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  • “Blackjack” a bilingual volume of twenty contemporary Irish poets published by Singur Publishing

    July 20th, 2016
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    Blackjack; A Contemporary Volume of Irish Poetry (Singur Publishing, 2016)

    Cover painted by Sorin Anca
    Coordinated by Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu


    The twenty Irish poets translated into Romanian for this volume are: Afric McGlinchey, Billy Ramsell, Breda Wall Ryan, Christine Murray, Damian Smyth, David Butler, Dean Browne, Edward O’Dwyer, Eileen Sheehan, Eleanor Hooker, Eugene O’Connell, John W. Sexton, Leeanne Quinn, Maeve O’Sullivan, Mary O’Donnell, Nessa O’Mahony, Noel Duffy, Paul Casey, and Roisin Kelly.
     
    The Blackjack translators are: Dr. Isabel Lazãr, Maria Liana Chibacu, Margento, Elena Daniela Radu, Mãdãlina Dãncus, Mihaela Ionitã, and Oana Lungu.

    I would like to thank Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu for including my poems, Delicate, Pretty Useless Things and Descent From Croagh Patrick in this edition. Thank you for a lovely launch evening, and I would like to expand the Index at Poethead to include more Romanian poets.

    The online edition of Blackjack.
    Revisita – Itaca
     

  • From “Parvit of Agelast” and other poems by Máighréad Medbh

    July 18th, 2016

     

    From Parvit of Agelast

    'Your face is ridiculous: O. . . . . leeeeee ugly 🙂❤ / thanks, 
    sure i know !’ :L’ – Ciara Pugsley, ask.fm
    
    net
    whn th little lite shinin frm abve doesnt
    n younguns mad fr luv r spected 2 b home
    thumbs go drum on magic pads n open windows
    so they travel in thr dreambots huntin souls
    they go weft upon th crystal warp unshuttled 
    hookin up witout a plan 2 build a planet
    trances risin tru th base n snare of ask n tell
    wot u c is wot u feel n wot u feels rite
    tho snot a total giggle when th trolls r out
    —no1 knows th cause like with any freakin demic—
    bitch please u aint jesus wots wit all the posin
    howd u like my cock up ur ass, u cross-eyed ho
    
    som1 feelin tiny in the sprawlin fabric
    hauls back in2 her drum for a re-birth much 2 brite
    bodys blinded so her double takes it weepin
    2 th woods 
    		to be an hero 
    				wit a reel 
    						hank 
    							o rope
    
    
    
    (Verse Fantasy, published by Arlen House in 2016. 
    The poems are aspects of the ‘real’ world.)
    
    

     

    ‘…the body of Wafa became shrapnel that eliminated despair and aroused hope.’ – Adel Sadew

    The Key to Paradise

    You will be snatched back from the place of no landmark,
    where you wander, scapegoat, under the frozen hot eye,
    blister-backed, hairy, and crunching backward to beast.

    You will regain the unrivalled kingdom of your source,
    your beauty will be unsurpassed, and you will sit
    on the right knee of a virtuous king, all-powerful but
    for his abject love of you. There will be bright-plumed birds
    and four undying springs of milk, honey, oil and wine.

    Your lover will adore you under the great tree, and there
    will never be a touch without the perfect ecstatic end
    that leaves you weak and wed to the grass you collapse on.
    There will be no argument and never pain. Balm will drip
    from every leaf in this catchment of considerate sun.

    Best of all, you will be thought wise, not inessential.
    So gird your waist with red rockets and blow your littler self
    to the garden of infinite fecundity. Do it. In one starry bang.

     


     

    Sleep is the only escape I have. When I don’t dare think, I dare to dream.’ – Jaycee Dugard

    Pine

    Each autumn, in Lake Tahoe, El Dorado county, CA,
    the kokanee salmon turn from silver-blue to vermilion.
    After spawning they die and their carcasses are meat for mink,

    that some unabused women sport as symbols of perhaps love.
    The kokanee is not a native, arrived in 1944, so a mere child
    compared to the happy-birthday lake two million years old.

    Jaycee’s eleven were a tiny tint to that time spread,
    and the moment when her fingertips touched the pine cone—
    print to Fibonacci imprint, whorl to spiral—a netsuke eye.

    That darkened in the backyard in the small shed where sleep
    was the best activity and a gnarled man made her pine and desire
    the woody grenade that was the last thing she had touched before.

    A pine can last a thousand years, an eye much less; Jaycee eighteen
    in the pulp of a small brain, twisted in and round, not knowing
    what would sprout when a forest fire melted the resin
    and out fell, in hazardous liberation, winged seeds.

    From: Imbolg

    (Unpublished Collection)

    Your Grace

    You are alone in what they would call a new life. What they don’t know is
    that for you nothing is old. A morning is always a question, as if you were
    a web living each day in a different cell of itself, seeking.

    Seeking maybe nothing, but in that mode, hiatus behind and before. It has
    seemed true to take a sable cloth to the slate of fact and not only wipe
    but cover, occlusion of the frame removing the form entirely.

    Entirely it might seem, but like minerals that leave a trace in water, small
    events make change. Tonight you have remembered a Columbian dress you bought
    on impulse at a Fairtrade sale, undyed, handwoven.

    Woven into your consciousness now like most of your clothes, but you wore this
    slinky to a wedding and people remarked. For the first time you thought your
    body taut and that of the normal, not a flop. You flaunted.

    Flaunting was your wont in a sub-chador sort of way. Exclusivity was the bait,
    the prospect of private vice. But you see in the mirror tonight a shape that
    could turn heads. There’s a Grecian curve at the base of your back.

    Back to where you sat huddled in a lone hut by a struggling fire, watching the small
    yellow flame fight the red. You had crammed a bush into each windy gap of the hedge.
    Beyond, how could you know several had gathered to your grace.

