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  • Poems by Rosemarie Rowley

    August 3rd, 2013

    ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR

     
    I have not been keeping a ledger or account book
    Of double entries, for the cost and price
    Is not reckoned in the way you look
    Or what you said, in whatever form or guise
    I’ll never know your motives or intentions
    Whether you acted blindly or on trust
    But your suspicion of all engines and inventions
    Does not bury the lost meaning, or let rust
     
    The iron will, the gold enamelling –
    Byzantine portraits in detail are enthralling
    And with the years there comes the mellowing
    Of my survivor’s guilt, the clarity of my calling
    It was not fair, but lust and beauty
    Caused the raid, and not excise on love’s duty.
     
    © Rosemarie Rowley 2012
     

    A RING TINGLE OF FEAR IN GOLDENBRIDGE ORPHANAGE.

     
    A ring tingle of fear ran around my belly
    Deep in my secret folds a spark of anger flew
    To where your ears had picked up jelly-
    Fish stings that wanted to be blue
    It raced back to the womb of your un-desiring
    Self where, abandoned, you brindled in your edge
    Of razor sharp innuendo which was firing
    Your awestruck envy of a child’s winter knowledge
    Your long arm bent my back, a spancel
    Till it almost broke with the weight of zealous
    Might that needs exorcism in a chancel
    To make a penitent nun like you jealous
     
    So clapped my eyes and ears that were burning
    As you roasted me on the spit your ire was turning.
     

    © Rosemarie Rowley
     

    ALL THIS DOING GOOD IS VERY CATHOLIC

     
    He said as he sat at the wrought-iron utility desk
    Beside the window whose frame was too large
    You’ll get over me, you will risk
    The transfer of love from the office to the barge
    Of the old canal of desiring in my Dutch hometown
    For we knew little, who were the divine elect
    But that the balance of justice He wore in his crown
    Of thorns on his head hurt, yet He was not perfect
    But jealous of the worship of other Gods
    He admits Himself, he is staff and rod
    Knew Eve’s peccadillo and Adam’s pelf.
    Everything ordained, the elect will be saved
    Some go to Hell on the path you have paved
    With good intentions, but lacking in free will
    I see your progress in my view from the hill.
     

    © Rosemarie Rowley 2012

    rosemarie672Rosemarie Rowley has written extensively in form: Flight into Reality (1989) is the longest original work in terza rima in English, reprinted 2010 and now available on CD. She has also written in rhyme royal and rhyming couplets. She has four times won the Epic award in the Scottish International Open Poetry Competition. Her books in print are: The Sea of Affliction (1987,one of the first works in ecofeminism, reprinted 2010, and Hot Cinquefoil Star, (2002) (which contains The Puzzle Factory a crown of sonnets and Letter to Kathleen Raine in rhyming couplets). Her most recent book is In Memory of Her (2004, 2008) which includes Betrayal into Origin – Dancing & Revolution in the Sixties (an 80 stanza poem in decima rima (ten line rhyme) and The Wake of Wonder (a regular sonnet sequence) and many other sonnets; all books, except her first, The Broken Pledge (1985, Martello) published by Rowan Tree Ireland Press, Dublin.
     
    In 2003, she co-edited, with town planner John Haughton, an anthology of tree poems, Seeing the Wood and the Trees (Rowan Tree Press with Cairde na Coille)
     
    Rosemarie has given papers for academic conferences in the Universities of Galway and Limerick and the Clinton Institute (UCD) in Ireland, in Bath, Edinburgh, St. Andrews’ and Stirling, Louisville, Sarasota and Atlanta Universities in the USA. in the UK, and in Prague, Venice, Paris ,and Valladolid on the European mainland. She has been active in the green movement in Ireland and in the Irish Byron Society and worked for a time in the European institutions in Europe.
     
    Rosemarie has degrees in Irish and English Literature, and philosophy from Trinity College Dublin, an M.Litt on the nature poet Patrick Kavanagh, and a diploma in psychology from NUI.

    Related Links

    • An Index Of Women Poets
    • Irish Literary Revival
    • Representative Poetry Online
    • Rosemarie Rowley Homepage
  • Forms ; A Sampler by Chris Allen

    July 28th, 2013

    Chris Murray's avatarPoethead by Chris Murray

    Forms; A Sampler

    for C.M

    What would they have said
    had you heard the whisper

    slip ravenous up the avenue
    on fat and awkward dialect

    towards the parlour comfort
    of an army of the wizened

    faces of their mother, who
    settled in her embroideries

    internalising the potential
    of an inclusive act, to fuse

    the eschatological omission,
    confined in insurrection

    to the vortices of daylight,
    silently, symbolically laced?

