| teserrae of names dull mustard fiery gold flames organics of mushroom tea gaudy/ Gaudi/ lace/ paste St Audrey/ rust/ blood/ lace yes, tawdry lace -I can use that round and round the mulberry bush oranges/ bees/ fish/ old chain letter/ old poems stuck together/ spermed-together/ cum-came/ come on! books published unaltering of anything/ but the subtle flavouring of fish – maybe dom/dominatrix/domestic goddess/ GOD ! this girl’s great in the kitsch-en cook-stuff/ cock-stuff //really // cock-stuff/ who knows what goes on where the rosey-poesie poetry muses lie ? butterfly-netted the bee-priestess/poetess black veiled butterfly-swoop unguarded ungirded/ girdled //corsetted//cosseted our bee-keepers are impotent poetess/priestess jiggle your tits /make soup/ and I thought / I need more meat than this to feed my brain, words of madness /of bloodletting/ vein of salts/salts in the blood-wounds/ of those who … (know) lady take my hand/ let us go to the bare birthing room/ the death-room/ the room of whispers/screams/ some agony of death is here/ clean kitchens /jeyes fluid/ orange savlon/salted wounds/ //cif //blood// eggs// ANYTHING … but spare me the details for the subtle flavouring of fish – please © Christine Murray & first published in Colony Journal.Image by Max Ernst |
Tag: Christine Murray
-
-
Mastectomy by Shirley McClure
You get given
certain things in twos –love-birds, book-ends,
matching china tea mugs –and even though
on any given morningit is all you even think of
to hook one fine chinatop designer
duck-blue tea-mugfrom your dry beech
draining rackto boil and pour and stir
and watch Darjeeling towers spiral;there are still the days
when there is company for breakfast,and on these fine mornings
let me tell youit is good to know
that there are twoextra special, same but different
unchipped breakfast blue mugs……..made to grace
your table.© Shirley McClure From Who’s Counting?
Living in Bray, Co. Wicklow, Shirley McClure won Cork Literary Review’s Manuscript Competition 2009 and Listowel Writers’ Week Originals Poetry Competition 2014. Her collection, Who’s Counting? is available from Bradshaw Books or via http://www.thepoetryvein.com/ She facilitates creative writing courses and workshops.Geyser by Alice Lyons
You e-mailed your whole desktop, which is typical
.the blue of it Scrovegni chapel blue
a smile I’ve never seen before it is aware of smiling
reveals itself to the camera in the computer.
Squared-off angels, no they are JPEGs, hover
over a faux Polaroid you switched to sepia mode
so I wouldn’t look like a geyser
a river of years to reach such tender self-regard
for a moment you are unencumbered
by the monster critical eye (you meant geezer)
scissored hair blunt and sister-like and merciful
your entire kitchen liquid in the glossy Frigidaire.
It puts me in mind of Fra Angelico, those tricky frescoes
(I seem to translate everything to quattrocento time)
Christ in a blindfold, eyes like poached eggs gazing
down and inward, the gathered regal robes
the marble throne all white and pouring up, yes
like a geyser pouring up while Roman soldiers
unencumbered by their bodies beat and spit and mock.
I have always loved those arrested gestures
the mute green rectangle beautiful as your computer
in Philadelphia where Safari’s compass points
permanently Northeast and the Finder icon smiles
twice and benevolently straight on and in profile.
from Poetry Ireland Review 100 (ed. Paul Muldoon)
Note: Versions of ‘The Boom & After the Boom’, ‘Developers’ and ‘Reverse Emigration’ first appeared in Poetry(Chicago), December 2011.- A Poetry Foundation Podcast The Woman Who Quit featuring work by Alice Lyons.
-
Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle
I.
Ingress.
Her boot leathers are wet, grass-greened.
Things have gone aground at the grove,
only the fairy-ring stands in her circle
of spectral gowns—her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.
Wood clattery heels sound
against the stones at the gate,
against a cluster of coppered leaves;their outsoundings, a filigree.
II.
Inscription.
The park is scattered as after a storm.
The destruction is knave-wrought
A crescent moon is inscribed into the soil
by the small grove,
a willow weeps by its exit,and the sky is close as goose down.
Geese screel and beat overhead,
someone has sprayed yellow paint on his memorial stone.III.
There is a man in the stone.
The dew is playing fire at her feet,
wetting her legs.A legion of rooks guard his stone.
IV.
Stasis.
The route through the groves is frozen today;
even the treetops are caught in ash.There is no mistaking this scene for a balletic stasis,
it is stick-strewn.A cold sun rises above the minarets
at park’s edge,
the sound of bells emanates from behind somewhere .She is glad to leave,
glad to kick the ice from her feet against the stones.V.
The Queen’s Rook.
And what if she entered that garden wearing her last veil?
The others being ripped by fierce wind and claw.The willows lash her face
driving her into ecstatic groves.The only thing seeming alive in this desolate place
is the Queen’s Rook.He stalks above her veiled head,
his call drowning in his throat.She heard a name.
VI.
Egress.
She looks back to the stone
From thence to the furrowed hill,
It is of ordinary green.
A rook is atop the gate.She no longer sees the far away
lit by careening crows.The path is different by day.
Coda
It is dark beneath the tree.
And,
The rising sun has not yet caught
the edge of the stone.And,
A clutter of dry debris, a black feather
is housed there.And,
She would sing him if only he let her.
And,
“Intreat me not to leave thee
Nor to return from following after thee
For whither thou goes I will go ..”she leaves.
Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle by Christine Murray was first published at Bone Orchard Poetry Ezine and collected then in Cycles (Lapwing Press, 2013)