    Grace was a false thing, you said, being rustic. But many thought you walked like
    a careless queen. They took the switch in your hand for a sceptre, wielded fiercely
    against the meek, shaken at the indifferent.

    Indifferently endowed, you thought you were, and hardly cared, except for the
    faint sense of an untried trail. It occurs to your image now that you could have
    kept your own counsel, sat straight-backed and been petal-showered.

    Showering in what was given, you might have made some plans, not waited for
    a suitor to tear at the bushes and tell you your mind.

     

    climacteric in the extreme

     

    the room darkens. foetal faces draw
    	spotlights from the dense matrix. she kneels.
    not a whimper but centrifugal quake and strain.
    	ovular potentials huddle in lines for stringing
    	crowded and frozen onto a tight choke.
    she hugs her shoulders, surrogate, unconsoled,
    	and a creature leaps out, trailing chains,
    	snarls and spits, goes surfing the tidal walls.
    he will not come again to her bucking bounty,
    	her bawdy talk, her raucous primitive yells;
    	she will not be the bright-haired goddess of the barstool, 
    	fabled and revered in ten parched villages.
    hail of the ripped legend falls in blades,
    a thing of flesh flames in the mouth of the monster 
    and she recalls a hard prophesy told in the spring grass.
    	lincolns rev on the melting brick
    	informants crouch in a lonely copse and beg for mercy
    	in the torture room the air sparks and yellows
    	black seeps into old pictures
    	and the girl with the lank dead hair creeps blindly from 
    the screen.
    she probes her body and finds a silent blowhole.
    	her fingers return a thousand red messages
    	that pool and brindle in the cradle of her palms.
    if she screams she doesn’t know, but colours
    	curry the weather pumpkin, desert and vulva, 
    	lunatic yellow, bum-in-the-gutter green.
    she crashes, glass and glint flinging themselves too, 
    	watches her eyes picked to the veined bone.
    	girl, crook and goblet smithered on the lizard-
    	dark floor.

     

    history

    (from ‘the second of april’)
    
    I walk.	
    Where is home except in repeated kisses of foot and ground.
    I am having affairs.
    	With, for one, the bonded pavement, complicit as a slice of river.
    I glide on ice,
    	step lightly on the unreflecting glass panel of a foyer floor.
    Nakedness is rare.
    	I don’t tell how I used to take off my shoes and mesh my toes with sand.
    But even that was a skim.
    	I slyly stepped on a rock and, recalcitrant, took off.
    I pause at running water
    	and watch its inscrutable fingers take sun to rock in a work of art,
    then abandon it, dissatisfied.
    	Among a tree I become a stretch of soil and burnt grass and harden.
    There are always tears.
    	They seem to come from outside and wash me down until, like ivy,
    I am again rambling.
    	On a tarred path my jaw is jolted by hard, inexplicable haste.
    My ankles wound each other.
    	I bleed and wonder if I should spancel myself to slow.
    There are creatures
    	who only pace the one field. Even a hobbled route finds knowledge.
    I look at my feet and don’t know them.
    	Too long with my eyes on a misted goal has cost me my body.
    Happenings are always outside. 
    Strange, when I see no walls. Where is the place of occurrence?
    I thought life was movement.
    	Coming to gravel I have less ground and that brings thoughts of release.
    Water is too deep
    	and I fear high places. To walk is the freest I can do and I wipe my tracks. 
    What will pass is the breeze
    of a small body, non-native, a light touch on a puzzled cheek.

    Máighréad Medbh was born in County Limerick. She has six published poetry collections, and a prose work, Savage Solitude: Reflections of a Reluctant Loner, was published by Dedalus Press in 2013. Since her first collection, The Making of a Pagan, in 1990, she has become widely known as a performance poet. She likes to explore themes, which led her to write a sequence on the famine, Tenant, published by Salmon Press, and a sequence inspired by astrology, Twelve Beds for the Dreamer, published by Arlen House. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, and has been translated into German and Galician. She has performed widely, in Europe and America as well as Ireland, and on the broadcast media. Máighréad has written three novels and a fantasy sequence for children. The novels are online as ebooks. She has also written for radio, and publishes a monthly blog/essay on her website. A verse fantasy, Parvit of Agelast, is to be published by Arlen House in 2016.

     

    www.maighreadmedbh.ie

    PDF version of this work

  • “Morning in the Garden”

    July 14th, 2016
    O heart !
     
    My tree is full of small birds,
    red flowers.
     
    I am below the level of the bee,
    the wingbeat of the wren.
     
    A new robin dapples through his
    never-ending blue, green.
     
    My tree flowers
                      beat red like hearts
    in warm rings.
     
    Morning in the Garden is © C. Murray

     

    Published in ANU 48 & Şiirden (Turkey) (2016)
  • “Wending” and other Poems by Allis Hamilton

    July 12th, 2016

    Mrs. Piper

    after Pied Piper of Hamelin
     
    He came home with that wooden whistle
    one blustery winter’s day.
     
    Said he found it on the snow
    at the crossroads of Hamelin and Coppenbrügge.
     
    It was just lying there he said.
    He learned to play it fast enough,
     
    one could well say he was a natural.
    But I got rather fed up with his playing here in the cave.
     
    It bounced off the stonewalls and I could get no work done,
    so I sent him out.
     
    The first time my husband returned after a day out
    with that whistle, it was flies that followed him.
     
    All a-buzz in swarms like swallows on a summer’s eve.
    Next it was the worms slithering along behind him
     
    like one enormous python.
    He used them to catch us plenty of fish.
     
    When he brought home the rats,
    that was quite something.
     
    I smoked the meat from most of them;
    we had a winter’s worth of food.
     