    Forms; A Sampler is © Chris Allen

     

    Eurydice Series by Anastasia Kashian.

    With thanks to Anastasia Kashian for the artwork, from her Eurydice Series. Anastasia’s portfolio is linked at Saatchi online and on herwebsite.
    pa180281-001 (1)

    View original post

  • Review: All Stepped / Undone – by Michael McAloran.

    July 20th, 2013

    the griefscape as no-place: All Stepped / Undone – by Michael McAloran.

    endless ribcage of the sky / the glut of blood beneath
    and a pulse of shit / dry your eyes / it’s just beginning

    ( p123 ,  all stepped / undone – ) is © Michael McAloran


    All Stepped /Undone- is Michael McAloran’s fifth full poetry collection, and his second full collection with Oneiros Press. Tracing a line through McAloran’s work to date, one can discern a drive to whittle his poetic voice to its essential core.

    All Stepped /Undone- is sometimes a griefscape, the collection is by turns both nihilistic and elegiac in its tone:

    as if to –

     
    cylindrical
       echo(es)
     
    bled winds of
       the unspoken
     
    spasm lock of the atoned blood
       no not enough
     
    paling into
    birthing as if to ….
     
    (ah
                           .spit)

    (p54 , as if to – from in thin dreaming- ) is © Michael McAloran
     

    In structural terms All Stepped /Undone is loosely tripartite, however it is not as structurally underpinned as in McAloran’s In Damage Seasons – (Onerios Press 2013) which was somewhat more defined and contained within the poet’s structuring of his text. This is no bad thing in itself, as an evident structure can limit the movement of the text. I have included my reading of In Damage Seasons- at link.  cf. my note at the end of this post.

    The three parts of All Stepped /Undone- are :  till claimed – ,  of thin dreaming – ,  and all stepped /undone- .

    till claimed- and of thin dreaming – are quite similar in form and in their sharing of theme and image. all stepped /undone- while sharing and picking up on these themes is aphoristic and condensed in its poetic expression:

    head of dust / no /that was the drapery of the silence /
    called upon /subtle till graceless / till bounty / reflected
    upon /lest the burgeoning see

    (p106 , all stepped /undone – ) is ©  Michael McAloran

    One can see the development of McAloran’s voice from his earlier collection of aphorisms , Attributes, through the third section of this current book. His poetic voice has become skilled and honed to allow for his sure expressiveness which he achieves in the least amount of words.

    Readers of Michael McAloran would do well to acquire the books Attributes and In Damage Seasons to see how he has developed and opened out his poetic work. I mention those previous works in particular as they are most related to the current text under review, in my view.

    I feel that McAloran is directing his skill toward a quality of expressiveness that is the sure mark of the artist. He is developing a mature poetic voice that has a quality of tone  rare in contemporary Irish poetics :

    back-flexed / the arrow’s breath to claim the sky of /
    night / the bread broken / such was the blade’s redeem /
    or the blood-cut star of light / glistening /of the heart’s
    tolling

    (p 116, all stepped /undone -) is ©  Michael McAloran

    Whilst related to McAloran’s collection of aphorisms, Attributes, in form, and to In Damage Seasons – in its intent and expression, this work is more loosely structured than both, and is therefore built wholly in the active poetic voice. The poet’s voice as mouthpiece of the internal landscape. In this case the voice or protagonist is mouthing his grief and alienation.

    Of the three parts to this book , till claimed- is the furthest the writer will go in terms of his willingness to express alienation. The poems herein, and those of in of thin dreaming- are generally longer than in the final eponymously titled section.

    There is as always with McAloran  a complexity of image and a deprecating humour, the poem scuttle- can be read a few ways:

    .

    scuttle –

    impossible ashes
     
    I/
    splice of
     dread knock and yet …
     
    split
    drought/pageant/silenced
     
    of the lock upon
     
    intoxicate
    spill of spurious lights
     
        caress of…
     
    sun light
    worthless as breath
     
    I/
      splice
    with my little eye
     
    longing of
    scuttle of dead hand wavering
     
    obscene
     

    scuttle – is from till claimed – p11 of All Stepped/Undone and © Michael McAloran

     One is never quite sure, hence my delight at word-play and at McAloran’s image-play/ply of.

