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  • Saboteur Awards 2013: The Shortlist

    April 29th, 2013

    Saboteur Award 2013 : ShortList

    Clairet's avatarSabotage

    Your Pick of this Year’s Best Indie Lit!

    VOTING IS NOW CLOSED!

    Once a year, to mark our birthday, we at Sabotage like to give out some awards to the publications we’ve most enjoyed during the year. This year, we want YOU to vote for the winners in twelve different categories.

    After over 2000 votes, voting is now closed! Winners will be announced on 29th May at the Book Club, London. It’s going to be a big celebration of indie lit in all its glory and we’d love it if you could attend. There’ll also be performances, a mini-book fair, music from LiTTLe MACHINe and our very own critique booth.

    Here’s what happens next:

    1. Voting is now closed!
    2. Buy a ticket to the awards ceremony/birthday bash.

    Please find the shortlist below, which consists of the top 5 nominations in each of the 12 categories, with links to their reviews…

    View original post 438 more words

  • ‘a reed song’ by C. Murray

    April 29th, 2013
    whistle-in
          sing the hollow-pipes
    of bird-bone     or leg-tube
    jointed to.
     
     
    leech into soil’s black trauma
    a double-reed will always carry down
     
     
    its muffled tune
    from contort of leaf to nub of root
     
     
    there is bone substance to
    the fallen bough as
    there is to the winged-bird
          both perfume.

     
    a maerl of
          barely encloses both
          the feathered and
          the not,

    a shell maybe –
     
    a reed-song is © C. Murray (2013)

    .

    First published, A New Ulster #7

  • Poems from ‘We’ll Sing Blackbird’ by Rebecca O’Connor

    April 20th, 2013

    Domestic Bliss

    I place a jug of lavender on the table
    to mask the smell of mould from under the fridge
     
    while you draw nails to hammer with your fist.
    Then I draw a hammer, and watch
     
    as you try to lift it from the page.
    by day it’s Mr Men, Mad Men, by night,
     
    your father and I wishing we could be so bold.
    you have no such wants, though sometimes I wonder
     
    as you try to peer into Jack and Jill’s well
    or climb the tiny ladder of your toy farm
    to mend the roof of your miniature barn.
     


    Life After Death

    My thoughts are all opposed to that streak of red fox in the field,
    black clods of thought that cling to the spade that lifts them
    to throw them back into the hole they made.
     
    The fox is an apposite thing, lived in without reluctance,
    as is the greenfinch, even as it hits the window
    and knocks itself out cold.
     
    My child knows this. He won’t allow himself forget
    his father warming the bird’s wings with his breath,
    its sudden swift flight
    as two foxes
    trot through Fayre’s Field ahead of the hearse.
     

    Domestic Bliss and Life After Death are © Rebecca O’Connor. Published in We’ll Sing Blackbird  (A Moth Edition 2012)

     

    Rebecca O’Connor edits The Moth Magazine and organises the Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize. She worked as a commissioning editor of literary fiction at Telegram Books in London before returning to Ireland with her family in 2008. She won a Geoffrey Dearmer Prize in 2004 and her chapbook Poems was published by the Wordsworth Trust, where she was a writer in residence in 2005. Her poetry has been published in, among other places, The Guardian, Poetry Review and The Spectator.

    •  www.rebeccaoconnor.net
    • Bio from www.writing.ie

  • “Sanctus” by Kimberly Campanello

    April 8th, 2013

    Sanctus

    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

     

    DcHA1nlXkAAoRgvKimberly 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. MOTHERBABYHOME was published by Zimzalla in 2018. Pic by Brian Kavanagh

    •MOTHERBABYHOME

  • Glendalough, at Iseult Gonne’s Grave

    April 1st, 2013

    subside the rocks
    archback
    silica of bird leans into

    a granite stylus
    a grave-bed
    green sea-bed of flowering heads.

    shatter of tree hacked-through,
    windmills beside an sruthán geal
    gold coins in-stream-glitter out to me.

    a small a cloud there
    her gulfstream ruffles my feathering (toll the …)

    blood-thickener sloughs blood against
    let her eat the disease—

    a gelid-thaw
    clysters the blooms

    all that glisters is not white—
    not laden with small griefs—

    Glendalough is © C. Murray

  • ‘Redeeming Faith’ by Kelly Creighton

    March 30th, 2013

    Redeeming Faith

     
    My parapets were worthless assets I made,
    my sombre lookouts to watch for your leaving
    and ease darkness with dancing forms, outlined;
    no comfort for lost convictions.
     