    And I tanned their skins of course;
    they made for wonderful shoe warmers.
     
    But when he brought home all of those children,
    that was something else altogether.
     
    Published in The Australian Poetry Journal 2015 Issue 5 No. 1,
    Edited by Michael Sharkey
     

    The Fottie

     
    Often we saw her walking the hushed hills,
    making her way among sheep-worn heather.
    Her feet shod in the skin of lambs – lambs
     
    whose dead eyes knew the pecking beak of crow.
    Always she was wrapped in her tan and green shawl,
    her hair as wild as night.
     
    She collected clutches of wool caught in clumps of hawthorn,
    tangled in clusters of heather, blown by winds’ fierce breath
    onto thistle-thorn. Sometimes digging roots with a broken antler
     
    on the burn’s steep brae where the roe deer spar.
    She gathered lichen long grown on granite rocks; picked
    yellow flowers off gorse with small careful fingers,
     
    placing them like stolen kisses into her apron pocket.
    We villagers wondered what she did with her collection,
    she, as shy as fox, as quiet as grass.
     
    After we found her beautiful body beaten blue
    by the bashing burn – washed up on the banks
    from a tremendous storm – we discovered her craft.
     
    She had woven exquisite colourful, detailed tapestries
    that covered the walls of her crumbling croft.
    There it all was, the stories of our lives as seen from her eyes:
     
    Missus Brodie and her black-eyed triplets, husband long dead
    at the horns of a boar; Johnny the knocker with his four-fingered
    hand standing by the blacksmith fire; laird Edward McIntosh
     
    with his mistress Missus MacLeish laying deep in the shade
    of a willow grove; Claire and Norma trading goats’ milk
    in sloshing metal pails, sometimes for more than money;
     
    Albert and Dave climbing down a tall Scots pine,
    crows’ eggs in their mouths running, late for school;
    and there was myself, my brown eyes wide, looking
    longingly towards her.
     
    Fottie is a female wool-gatherer.
     
    Published in Painted Words 2015, a BRIT TAFE Anthology,
    Edited by Professional Writing and Editing Students
     

    Wending

     
    On a grey rainy day, a cuckoo bird comes to a tree at my window.
    At irregular intervals it hammers among fat drops falling on the flat tin roof.
     
    Uncurling the sleeping cat from my lap, I walk out into the misty sky to try and find
    the feathered form. Given a choice I would live forever in a day like this: wet, grey,
     
    visited by birds singing their intricate songs. I would read stories of bicycle rides
    and embroider the thoughts of a honey bee. It takes me days to wash off
     
    the nagging world, rinsing and rinsing until finally I find my own skin.
    Though I just can’t seem to find that bird that is hammering.
     
    Published in Plumwood Mountain, Volume 3, Number 1,
    Edited by Tricia Dearborn
     

    White-necked (Pacific) Heron,

    Ardea pacifica
     
    Still
    as stone you stand
    on long leather legs
    in water older than stars
     
    As stone you stand
    keeping patience
    in water older than stars
    lapping the lips of the lagoon
     
    Keeping patience
    your incremental movements
    lap the lips of the lagoon
    more monk than bird
     
    Your incremental movements
    clues to the source of stillness
    more monk than bird
    head bowed collecting prey
     
    Clues to the source of stillness
    serpent-necked fisherman
    head bowed collecting prey
    using shadow as ally
     
    Serpent-necked fisherman
    your charcoal cape enshrouds
    using shadow as ally
    a trick the sunshine taught
     
    Your charcoal cape enshrouds
    scrying water’s soft underbelly
    a trick the sunshine taught
    from the sky’s open lid
     
    Scrying water’s soft underbelly
    beak poised as a precise knife
    under the sky’s open lid
    waiting
     
    On long leather legs
    still
     
    Published as part of the Bimblebox 153 Birds, An Australian touring exhibition
    Compiled by Jill Sampson
     

    Wince

     
    Amanda eats ants
    underneath the cherry tree,
    placing the acrid
    green biters
    on her wet
    flinching tongue
     
    Published in The Caterpillar Issue 12 Spring 2016
    Edited by Will Govan
     
    “Wending” and other poems is © Allis Hamilton

    Allis Hamilton in LightAllis Hamilton lives in a small, hand-built shack powered by the sun, in regional Australia where she scampers barefoot over rocks. She creates poetry, art, and music. She was an acrobat and classical musician until a brain haemorrhage put a stop to that. Allis is a co-convener of PoetiCas, her town’s poetry readings. Some of her poems live in Australian Poetry Journal, The Caterpillar, Plumwood Mountain, among other places.

    The Story Telling Tent

  • “Cuween Chambered Cairn” and other poems by Tim Miller

    July 11th, 2016

    Cuween Chambered Cairn

     
    I should go on my hands and knees to you,
    you farmers from five thousand years ago.
    Even though your skulls are no longer here
    or the small skulls of your two dozen dogs,
    in retrospect I realize how wise
    I was, dipping in and out of your dark
    —the familiar main chamber and three rooms—
    to never pause in all my picture-taking
    to never stop and extinguish the light
    to have found you at the end of the day,
    so that we were tired and a bit rushed.
    Something like the terror at what went on here
    would have overwhelmed me in the moment,
    the seriousness of generations
    which I only became aware of later:
    like an ancient fireplace still smudged with smoke,
    our shoulders were soiled from the gloom on your hands.
     

    Horses on Orkney

     
    Horses curled in the flaming spiral of sleep,
    the huge immensity of their bodies
     
    belied by the blankets they wear, or the
    tight scroll they twist themselves into on the ground,
     
    an enormity suddenly made small
    or at least passive, compact, the coiled braid
     
    of body closer to tree or landscape,
    the tilted, chiseled head nearer to stone
     
    or steel or something pulled from the fire,
    some monument to just how this place works
     
    that you do not escape the wind, but dream in it.
     