      
    With McAloran a longer poem can be less expressive than the short aphorism. it is often akin to witnessing the unleashed voice in I (till claimed – ) warm up and spit out a gully :
     

    throes-

    why ask
     
    till
    answered /
     
       (absence of light)
     
    rage of death
     
    and the cold ravage
    of stone
     
        in dead weather sun light
     
    coil/casket of
    love
     
    X.-ed out
     
    final throes
    of
     
              .none

    (p 71 , of thin dreaming – ) is © Michael McAloran

    .

    The unaccommodated and loosely structured poetic voice suits the visual artist in McAloran:

    biting still-

     
    vortices of …
     
    (ah spill the night
         ..into cups of earth)
     
    in this dry sunlight
       breaking for favour sensed
     
    earthed from out of which to cast
    vacantly as shadow
     

    (p46 excerpt of biting still- from of thin dreaming- ) is © Michael McAloran.


    Note : I have linked my reading of In Damage Seasons- here , the reason being that while the two texts share a tripartite structure , they are vastly differing works in terms of how the writer manages his expression. In Damage Seasons- has a structural containment, a triptych architecture, that felt almost imprisoning as it tied down the poet’s voice.

    • Oneiros Books link to All Stepped/Undone by Michael McAloran

    263_All_Stepped_Undone

  • “the bird keepers” by C. Murray

    July 20th, 2013

     

    I know three places that they go,
    and the birds wait in congregation
    on pitched roof, tottering lamp-post
    in the tree-chorals. They wait mute,

    gull and urban-pigeon, rook, starling
    wood-pigeon and magpie, all wait.
    Sparrows await the later crumbs,
    the blackbird desires garden-apples.

    I saw a bird-keeper once.
    With her bird-eye. Her empty bag,
    her melt into the crowd anonymity.
    I saw her just leave a squake of gulls

    in her wake tearing at the good bread.
    She directed her gaze onto me and
    I thrilled with the recognition. Each day
    at the right time she had walked to

    a reach of grass at the four roads
    opposite the park where herons. Her
    bag later stuffed into her ordinary jacket
    her streaked hair, her impassive gull-eye.

    I lost her image in the crowd. Those others,
    the bird-keepers of unlikely corners at
    the meeting of roads, and roundabouts
    carry a backpack, a trolley. One a man,

    the other a woman. She is old now.
     
    the bird-keepers is © C. Murray , first published in Skylight #47 2013

     

  • ‘feast of figs’ by Candi V. Auchterlonie

    July 7th, 2013

    feast of figs

     
    ravens are rare here
    I find when I fumble stumble across one
    should I be so lucky
    I fall onto my knees searching for
    the stars, Corvus!
    I think of the greeks and Babylonians
    the hydras tail, the raven and adad
    the story of apollo’s raven
    and the feast of figs, the punishment
    of being stuck in the sky, thirsty for all time.
    the cost was high, I recoil.
     

    I immediately search for headstones
    marble carved eyes
    cemeteries
    that’s where the stars live these days
    onyx forms
    perched and crooning over
    named and muted pale stones
    under storms of rusty steel wool.
      

     feast of figs is © Candi V. Auchterlonie from Impress. Published Punk Hostage Press 2012.150633_526856954005512_453758761_n

  • ‘A Kind of Rescue’ and ‘Yes’ by Afric McGlinchey

    July 6th, 2013

    A Kind Of Rescue

    Can’t inhale any more
    of his boulder-sized words,
    droops, like a fox’s tail caught
    in a shower of rain.
    His rage has turned her upside down,
    bringing out the other one,
    who launches
      
    like a whale leaping from the ocean,
    while she disappears
    into nothingness.
    Later, comes to, to find herself
    carried in a cradle of human arms,
    panic hitting her in the throat,
    bruises blooming;
     
    tries to cover them, looks up
    to see a corridor
    of huge trees peering down,
    green faces leaning.
    Across the sky, a white arc
    wakes the beginning of memory…
    then a mighty uprush, burning;
     
    his smiling mask,
    finger beckoning
    casually, as though talking
    of the weather, or moving house,
    yet
    eyes fixed as poignantly
    as a bridegroom waiting for his lover.
      
    Arms release her at the door,
    and she ducks behind it,
    fragments of a hide-and-seek self
    flicking into place
    like a coin into a slot.
    On the camber of her hips, evidence
    of thumb-prints.
      