    My assurances were the altered me,
    to expand before you my existence and cut
    as you wished, joins that kept my heart, my soul
    in their place. You could tweeze at your will
     
    from my past and from my now to keep your
    findings of my missteps silent from my
    taciturn ears and sentry eyes. Unsound
    you had seen from your stronghold where you called
     
    me inland to your cathedra, to swab my eyes,
    make me spun gold of your taste.
    My faulty footings in your tower released me,
    where I coasted in the wind to dive home;
     
    past vanity’s attempts to regain the hopeful
    sight of linked fingers. My hands held high,
    clasped the love of lost promises embraced.
    Count on change I will demonstrate.
     
    Redeeming Faith is © Kelly Creighton, all rights reserved by the poet.
     


    K. CKelly Creighton is a poet and writer with work currently and forthcoming in literary journals Ranfurly Review, A New Ulster, Electric Windmill Press, Inkspill Magazine, The Galway Review, Saudade Review, PEN Austria’s Time to Say: No! e-book, Recours au Poeme and other numerous other publications. She has recently finished editing her historical fiction novel Yielding Fruit. Kelly is working on her second poetry collection.

     

    • Index of Women Poets
    • Creighton on PH
    • Kelly Creighton Home
    • A New Ulster 4
    • Electric Windmill
  • Transverse threads; two women poets and Homer

    March 21st, 2013
    09bOswald.jpgpenne

    The weft of  Margaret Atwood‘s The Penelopiad is contained in and revealed through the chorus voiced by the twelve maids  hung by Telemachus (on Odysseus’ orders) just after the men returned from their manly adventures. Margaret Atwood runs the chorus line throughout her Penelopiad, the executed maids sing their songs at ten intervals in the book. I was struck by a comment that Atwood makes in her notes about the maids. She stated that:

    ‘The Chorus of Maids is a tribute to such uses of choruses in Greek Drama. The convention of burlesquing the main action was present in the satyr plays before the main drama.’ (Margaret Atwood, Author Notes for The Penelopiad pp. 197-198)

    I am always interested in how women writers burlesque the heroic perception of the classics through use of device and structural underpinning. In this instance I have been reading Atwood’s The Penelopiad and Alice Oswald‘s Memorial. Both Atwood and Oswald approach Homeric themes in a sidelong fashion to get to the meat of the oral tradition, their poetic focus is decidedly on the lament. Atwood gives voice to the subversive and unquiet maids of The Odyssey. Oswald creates a dirge through interweaving the names of  fallen warriors of The Iliad. Both Atwood and Oswald use the lament as the kernel for their thematic variations from and approaches to Homeric mythos. The poets use repetition to add texture to their laments thereby shaping and focusing the small forgotten voice  toward expressing a universal grief.  This is a not heroic poetry, it is a poetry of keening and loss.

    Oswald’s Memorial has drawn quite divided critique. I mention in particular Jason Guriel‘s  reductionistic approach to the book in which he refers to it as ‘a rose-fingered yawn’. This slighting throwaway remark does little to evoke interest in how women poets actually write, nor does it sufficiently disguise Guriel’s critical ennui. I would point the general poetic-reader to Michael Lista’s critique of Memorial in order to garner a more balanced view of the work.