    Dedalus & Icarus

     
    The old craftsman came to Cumae after
    a long life of art and flight, love and theft,
    came alone to the Sibyl’s Italian shore
    wasted with age and reputation
     
    to the one who knew every alphabet,
    the seeress who saw the future in driven leaves.
    And warped with the same old age as him,
    she asked that he carve her sanctuary.
     
    His bent wrinkled body covered in dust,
    he hammers and carves and polishes away
    all of the horrors let loose from his hands:
    his dead nephew; the bull-impregnated
     
    woman and its awful issue; the youths
    brought from Mycenae for its food; the slave
    girl’s love that bore him a son, and the love
    he took pity on that imprisoned them both—
     
    he strikes them away and leaves them on the wall,
    all of them and so much more envy and
    revenge and awe at his talents, hammered
    forgotten. But not his son. Twice he’s tried
     
    to let him go, as the sky did before
    the sea took him; twice he’s tried to fashion
    his face or his descent or his youthful limbs
    or just his eyes, and twice he’s stopped in tears.
     

    Skara Brae

     
    Follow the alley of flagstones
    to a slab door of wood or rock,
    locked with a shaped bar of whalebone.
    Inside, opposite the door, a
    dresser stacked with pottery, wool,
    beads of bone and shell, or pendants
    of whale’s teeth or the ivory tusks
    of walrus or boar. The hearth is
    central, the hearth is heat and light
    and the cooking of all that’s caught:
    mutton and venison, gannet
    and golden plover and lobster,
    eel and salmon and mussel, cod
    and crab and pork, gull and scallop.
    Wild berries fill the belly too,
    wild cherries, hazelnut, honey,
    some form of fermented plant for beer,
    or the richness of cows and goats.
    Near the hearth, a tank for fish bait,
    while beds and shelves curl around,
    around the fire fueled by seaweed,
    and beneath the rafters of whale ribs.
     

    There’s one building with no bedding,
    but still a hearth, always a hearth,
    no metal yet and only stone,
    only wood and bone: blades, mattocks,
    whistles, fine points or polishers,
    all undertaken so near the sea
    (but not so near as the sea is now),
    generations of food-waste, ash,
    dung, bones, broken pottery, shells,
    or rope of crowberries—centuries
    of families, layers of houses
    stacked like rock atop each other,
    farmers farming, hunters hunting,
    a nameless North Sea and a still
    nameless wind giving sound and flavor
    to the landscape and the prized lives
    that prompted those circles of stone,
    that made an occasion of a
    hill or loch, coast or height or isthmus.
     
    Through the unknown, unremembered gate
    we found the village and the bay
    another excuse for green and blue,
    five thousand years to our first world,
    having flown far to propitiate
    those who may have sailed from the south
    to this true north, treeless and edged like a blade.
     

    Robert Oppenheimer

     
    Now I come to write in light and fire,
    in a language of power we all know,
    beyond every letter and poetry
    and all the dithering of philosophy,
    all the prevarication of politics.
    The physicists have known sin, it’s true,
    but also the brilliance of a burden
    overcome in the brittle mountains,
    a foul display that was beyond awesome,
    beyond my conscience but still atop it:
    in less than a second tens of thousands
    turned to piles of boiled organs and black char,
    the burnt but still living running for the
    cisterns or the boiled, dead-crowded rivers.
     
    News of a flood or an earthquake makes me
    think of myself, since the questions usually
    given to heaven are now tendered to me,
    and its silence is something like my own:
    any remorse is just ridiculous
    and any warning is usefully late,
    since I’ve already handled God’s fuel.
    I cannot keep from swagger, or from mourning:
    this knowledge a weight you will never know,
    and with it a satisfaction, a pride:
    numbers and elements resolved into
    a thing that worked, but never should again.
     

    ⊕ Bone Antler Stone (Museum Pieces) by Tim Miller

    “Cuween Chambered Cairn” and other poems are © Tim Miller

    IMG_4352Tim Miller’s most recent book is the long narrative poem, To the House of the Sun (S4N Books). His novel Bearing the Names of Many is forthcoming from Pelekinesis, and he also write about poetry, history and religion at www.wordandsilence.com.
  • “Sequence in Green” and other poems by Gillian Prew

    June 30th, 2016
    Sequence in Green
    
    
    (i) breaths
    
    Like in lights/breaths		the woodwind song
    meets the trees. A green growth/
    a rush of roots/	   birds.
    
    	Summer-swell/the flowered edges
    of day breaking.
    
    
    (ii) buds
    
    Hills of green shadow and butter-gorse.
    
    	The dead
    made of dry stalks
    with all their buds inside them.
    
    
    (iii) bones
    
    Green lifts and stitches-in	Perfumes/ 
    summering		Silver-back
    gull, wind-scuffed, sun-buried/ 	
    
    ghost-bird 
    with a still-feathered skull, 
    
    each puffed-out wing fragrant with oxygen/
    each jade-eye a salty stone
    
    	peering keen
    
    to the wound of the shore
    sown with olive pods polished as knuckle bones.
    
    
    (iv) blood
    
    Emerald, in your daybed of flowers
    trapping all the shucked-light of the sun
    as sugar/as oxygen/
    as diamonds/
    as blood.
    
    

    
    
    Ideogram for Red
    
    after Alice Oswald
    
    In a shadow, an invisible red
    where the first flower sounds.
    
    Narrow, 
     and red-through in all directions.
    
    Underfoot - roots.	
    
    Blood. A claw of wood.
    
    Red becomes a red-rush/ the flash of a robin’s breast
    in a splay of autumn blades.
    
    	Red rising with the sun/
    without bearings         vanishing 
    in the outbloom of light.
    