    A kind of Rescue is © Afric McGlinchey

    Yes

    (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 (2012)

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAfric McGlinchey’s début poetry collection, The Lucky Star Of Hidden Things was published by Salmon Poetry in 2012. She was highly commended in the Magma 2012 competition, shortlisted in the Bridport 2012 and won the Northern Liberties Poetry Prize (USA) in 2013. She won the Hennessy poetry award in 2011. Her poems have been published in Ireland, England and the States, in numerous print and online journals.

    • Afric McGlinchey Website
    • Salmon Poetry
  • Impress by Candi V. Auchterlonie

    July 5th, 2013
    candiImpress by C.V Auchterlonie. Published Punk Hostage Press 2012

    nest

     
    1.
     
    I see us
    as if we’re not us at all
    as if we’ve let our body suits already
    slipped off and skinny dipped under some glass blown
    lake
    one in /one out
    we walk the same /we drown the same.’
     
     nest is © Candi V. Auchterlonie from Impress (Amazon)

    Impress is Candi V. Auchterlonie’s second poetry collection, published by Punk Hostage Press 2012.

    Candi V. Auchterlonie  is a woman of the landscape. She is a poet of the open vista and of the outdoors. One feels that the house and the hearth are an alien skin that somehow do not fit her. The house functions as doors and windows that lead to water and wide open spaces. There is an obsidian thread running as a deep cleft through and under her expression. She mines this vein revealing a controlled sure craftsmanship in her approach to poetic form.

    Auchterlonie’s writing approach to her poetry is singular. Whilst she takes on themes of motherhood, alienation, beauty and violence, the aforementioned obsidian vein reveals a  linguistic nomadism inherent in her expression and it runs through the whole of Impress.  Sometimes the words she seeks to communicate the depth of her experience are lost to her pen. This does not give her pause, nor does it reveal a desperate clutch for the right image or symbol. In fact, Auchterlonie shows herself prepared to wait for her poetic imagery to develop.

    Auchterlonie handles poetic series and inter-related themes with extreme care and she will extend them without losing control of the symbols she has assembled to voice her poetry. There are series of poems with interlinked themes throughout Impress: terrarium, chambers, walnut, woman without a landscape, and ghost hands the ultimate poem of the collection are in series.

     
    The pivotal part of Impress occurs in the series woman without a landscape:
     

    woman without a landscape

     
    it still startles her
    the way old pain does.
     
    she remembers it well, every hurt that tamed her
    irises.
    it hits her like a thousand paper cuts
    to her fragile vellum skin.’
     
    woman without a landscape is © Candi V. Auchterlonie

    The tropes and symbols Auchterlonie has assembled for herself are dominated by water, rock, ocean, blue,and metallurgy. The home represented by the house sometimes feels imprisoning or unsafe in the poems of Impress :

    terrarium 1.

    should you remember
    in retrospect
    the gossamer, or
    the ghostly silence
    of her
    the glass house in the hills
    tiny crystal knobs over brass
    secret kept,
    unbroken stave, marble smooth
     
    terrarium 1. is © Candi V. Auchterlonie

    House is not a place of safety from storm and almost exists alone to provide metaphor or symbol. Houses have cellars and doorways that are like a magic kingdom into well-guarded memory

    rock-a-bye

     
    rocked-you-wildly
    middle of the night storm
     
    so very turbulent
    that this house of mine
     
    began to caw and creak like a flock/
    like antique brass hinges flittering off like fairies.
     
    the old house rattled right
    down to its foundation.
    I could hear its old belly aching
    discomfort and some superficial seething pain.
     
    3 am.
    dozed
     
    only to be woken
    by the violent husbandry
    of the shaking of my walls/my bed.
     
    I began conversations
    with the trees outside.
     
    from rock-a-bye by Candi V. Auchterlonie
     
     Objects and Auchterlonie’s perception of them are made new when she observes her child in his world. In her poems about motherhood there is a tsunami of tenderness and of self- recognition, and of her own engagement with the small and miraculous world of her son.
     