    Atwood’s twelve maids defiantly do not not burlesque the main action of The Penelopiad. They are the main action of the book. Penelope reveals herself to be a tedious bore whose lack of wit and guile are vaguely repellent. I wanted Atwood to get her toe out of the water and focus on the maids who enliven the text with their songs and shanties.  The central pivot of The Penelopiad revolves round the nasty relation between Penelope and Helen rather than on the texturing of the maids burlesquing. In this, Atwood’s approach to Homer is a bit of a missed opportunity. The strength of the book is in its sub-theme which Atwood had not developed into a  fuller rendering. 

    Oswald did not make a similar mistake in her approach to Homer’s The Iliad. She has broken down the book and re-made it a powerful dirge. The fact that this has led to an inability by her critics to get to what she is doing only strengthens the work in my view. The index for Memorial comprises an unnumbered litany of names from The Iliad. Oswald weaves their names into the text whilst interspersing their histories with individual laments for the warrior-groupings. These laments vary in length, they are devices to allow the mourning voice through. They are not separate to the main action of the book but are organically interleaved into and caught up in the theme and direction of this epic poem-dirge.

    ‘Like a man put a wand of olive in the earth
    And watered it and that wand became a wave
    It became a whip a spine a crown
    it became a wind-dictionary
    It could speak in tongues
    It became a wobbling wagon-load of flowers
    And then a storm came spinning by
    And it became a broken tree uprooted
    It became a wood pile in a lonely field.Like a man put a wand of olive in the earth
    And watered it and that wand became a wave
    It became a whip a spine a crown
    it became a wind-dictionary
    It could speak in tongues
    It became a wobbling wagon-load of flowers
    And then a storm came spinning by
    And it became a broken tree uprooted
    It became a wood pile in a lonely field.’Page 31, Memorial, by Alice Oswald

    It interests me that contemporary women poets are approaching Homer through the use of the lament. They are voicing the silent mourning that occurs when the glory of battle is over. Atwood is giving voice to the abused girls whose life experiences are of enslavement and of misuse. Oswald does not state that the mourning voice in Memorial is that of a woman, but the cadence of the mourning poems that intersperse her text suggests the chorus, the lament.

    In terms of contrast in poetic approaches to direct  engagement with classical literature, one could point to how Ted Hughes re-told the twenty-four Tales From Ovid (Metamorphosis) or look at Heaney’s Beowulf. The fact that critique ignores the poetic engagement of women with the classics of literature only points to critical-disengagement, or at best to a narrow conservatism. It is time that The Chorus (that most pertinent part of Epic) is re-read, and given its place in the overall texturing of great poetic works. What would T.S Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral be without the integrity of the women’s voices?

    images
    ‘…he took a cable which had seen service on a
    blue-bowed ship, made one end fast to a high
    column in the portico, and threw the other over the
    round-house, high-up, so that their feet would not
    touch the ground. As when the long-winged thrushes
    or doves get tangled in a snare…so the women’s
    heads were held fast in a row, with nooses round
    their necks, to bring them to the most pitiable end.
    For a little while their feet twitched, but not for very long.’ The Odyssey, Book 22 (470473) 

    • The Killing of The Suitors
    • Jason Guriel on Oswald
    • Michael Lista on Oswald
    • My Blog on Critique

    Creative Commons License
    Transverse threads, women poets and Homer by C. Murray is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.


  • Fossil 1 , by C. Murray

    March 11th, 2013
    press-to
     
      drop-by-drop
      raindrop-and-sinew
      the whole woman
     
    not tamp-in
     
      onto the still-living-soil
      a new shape
     
    embed-in
     
      the bone and the
      living-sinew-of
      the still-warm blood
     
    slowly-so
     
      and infinitely blue
      the milk-flow from crystallising breast
     
    a stone-dress
     
     .material as silk-soft
      caul or veil
      can be sweet as silk or rain or
     
    blue
     
      rain sinews against and into
      chalice of womb.
      half-into the wall
      and often not
     
    still
     
    a lone bird night-sings
     
    Fossil 1 is © C. Murray
     
    First published, A New Ulster issue VI , 2013
  • A Celebration of Women’s Poetry for International Women’s Day 2013, poems for Malala Yousafzai

    March 7th, 2013

    Poem for Malala

    To Malala Yousafzai.