    Struggling, like each colour to be seen
    red bursts with the fury of a firework	  	folds herself
    	into herself
    
    fails for a season.
    

    Sequence in Green is © Gillian Prew

     


    from The Black Stanzas

    (i) a yoke of blood/my iris-eye

     
    Too narrow and grief/stressed by what the toil has tied me to/
    a yoke of blood and the weeping flies. All-droop
    the black leaking/the drip of wet dust being born. Sun,
    the magic sleeper roofed-out and black. Black again
    men’s hearts/winter hearts/bags of breathless black.
    First spring snowdrop from my iris-eye blooming here
    on the concrete/its white-scented sisters a wood away.
     

    (ii) a road of blood/a dome of cold

     
    Like snow on the moon the cold tucked-in all glass
    and weeping winter motes/a road of blood/ of red-
    pepper tones tucked-up in a dome of cold. Blue,
    the silent summer throats hooked and stuck. Hauled/
    black salts/the wounds of weak indifference gold.
     

    (iii) the crush of life/the food I am

     
    A scrape/a stun/a sticking knife. The crush of life/
    the food I am. Up-bent and ruined red. Red into
    the sticking black. Shut-down and meat/no epitaph.
     

    (iv) a black hole/a blue planet

     
    Is to slow darken/is to stagger,                 spin.
    Myself nothing/a truckload of me nothing/
    a black hole of us fading. A pinhole of sky
    a blue planet/an eye.
     

    (v) an echo of light/a crimson splatter

     
    In a place of grief – light an echo of light –
    black rhythms pulse a half-death in
    the glass hours of overwintering. Spring
    buds a crimson splatter/blooms out
    pollen-spiced/world breathing green
    beyond the slaughterhouses.
     

    (vi) their bud-fists/their black-stamens

     
    Each bold bone rooting/forming their green spines
    their bud-fists, their hidden light. Stacked-up wounds
    blooming red upon red/ a season of blood-letting.
    Flowers/risen-out/watercolour wounds in the spring rains.
    The clavicle-curves of the tulip basins softer than bone/
    their black-stamens fastened in like nails.
     
    First published at Bone Orchard Poetry


    downloadBorn Stirling, Scotland in 1966, Gillian Prew studied Philosophy at the University of Glasgow from 1984 to 1988.Her chapbook, DISCONNECTIONS, can be purchased from erbacce-press (2011) and another chapbook, in the broken things, published by Virgogray Press (2011). Her poetry can be found at Vayavya, The Poetry Shed, A New Ulster, The Open Mouse, Ink, Sweat & Tears, ‘ditch’, and From Glasgow to Saturn among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. Her collection Throats Full of Graves, has been published in 2013 by Lapwing Publications. Her collection A Wound’s Sound was published Oneiros Books in April 2014.  She lives in Argyll with her partner, children, and cat.
     
    Restlessly Driven by Leaves by Gillian Prew 
    Three Colours Grief by Gillian Prew

     

  • “Water Memory” and other poems by Jackie Gorman

    June 21st, 2016

    Water Memory

     
    The bottom untouched by sunlight,
    heart shrinking down
    as though the future isn’t real.
    Nothing to hold on to.
    Musty smell of the lake,
    fish and forgotten hooks.
    Boats on the horizon.
    Just the water before thought.
    My hook snagged in the want of this world.
    A silent urge to be like water,
    flowing yet strong enough to hold a ship.
    I draw a fish in my notebook.
     

    The Hare

     
    Barney stopped the mower and looked down.
    Full-grown, it was twitching in its soft fur.
    I twitched when he mumbled “kinder to kill it.”
     
    With a mossy stone, he crushed it.
    Its liquid eyes and long ears
    stayed with me for weeks.
     
    I dreamt of it dancing in the callow,
    when the moon was out.
    Threading the faint light
    between dusk and dawn,
    thresholds of transition.
     
    Barney limped,
    next time I saw him
    climb out of the tractor.
     

    The Hedgehog

     
    My father lifted him up on a spade
    and put him down in the back field.
    Years later,
    I watched my mother looking out the window.
    From where she stood,
    she watched him scurrying away.
    I remembered his tired eyes and shedding spines.
    He looked back at her,
    as though he knew she was following him
    with her wide innocent eyes.
     

    The Stag

     
    Near Cloonark, I step out of my skin and follow him through the trees.
    Tawny antlers rising above the grass, like church spires in a town.
    Spell of velvet coat, soft wet muzzle and deep brown eyes.
    I know I’d go anywhere with him, following the hazy scent of memory.
    I’m drinking pure silence as he crosses the stream.
     
    He is doing what he must do to survive,
    stripping the bark off ash and birch trees.
    He may take something that doesn’t belong to him,
    kale or winter wheat, potatoes or rye.
    Or perhaps what I want, another chance, another life.
     
    He shows me how to wait without waiting,
    to be careless of nothing and to see what I see.
    Digging up the soil with his cloven hooves.
    The translation of something felt,
    the expanse between love and not touching.
    The dark deep silence, where we dream ourselves human.
     
    My life reflected in his eyes, until I see I am him,
    watching him slink towards my slough,
    assuming its empty folds and creases.
    I found a skin like this before and hastily cast it aside ;
    a thin membrane of an old reality.
    I should have treated it with kindness and not disdain.
     
    I walk out of the woods and the clearing gleams.
    Water and words, the trail I leave behind.
    He’s breathing behind me, shallow and fast.
    My breath whispers like a remembered undertow ;
    “here, see me as I am, dark venison flesh, warm and solid.”
     