     The experience of birthing reflects the sex that created the small boy  _whose silence /goldfish gasp _  are the poet’s own. The child in Impress is the keystone of the arch that supports her epic structure. He is  a window to the world and his visual language and gesture is a learning curve for the poet.
     

    once upon a time ago

    his tiny peach hands
    distorted blur under lemon white
    the glow of animate life
    his, the digits of newness still
    over worthless relics broken
    ever storyless, he carefully cleans and collects them
    from around the yard, ‘
     
    from once upon a time ago by Candi V. Auchterlonie

     
    Often there is a sense of total alienation from the domestic world, and that nomadism or will to unfold the world is of the utmost importance. Domestic ties and a tying to objects is secondary to unravelling a feeling of her place in the world.
     
     The importance of place and one’s relation to it through the observation and study of talismanic objects, natural objects which speak of mystery are always subject to the poet’s minute investigation, as if the huge is presently too much to handle. She holds in her own hands small symbols of the enormity of place, these are shards of wonder and not remnants or leavings from. There is a questing curiousity about Auchterlonie which bodes well for her future work , as it is allied with a subtle craftsmanship in her approach to form.
     
     Alienation from is a still evolving in Auchterlonie’s forms and tropes. Stone (or crystals) / the walnut/ water, and sub-total immersion provide useful tools for a sense of powerlessness or littleness in the utter vastness of nature.

     
    That  thread of obsidian running through the book which belies the poet’s statement of beauty as encompassing all and everything. There is a determined desire to find her place in a world which is hers – an almost childlike beligerence and desirousness to make sense of it all. This may be a linguistic disconnectedness, a nomadic inherence , or an endless wanting that is eternally restless. Restive even.

    feast of figs

     
    ravens are rare here
    I find when I fumble stumble across one
    should I be so lucky
    I fall onto my knees searching for
    the stars, Corvus!
    I think of the greeks and Babylonians
    the hydras tail, the raven and adad
    the story of apollo’s raven
    and the feast of figs, the punishment
    of being stuck in the sky, thirsty for all time.
    the cost was high, I recoil.
     
    I immediately search for headstones
    marble carved eyes
    cemeteries
    that’s where the stars live these days
    onyx forms
    perched and crooning over
    named and muted pale stones
    under storms of rusty steel wool.’
     
    feast of figs is © Candi V. Auchterlonie

    150633_526856954005512_453758761_n
    • the man of the moon with the universe painted in his hands
    • Candi’s Website
    • Amazon Link to Impress
  • Starlings by C. Murray

    July 3rd, 2013

    starlings

    the sea opened its avenue just now
    pearl-throated I
    they call              mother     mother
     

    sweet the sun-in
         to walk up into it
     

    and the starlings have come to peck the grass
    round us
    the young are screaming for the bread that is
    at their feet
     

    Starlings is © C. Murray

    reduced palette version here (pdf) > starlings pdf

    Creative Commons License
    starlings is by C. Murray 

  • Do Not Censor Craig Podmore

    June 30th, 2013
    download

    Do Not Censor

    by Craig Podmore
    Published Oneiros Books 2013


    Jonestown

    In the name of television,
    The crucifix
    And the glossy magazines
    (The deflowered dead that we are.)

    A-fucking-men.

    Jonestown, by Craig Podmore

    Do Not Censor is divided into two sections, Fiction and Reality. Craig Podmore investigates the blurred line between the two in a manner that reflects how reality operates in a post-millenarist culture of movie snuff and sex consumption. It reveals its hard edges much in the way drunken starlets upload their sex tapes to feed a  cannibalising machine that will have their blood..

    The Ghosts in the Machine of Fiction parade their post-mortem selves as desired objects that  have burnt their image into our irises.  Distracting icons who hid a multitude whilst revealing generous acres of flesh. These are the abbatoir-hung victims of a real masochistic need for adulation, and they are in the hands of the sadist advertiser.

    from, The Polemic

    ‘The Crenshawgrave
    Where Beth Short lay
    Cut like a perfect film clip-
    Her body edited and framed.
    The raven dreamer
    Took the murder scene stage;
    The world shocked, bereaved-
    Death performance, a media sensation.’

     Marilyn, Elizabeth Short, Betty Page, icons of the industrial non-culture of post-WWII and Hiroshima, huge projected fellatrices and suicides, whose addictions fed (and feeds) psychotic addiction to non-reality. They are the very real reality of the undead icon. Here is the underbelly of vocalisation that Tom Waits sang in Sweet Little Bullet From  A Pretty Blue Gun. Save now the underbelly is writ large across an abattoir of ghastly smiles in every newsagent across western civilisation. A trickle down of Hollywood snuff culture into every home that bothers to buy it. Turn away from it :

    Hollywood Is A Correctional Facility

    ‘The teenage girl
    Etching ‘Destroy’ onto her
    Book of Revelations.
    Shoplifting make-up
    That Greta Garbo wears’.

    from Fiction.