    We see it all.
    All of it.

    The red-stain,
    the shame.

    We do not feel the skull-shatter-impact,
    the moveable plate – the tube,

    the tubes.
    The blood-bags.
    The bags of blood,
    the urine.

    Your eye,
    the eye-blood
    that occludes your vision.

    Red filters down,
    lowering them to the ground.
    Our hackles are raised.

    Father – Mother
    Daughter – Son
    Sister – Brother
    Niece – Child

    Child child child child child.

    Somethings are veiled.
    It is necessary to veil
    what is sometimes a wound,

    to cover
    to dignify
    to protect.

    A green veil.
    A beaded veil,

    the tip of
    an eyebrow raises it –
    Disturbs it,
    for the breath of.

    I would sew the sequins myself,
    make good the golden threads.

    If you must veil,
    let it crown you,
    let it crown your head,

    as laurels, green, on your head.

    .
    malala (2)For Malala is © C. Murray, published along with 200 poems protesting the shooting of 14 year old Malala Yousafzai. Time to say No ! is published by Pen Club Austria. With sincere thanks to both Helmuth Niederle and Philo Ikonya for producing this ebook. 

  • “Marriage Advice, 1951” and “Waiting” by Mary O’Donnell

    March 2nd, 2013

    Marriage Advice, 1951

     
    Glossy women made her tremble,
    every word shiny and sure,
    we’re going to give Jenny a make-over,
    Jen, the decaying building,
    the clueless relic.
     
    They made her sweat, even more,
    those women with Dior skirts
    and nipped-in waists, who warned
    the night before the wedding
    about being prepared.
     
    But it was 1951. Next day,
    she tried not to faint at the altar
    although the neighbours whispered,
    later forced herself to stuff
    some morsel of the wedding breakfast
    through her lips, like bad language
    or something a woman never did
    masticate, masticate, chew, chew, swallow,
    the fist of the still-hidden child
    walloping her gorge as the best man rose,
    twinkle-eyed, yellow card in hand,
    a twist of jokes she’d be bound to appreciate.
     
     
    Marriage Advice, 1951 is © Mary O’Donnell

     


    Waiting

     

    It has grown, not darkly, like mould, that sunless green. Sitting
    provides the habit of air. Children – trees, coats, limbs,
    the bounce of long hair as they troop the school road –
     

    means stillness, expansion, despite unspeakable radio news
    on the murder of infants in temperate suburbs. Muffled, gloved,
    I grow in a car at the end of an eight-year planting, half of me
     

    mulling the latest distant shooting. I would like to book a flight,
    transplant skills, solutions, get there fast. Instead, I wait, the smell
    of cooked dinner impregnating denims, boots, my cap, which she
     

    inhales as she steps inside the car. I hold myself together
    beneath iced winter branches in grey couteur, feel an invisible
    frieze of buds stirring slowly, steady in deep cold.

    .

    Waiting is © Mary O’Donnell


     

    Mary O' Donnell
    Mary O’ Donnell

    Mary O’Donnell is the author of eleven books, both poetry and fiction, and has also co-edited a book of translations from the Galician. Her titles include the best-selling literary novel “The Light-Makers”, “Virgin and the Boy”, and “The Elysium Testament”, as well as poetry such as “The Place of Miracles”, “Unlegendary Heroes”, and her most recent critically acclaimed sixth collection “The Ark Builders” (Arc Publications UK, 2009). She has been a teacher and has worked intermittently in journalism, especially theatre criticism. Her essays on contemporary literary issues are widely published. She also presented and scripted three series of poetry programmes for the national broadcaster RTE Radio, including a successful series on poetry in translation during 2005 and 2006 called ‘Crossing the Lines‘. Today, she teaches creative writing in a part time capacity at NUI Maynooth, and has worked on the faculty of Carlow University Pittsburgh’s MFA programme in creative writing, as well as on the faculty of the University of Iowa’s summer writing programme at Trinity College Dublin.

    • Mary O’Donnell
    • Index of Women Poets
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