    Water Memory and other poems is © Jackie Gorman

    IMG_2805Jackie Gorman is from Westmeath. Her work has featured in Bare Hands, Wordlegs, The Honest Ulsterman and later this year, her work will feature in Poetry Ireland Review, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly and Obsessed by Pipework. She has been highly commended in the Patrick Kavanagh Award and the Goldsmith Poetry Competition. She was a prize winner in the 2015 Golden Pen Poetry Competition and her work has appeared in creative writing collections, edited by Noel Monahan, Alan McMonagle and Rita Ann Higgins.
  • “Killruddery” by Helen Harrison

    June 15th, 2016
    Beneath the elders
    Where bumble bees
    Lose themselves
    In flowering thyme;

    I lie down in dew-soaked ease.

    And dog-rose is the scent
    That makes my spirits rise
    In the kingdom of the low –
    Flying bird.

    I take comfort on the mossy soil;

    Last years leaves sweet;
    Damp In the wing-tipped breeze,
    To ease my mind and soothe
    My brow;

    In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight…

    And the worm-seeking thrushes
    Make a rustling sound
    Where life goes on
    Underground –

    Beneath the earthy mound.

    Killruddery is © Helen Harrison

    hhHelen Harrison was raised on the Wirral, seven miles from Liverpool, by Irish parents, and has lived most of her adult life in Co Monaghan, Ireland, where she is married with a grown-up daughter. She has had poems published in A New Ulster, North West Words, Mad Swirl, The Galway Review, The Bray Journal, and the Poethead blog. Her first collection of poetry The Last Fire was published during 2015 by Lapwing. Helen has been guest reader read at venues in Ireland including O’Bheal Poetry Readings in Cork, and The White House Readings in Limerick.
     

    Links if required:

    • http://poetry4on.blogspot.ie/
    • http://madswirl.com/author/hharrison/
    • https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/05/13/helen-harrison-two-poems/
    • https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/helen-harrison

     

  • “Treatise on Uselessness” by Kevin Higgins

    June 11th, 2016

    Treatise on Uselessness

    after Rosita Boland

    Throughout my truly enormous life,
    I’ve never found a use for
    gypsies.

    When one decides to spend the night
    searching online
    for a worse deal
    on one’s house insurance,
    there’s never
    a gypsy about to help.

    Or when one advertises a vacancy
    for Associate Professor of English at Trinity
    there’s hardly ever a gypsy
    around to fill it.

    Or when the wedding
    of an Eritrean goatherd and his beloved
    is in crying need of a cruise missile,
    there’s never a gypsy available
    to press the required buttons
    and later tell the inquiry
    it was all a terrible
    misunderstanding.

    Despite millions ingested
    by social programmes, we’ve mostly
    failed to submerge gypsies
    in the internationally agreed system
    of an indecent day’s pay
    for a decent week’s work.

    Yet the state insists
    on making gypsies compulsory
    for those who’d rather never
    have to speak to one.

    What practical purpose does it serve
    for us to continue to try to absorb
    gypsies into what my late Popsicle
    -a one time Viceroy of Upper Munster- used
    to call society,

    when all but a few fanatics know it’s futile
    as trying to teach a Latvian cage dancer
    how to speak Irish?

    © KEVIN HIGGINS

    kevin-author-photo-december-2013-1Kevin Higgins facilitates poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and teaches creative writing at Galway Technical Institute. He is also Writer-in-Residence at Merlin Park Hospital and the poetry critic of the Galway Advertiser. He was a founding co-editor of The Burning Bush literary magazine and is co-organiser of over the edge literary events in Galway City. His first collection of poems The Boy With No Face was published by Salmon in February 2005 and was short-listed for the 2006 Strong Award. His second collection, Time Gentlemen, Please, was published in March 2008 by Salmon. His work also features in the generation defining anthology Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (ed roddy lumsden, Bloodaxe, 2010). Frightening New Furniture, his third collection of poems, was published in 2010 by Salmon Poetry. Kevin has read his work at most of the major literary festivals in Ireland and at arts Council and Culture Ireland supported poetry events in Kansas City, USA (2006), Los Angeles, USA (2007), London, UK (2007), New York, USA (2008), Athens, Greece (2008); St. Louis, USA (2008), Chicago, USA (2009), Denver, USA (2010), Washington D.C (2011), Huntington, West Virginia, USA (2011), Geelong, Australia (2011), Canberra, Australia (2011), St. Louis, USA (2013), Boston, USA (2013) & Amherst, Massachusetts (2013). Mentioning The War, a collection of his essays and reviews was published in april 2012 by Salmon. (SALMON)

    It Was For This by Kevin Higgins

  • A Celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2016

    June 6th, 2016

    The Middle of April by Fiona Bolger

    After Robert Hass
     
    i
     
    whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
    the droghte of March hath perced to the roote
    my grandfather quotes
    Chaucer from the vinyl
     
    ii
     
    he knows more now
    we will too soon
     
    iii
    in the spring
    pelmet of green
     
    in the summer
    scarf of orange
     
    in the autumn
    shawl of white
     
    iv
     
    bamboos knock out a tune
    until disturbed by elephants
    grazing, discarding as they go
     
    v
     
    The dangers lie in the jugular. No one really likes the smell of elephant poo but it makes paper of a
    high quality. Words written on digested bamboo. Nothing is lost between page and palm.
    That is mystery: pen, ink, paper, thread, card, dream, word. A memory clings like the smell of dung.
    And there are always fibres
     
    vi
     
    let there be peace between us
    let us learn together
    om santhi santhi santhi
     
    vi
     
    there’s no shit like
    your own shit
     
    vii
     
    And instead of entering the reserve forest we wandered through the village. The tea shop sold weak
    milky tea. We heard them, small black cows with bells around their necks.
    People warned us an elephant herd was nearby. We found their still steaming dung.
    This was all free and unreserved.
     