    The Reality section of Do Not Censor  is not problematic, it is emblematic. Here celluloid snuff is played out on shopping streets and in motel rooms. Here the sociopath or psychopath whose head is filled with Hollywood BDSM victimization gets their kicks in a two dimensional world. The type of psychopathy that leads to massacres at premieres, or robot warfare in suburban neighbourhoods.

    Gunmen On The High Street
     

    ‘Morality is absent in consumerism
    As the gunmen shoot the shoppers down
    But the shoppers are numb to the bullets
    As they arise and continue to shop.’

    from Reality

    The reader needn’t assume the role of judge given the toxicity of post-milleniarism. The screen plays out Hollywood-snuff in the blurred lines between how a reality is perceived, and how it is writ large onto that tarnished screen where audiences are umbilically fed a diet of 50 ft buttocks and botoxed faces.

    Daily Masturbation and Internal bleeding

    ‘Porn star dialogue
    For the menial tasks
    Of pro-creation

    And biblical passages
    For the erotically charged
    Acts of Murder.’

    from Reality.

    Again the undead advertising execs have burned their irrationality into mass consciousness, with reality a fine thread plucked and fucked by the advertisers who have people caring about stars weight increase, who is fucking who and why starlets do radical things to their bodies, whether implant or removal of glands to the point of nauseating microscopy. One wonders who guardians Jolie’s breasts ? Or why we should care about this level of personal revelation. But there it is in huge writing , in endless rote.

    This is the culture of nadir – a nadir of cultural expression where flesh is the oldest currency. Its underbelly brought to the level of entertainment where entertainment aspires to cultural voice. 

    bc

    Purchase Link for Do Not Censor

  • ‘Nightmare’ and ‘The Fall’ by Eleanor Hooker

    June 29th, 2013

    Nightmare

     
    A cobalt night in blue relief
    and the hunt begins.
    The green grass black
    and the talking baby frightens me.
    Bug eyed horrors hover in
    our shadows, lingering, carnivorous.
    Wailing now to let him stay,
    He stumbles after, the talking baby.
      
    Drop under the yickety yackety
    picket fence. A treacherous fork
    in the road. I know well the dangers.
    Where I go the baby follows. I urge him
    back to the black green grass, behind the
     yickety yackety picket fence.
    “You’ll be safer there” I promise.
      
    He crawls back under with pleas
    to follow. We neither saw the pit
    that he fell in, in velvet silence. A
    small hand held the edge but
    slipped away beneath my grip.
    A cobalt night in blue relief and
    And the hunt begins.
      

    Nightmare is © Eleanor Hooker
     

    First published in The Stinging Fly and subsequently The Shadow Owner’s Companion

    The Fall

     
    Oh she bared her soul alright; it fell from a star cloud
    Reigned by Canis Major. They knew it was authentic,
    It whimpered like an unknown set loose inside a crowd
    Of urban predators: fierce curs and savage sceptics
    That roamed in packs. A few select gave shelter in
    The telling, clad the naked soul in their protection,
    Made suspect bargains to house her in a harlequin
    that masked and silenced looked like her, even wore her skin.
    But being undressed is like an honest thought, it cannot
    Lie with dogs; it is the thing in itself, nothing more.
    The truth is beastly but does not wag the tale. No, that
    Is the subplot tellers invent when they call her whore.
    And though her flesh is marked by canines, they strain to blame
    Her first fall; judging original sin her true shame.

     
    The Fall is © Eleanor Hooker

     
    First published in The Shadow Owner’s Companion, February 2012

    shadowEleanor Hooker’s debut collection of poems The Shadow Owner’s Companion, published by the Dedalus Press in February 2012, has been shortlisted for the Mountains to Sea dlr Strong/Shine award for best first collection in 2012. Her poem A Rite won the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland competition in June 2013.
     
    Her poetry has been published in The Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly, The SHOp, Agenda, POEM: International English Language Quarterly, Southword (forthcoming), CanCan, Wordlegs, And Other Poems, ink sweat and tears (forthcoming).
     
     She is a founder member and Programme Curator for the Dromineer Literary Festival. She is a helm and Press Officer for Lough Derg RNLI Lifeboat.
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