army are thorough gentlemen.
    He is nervous. The cup he holds is Raj-white, with a pale green bough,

    vaguely Mughal in its vegetal flourish. The temperature in Islamabad is 11 degrees
    Celsius, in Delhi it is 16. Yellow trumpet daffodils are blooming. It is early spring.

     
    After a deadly aerial engagement, a cup of tea is © Shadab Zeest Hashmi


     

    Read more here: A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

     

    Shadab Zeest Hashmi is the author of poetry collections Kohl, Chalk and Baker of Tarifa. Her latest work, Ghazal Cosmopolitan has been praised by poet Marilyn Hacker as “a marvelous interweaving of poetry, scholarship, literary criticism and memoir.” Winner of the San Diego Book Award for poetry, the Nazim Hikmet Prize and multiple Pushcart nominations. Zeest Hashmi’s poetry has been translated into Spanish and Urdu, and has appeared in anthologies and journals worldwide, most recently in Prairie Schooner, World Literature Today, Mudlark, Vallum, POEM, The Adirondack Review, Spillway, Wasafiri, Asymptote and McSweeney’s latest anthology In the Shape of a Human Body I am Visiting the Earth. She has taught in the MFA program at San Diego State University as a writer-in-residence and her work has been included in the Language Arts curriculum for grades 7-12 (Asian American and Pacific Islander women poets) as well as college courses in Creative Writing and the Humanities.

  • “Child’s Celestial Chime” by Deirdre Gallagher

    April 13th, 2019

    Child’s Celestial Chime

    Buttery chiffon taffeta folds
    of an early evening
    Hedge rustling sways
    to softening breeze
    Dalliant twitterings nestle
    into hummingbird tillage.

    Amidst the lazy din,
    a pristine crystal chime –
    Unfettered, it’s inflection
    pierced through the clouds.

    This ascension
    Reaching the supreme octave –
    Vibrations of purity rang out.

     

    Labours of Love

    Palms upward
    cupped in symmetry
    An open book
    of forgotten scripture

    Etched into frail translucent papery flesh
    and gnarled knuckles
    Lines and scars trace a stoic history
    Discarded chronicles of toil, forbearance, silent sacrifice
    The forsaken testament
    of unsung heroines.

    By the graft of
    these now
    rendered distorted
    arthritic joints
    were carved
    Labours of love.

    “Child’s Celestial Chime” and another poem are @ Deirdre Gallagher

    Deirdre Gallagher has works published in A New Ulster, Crossways Literary Magazine, Poethead, Comhar, Feasta and upcoming in The Stinging Fly. Literature is passionate, powerful, restorative, and transformative. It makes an immense contribution to our evolving world. A language enthusiast, she believes that we can dispel the shadows cast by checkered history and disconnection to see the emergence of a bright, compassionate, and equitable future that celebrates the advantages of multilingualism within national and global contexts 

    Acceptance and other poems © Deirdre Gallagher

     

  • “Cloud Forest” and other poems by Ellen Chia

    April 13th, 2019

    Cloud Forest

    On montane roofs,
    Veil-thin sojourners
    Serpentine through green
    Flightless birds —
    Myriad crowns perching
    One-legged, spreading
    Multi-tiered wings
    Plush with plumes now
    Dripping fresh
    With the gilded bath.

    In the plumage larders,
    The green birds set to
    Spin their sugary fares,
    While at it,
    Gazillions of their
    Tiny lungs
    Are humming the
    Three billion-year-old gift;
    Coursing far and wide
    Through life’s tributaries,
    Even of those
    Who wish to silence
    The gift
    With their acute myopia.

     

    Current

    The Asian openbill stork alights
    Amid the wheeling terns,
    Then drifts along
    On the hyacinth raft –
    The raft by now
    A seasoned drifter;
    Growing organically
    And by fortuitous mergers
    On this placid
    Cloud-mottled river.

    That makes three drifters
    On this course of the river
    Giving ourselves over to
    The current of the moment –
    My thought self
    Long embarked with the stork
    On the raft.

     

    The Balcony Wall

    The alliance, one of an
    Indefatigable nature
    Forged between
    Time and Weathering
    Has rendered its coat
    What was once a gleaming
    Eggshell white into
    A variegated sooty black.

    Cracked peels
    Like cartographers shape
    Tattered maps
    Of its worst battered regions –
    Laying bare
    Raw cemented pasts to
    The potted ferns;
    Their frondy tips tracing,
    Seeking sense
    The genesis of these elements
    Now breathing.

     

    The Island

    Enter a southerly wind,
    A whiff of saltiness
    And from the recesses
    A stealthy seepage …
    Then wave
    After wave,

    Recollections lap up
    Against the shore
    Of the room –
    Now an island skirting
    With long-tail boats
    And wooden stilt houses
    Perch on pebbly beaches

    Where a hog resident
    Forages with impunity
    Right into its hills
    Overlooking routes
    Promising sightings of
    Pink dolphins (I remember
    our host prostrating to give
    thanks at the Naga Goddess
    shrine after the sighting of
    a pod deemed auspicious by
    locals).

    I bask in my island room –
    Relishing the sea salt
    On my cupid’s bow,
    Giving myself
    Over to the lulling
    Rustling of coconut palms
    When a flower crab
    Scuttles from my gaze
    Into the shadowy depths…
    Do excuse me,

    I must get going,
    There are nooks yet
    To explore:
    The wind is like
    A postman bringing
    Summons of dues.

     

    A Bangkokian’s Consolation

    An April morning,
    A pewter-grey
    Volvo 240 sedan
    Lingers in the shade
    Of a Golden Shower tree
    Now at the zenith
    Of its bloom.

    There’s still time
    Before igniting
    The infernal
    Tarmac regime;
    Enduring to and fro
    The crawly
    Lengthy hours
    Of fumes and jams
    Alongside the
    Metal herd –
    Huddled in the
    Urban cauldron
    Simmering
    Rage and anxieties.

    Yes, these are moments
    To be solitary still,
    For the windscreen
    To indulge in
    The tree’s silhouette;
    To drink in the
    Sprawling sinuous branches
    Where floral clusters
    Droop like ponderous grapes,

    Where their petals now
    Dust the roof and bonnet
    Like gilded butterflies
    Frozen in time.


     

    “Cloud Forest” and other poems are © Ellen Chia

    Ellen ChiaEllen Chia enjoys going on solitary walks in woodlands and along beaches where Nature’s treasure trove impels her to document her findings and impressions using the language of poetry. Her works have been published and are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, NatureWriting, The Honest Ulsterman, Zingara Poetry Review and The Tiger Moth Review.

    Image: Ellen Chia & ‘Giken’

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