    viii
     
    the green mango is sour
    best eaten karam with vellum
     
    Nagpur loose jackets are rare now
    orange trees cut to grow apartments
     
    the iron red soil of Niyamgiri
    woven into the shawl
     
    ix
     
    Here are some things to eat from a banana leaf: idli, dhosa, uttapam, appam, idiappam, sambhar,
    rasam, chutney, chutney podi, kozhikattai, thair saddam, thokku, chappatti, parratta, puri,
    anna saru, chakra pongal, ven pongal. Ungaishtam sapdingo … Eat your desire.
     
    x
     
    still searching
    for the man in the cafe
     
    xi
    silk saree
     
    xii
     
    she said: ask them
    and he said: no
    she said: why is it
    like this?
    he said: nothing
    she said: no
    he said:
     
    xiii
     
    theyn kuricha nari
    the fox who has drunk honey
     
    xiv
     
    and from vinyl I learned
    He loves you, yeah, yeah…
    Did you happen to see….
    myself in those songs?
     
    xv
     
    agni nakshetram –
    water tastes sweet
    as mango juice trickles
    from finger tip to hand
    to elbow and bathed every veyne
    in swich licour, of which vertu
    engendered is the flour
     
    The Middle of April is © Fióna Bolger
     
    fiona bolgerFióna Bolger’s work has appeared in Southword, The Brown Critique, Can Can, Boyne Berries, Poetry Bus, The Chattahoochee Review, Bare Hands Poetry Anthology, The Indian Muse and others. Her poems first appeared in print tied to lamp posts (UpStart 2011 General Election Campaign). They’ve also been on coffee cups (The Ash Sessions).
     
    Her grimoire, The Geometry of Love between the Elements, was published by Poetry Bus Press in 2013. Her work has been translated into Irish, Tamil and Polish reflecting the journey her life has taken.
     
    She is a facilitator at Dublin Writers’ Forum and a member of Airfield Writers. She works as a creative mentor with Uversity MA in Creative Process. She lives between Dublin and Chennai.
     
    from The Geometry of Love Between the Elements (Poethead)

    Tree Tunnel by Geraldine O Kane

     
    We walked mid road under the tunnel of trees
    huge trunks branched above us
    their leaves feathery boas floating
    from about their necks, sheltered us for a moment
    – only a moment
     
    In a split second through the arc of recess
    where the sun had warmed to our skin
    came sheeting rain; energetic beads
    with bellies full readily dropping their payload.
     
    We did not twist with arms flung wide,
    in circles with heads thrown back,
    catching rain with our open mouths.
    After twenty minutes and two car passing’s,
    we were drenched chills crept over our bodies.
     
    We stopped sought sanctuary along the verge
    you mimicking the tree trunks
    providing as much shelter as your frame would allow,
    curling in on me, latent, against your chest,
    chin resting on my porous hair,
    elemental I attuned to the call –
    of your heart rate, your skin…
     
    when a car pulled over
    sweeping us away
    from the summer downpour.
     
    Nadelah is © Geraldine O’Kane.

    Geraldine O’Kane is originally from County Tyrone. She has been writing poetry since her teens, and has had numerous poems published in journals, e-zines and anthologies such as BareBack Lit, FourXFour, Illuminated Poetry Ireland, Poetry Super Highway and more.
     
    Geraldine is a regular reader at the Purely Poetry open mic nights in Belfast. She has previously been part of a local writing group at the Craic Theatre, and has performed some of her work in local theatres and at the Dungannon Borough Council Arts Festival. Her poetry is mostly inspired by observation and the human condition. She specialises in micropoetry. She held her first solo exhibition in the 2013 Belfast Book Festival, using art, dance and music to interpret micropoetry centred around the theme of relationships and decay.
     
    The Poet O’Kane

    Laundry by Roisin Kelly

     
    It was one of life’s thoughtless routines,
    lifting your clothes from my floor.
     
    When I find some of your old shirts again
    I hold them as gently
     
    as if they’re fragile eggshells, the warm
    yolk of life gone from them.
     
    I know what it’s like to feel as empty
    as a man’s unwashed shirt.
     
    For the last time, I wash your clothes
    with my own; for the last time
     
    I perform that domestic ritual of love.
    Our clothes hang side by side
     
    once more: mine bright, yours dark.
    Damp cloth, the scent of floral detergent.
     
    Cherry blossoms in April,
    two people caught in a sudden shower.
     
    Laundry is © Roisin Kelly

    .
    Pic © Linda IbbotsonRoisin Kelly is an Irish poet who was born in Belfast and raised in Co. Leitrim, and has since found her way to Cork City via a year on a remote island and an MA in Writing at the National University of Ireland, Galway. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Chicago, The Stinging Fly, The Timberline Review, The Irish Literary Review, Synaesthesia, Aesthetica, The Penny Dreadful, Bare Fiction, The Baltimore Review, Banshee, and Hallelujah for 50ft Women: Poems about Women’s Relationship to their Bodies (Bloodaxe 2015). More work is forthcoming in Best New British and Irish Poets (Eyewear 2016).

    Off Duty by Katie O’Donovan

     
    Is my face just right,
    am I looking as a widow should?
    I pass the funeral parlour
    where four weeks ago
    the ceremony unfurled.
    Now I’m laughing with the children.
    The director of the solemn place
    is lolling out front, sucking on a cigarette.
    We exchange hellos,
    and I blush, remembering
    how I still haven’t paid the bill,
    how I nearly left that day
    with someone else’s flowers.
     
    Off Duty is © Katie Donovan first published in The Irish Times, 2014, by Poetry Editor Gerry Smyth
     
    2013meatpn1Katie Donovan has published four books of poetry, all with Bloodaxe Books, UK. Her first, Watermelon Man appeared in 1993. Her second, Entering the Mare, was published in 1997; and her third, Day of the Dead, in 2002. Her most recent book, Rootling: New and Selected Poems appeared in 2010. Katie Donovan’s fifth collection of poetry, Off Duty will be published by Bloodaxe Books in September 2016. She is currently working on a novel for children.
     
    She is co-editor, with Brendan Kennelly and A. Norman Jeffares, of the anthology, Ireland’s Women: Writings Past and Present (Gill and Macmillan, Ireland; Kyle Cathie, UK, 1994; Norton & Norton, US, 1996). She is the author of Irish Women Writers: Marginalised by Whom? (Raven Arts Press, 1988, 1991). With Brendan Kennelly she is the co-editor of Dublines (Bloodaxe, 1996), an anthology of writings about Dublin.
     
    Her poems have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies in Ireland, the UK and the US. She has given readings of her work in many venues in Ireland, England, Belgium, Denmark, Portugal, the US and Canada. She has read her work on RTÉ Radio One and on BBC Radio 4 and BBC Radio 3. Her short fiction has appeared in The Sunday Tribune and The Cork Literary Review.

    Pair Bond by Barbara Smith

     
    dedicated to Dolly Parton
     
    The talk in the bar lulls a half-time fill:
    as I knife scrape the head from another pint,
    he hovers, pocket-foothering his change.
     
    Steadying for the ask, he addresses
    my full frontals, my baby buggy bumpers,
    my Brad Pitts, my boulders, my billabongs,
     
    my squashy cushions, my soft-focus bristols,
    my motherly bosoms, my matronly bulk,
    my Mickey and Minnie, my Monica
     
    Lewinskis, my Isaac Newtons,
    my snow tyres, my speed bumps, my Tweedle Twins,
    my milk-makers, my Mobutus, my num-nums,
     
    my Pia Zadoras, my Pointer Sisters,
    my honkers, my hooters, my hubcaps, my hummers,
    my Eartha Kitts, my Eisenhowers,
     
    my Gods milk bottles, my Picasso cubes,
    my chesticles, my cha-chas, my coconuts,
    my dairy pillows, my devil’s dumplings,
     
    my objectified orbs, my über-boobs,
    my one-parts Lara, my two-parts globe,
    my skywards pips, my lift and separate,
     
    my airbags, my feeders, my mammy glands,
    my Bob and Ray, my big bouncing Buddhas,
    my sweater stretchers, my sweet potatoes,
     
    my rosaceous rotors, my trusty rivets,
    my melliferous melons, my mau-maus,
    my tarty, my taut, my pert palookas,
     
    my jahoobies, my kicking kawangas,
    my agravic gobstoppers, my immodest maids,
    my Scooby Snacks, my squished-in shlobes,
     
    my cupcakes, my soda breads, my bloomin’ baps,
    my brilliant bangers, my brash bazookas,
    my windscreen wipers, my Winnebagos,
     
    my wopbopaloubop, wopbopalous,
    my yahoos, my yazoos and yipping yin-yangs,
    my paps, my pips, my pommes-de-terres,
     
    my pushed-up, plunged-down, paraded balcony,
    my slow reveal, my instant appeal,
    my décolletage, my fool’s mirage,
     
    and I watch him pay up, steady up and leave.
     
    The Angels’ Share (2012, Doghouse) also frequently performed with The Poetry Divas.
    Published in Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot, 2012.

    Pair Bond is © Barbara Smith
     
    barbara-smithBarbara Smith lives in County Louth, Ireland. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast. Her achievements include being shortlisted for the UK Smith/Doorstop Poetry Pamphlet competition 2009, a prize-winner at Scotland’s 2009 Wigtown Poetry Competition, and recipient of the Annie Deeny 2009/10 bursary awarded by the Tyrone Guthrie Centre for Artists and Writers, Ireland. Her first collection, Kairos, was published by Doghouse Books in 2007 and a second followed in 2012, The Angels’ Share. She is a frequent reader with the Poetry Divas, a collective that read at festivals such as Electric Picnic.

    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. Yes. Present. Yes. Hands.
    Yes. His image,
    Who conjured it?
     
    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.
     
    Merci!

    Eve Labouring for 37 Hours; the yes poem at Levure Littéraire 12 is © C. Murray
     
    I am very grateful to Carmen-Francesca Banciu for publishing my group of poems at Levure Litteraire 12.
     
    Baskin_Death_Among_the_Thistles_1959 (1)From the editorial: The Camps of Resistance and Fields of Consciousness, is the theme of this issue. A wide field! A multifaceted theme that addresses many aspects of our time. When we chose this theme, we did not yet realize that the future contributions would be so inspired by the present and focus on specific aspects, such as (e)migration, exile, escape.The drama of flight, losing one´s home and a country – but even the ambivalent feelings toward the refugees- are the main aspects that have emerged from our topic. Many of our writers have dealt with the theme in an artistic, essayistic, philosophical form.
     
    Impressive contributions resulted. Among others, even interdisciplinary projects were created, such as the cooperation between the Irish-American writer Emer Martin and the Indian-American artist Moitreyee Chowdhury, a joint video art, poetry and painting contribution. Or the contributions from Gesine Palmer, Sabine Haupt, Peter O’Neill – just to name a few out of the abundance of outstanding contributions.
     
    Some contributions deal with the fear of the ever-increasing amount of war zones and therewith the consequences. Among others, the war zones heavily influenced by religion that endanger humanity by forcing them to act in violence, protest or to flee. The fear of new wars, violence–and terrorism. Implicit questions are asked about the consequences of war and poverty that result from the mass migration. The fear of the established political systems and lifestyles collapsing. The fear of cultures, religions and interests colliding and clashing. But also the aftereffects of ecological exploitation and natural disasters.

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