hunger
outside the ragged bird tears
dead flies from the window nets
and it is not clothed right
- it claws the glass
suspend I
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
from the branches they reach down
laden with fruit
out on the limb
birds beat them for their dessicated meat
making sweetmeats for desperate bills
a man is clipping the edges with steel
season’s treachery
suspend I
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
from the ceiling hooks
float down wisps of
red thread - almost
cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend
burnt orange silks
cover the shutters
there are children in the street
she is nonetheless
quite bound-up
in red ropes
from loop at nape
and length of torso
it is peaceful, still.
being spider-rolled
webbed-in and arched
as if. a
bird swoops down
behind the orange silks
shiftshape-in
suspend I
as if
she were an exotic fruit
a seed caught in breeze
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend
in the red threads
that loop at her nape
down the length
of her torso
dividing and opening
her out achingly
if she moves the
threads will tighten
the harpies are perched in the suicide-trees
The crisp dew of words, that sing in spring Jubilant is their ring.
The soft gentle breeze of words which appease, please Leave tickles of tease.
The blazing heat of words which incite, ignite, Defiant in their fight.
The strong gale of words that wail, prevail, Woeful is their tale.
The cold depth of words which pound, astound, Deadening in their sound.
Acceptance
Throat itches and scratches, raspiness of an otherworldly quality. Lips miming the words, their echoes silent.
From deep within, the surges pulsating, desperately attempting to blast into the atmosphere. A concerted effort, both messenger and vessel willing, wishing, wanting the ripples to meet the surface.
Flows and ebbs of lapping dialogue, sparkling glistening leaps of innocent, complicit laughter, lulls of serenity and quiet contemplation all in a blink of the mind’s eye.
Each page turning as if courtesy of a fast-forward button. Slipping, falling, fading, thugs of resistance futile.
The stark realisation, this is coldness, this is acceptance.
Your resting place
The glistening Shannon, a magnificent twinkling curtain rolled out smoothly, a veil is drawn over the valley below.
Rosary in unison to the grating of the clay back and forth the swings, gathering rhythm only momentarily disrupted by the exchange of hands. A new crew lies in wait to take up the chorus.
The many gatherers scattered witnesses to the careful descent into your resting place
A quilt of roses adorns you, Each petal precious and sweet Keep warm my love.
Celtic Bride
Tumbling tresses of auburn, slender, lithe and graceful frame Bambi eyes – a depth of beauty instantly recognisable.
Beaming, effortless smile finely crafted hands which have penned many a touching message, prepared many a loving meal, reached for many a tender embrace, and now act as protectrice to your very own High King of Ireland.
Youth marked by boundless energy, instant engagement, rebellious spirit, insatiable curiosity. Inquisitive student, keen linguist, intrepid traveller, Cuisinière de résistance – tasting and delighting in the delectable delicacies of this glorious multicultural world.
Erudite, quizzical mindful of the lessons of our elders, firm and steadfast in convictions, hopeful, driven to forge a better Ireland for those to come. Attuned to the voices of many, considerate and considered in rhetoric the consummate politician a fusion of past, present and future.
Life ignites, infuses, thrills, courageous in pursuits standing strong, upright and resolute climbing every mountain with an indomitable spirit, there is something about this maiden.
As your wedding day approaches, your chieftain awaits on the mountain top – Cnoc na Teamhrach This particular climb sees you ascend assuredly, with each step to the summit, you are brought home.
Proud to call you friend
Memories, childhood jewels, treasures in the recesses of my mind, the pounding of tennis balls on the tarmac during the hot Summer days. Both as equally eager to smash it with a formidable forehand, the dual recorders in sync (well most of the time), we were after all the instrumental saving grace of each year’s Nativity play! The dreaded own goal You poised for a glorious save, I, oblivious to your cries dealt the fatal blow I tested your patience that day, you the model of decorum never let it show.
Teenage years brought a keen interest in historical pursuits. Con Air showings back to back, fabulous Super Mac extravaganzas, Infinite ripples of laughter and giggles a reflection bringing comfort and company when I needed it most.
Never mind Tipperary it’s a longer way to Letterkenny, such was the legal route but boy was it worth the journey Success, Freedom, Fun not forgetting Cupid awaited, you never once looked back.
Eyes blue and gentle, the small contented smile you’ve navigated the peaks and troughs, I can see you’re happy with your lot. This is your moment, bask in the joy, feel the excitement. I’m privileged to witness the triumph, but most undoubtedly proud to call you friend.
Strength is in our past
Do not mourn me my love I am near you still, notice me in the Autumn leaves strewn magnificently lining the roadside in your honour.
Each leaf that falls memories we shared weightless, wistful gliding to their peaceful slumber.
My time has arrived so has theirs gracefully, elegantly, swirls of multicolour our befitting final dance, a waltz.
The day will come when the leaves will fade. growing dim flickering sweetly prepare yourself arm yourself Strength is in our past.
Magnetic
Snug, at ease camaraderie complimenting the fireside warmth a fitting forum for festive cheer.
Random responses friendly jibes carefree banter giggles galore Verses of old time classics and one hit wonders giving way to ripples of merriment savouring the delight.
A shadowing possibility this occasion might be our last Reminding ourselves to make it count holding it tight as a precious jewel – delicate, fragile, magnetic.
Sorry
‘Sorry’ a murmur, a mutter, falling indifferently, clumsily, irreverently from parted lips. Sometimes a habit, a courtesy, an afterthought, always a marker of our hard-won freedom.
Seemingly innocuous word, a nod to our ancestors, ingrained in our bruised dialect, woven through the beaten tapestry of our history, stirring the ghosts, the troubled sod, foremost in our legacy.
‘Sorry’ for suffering eight hundred years of oppression, ‘Sorry’ for having our native tongue ripped out, ‘Sorry’ for building another nation with our blood, wood, sweat and tears, ‘Sorry’ for being denied the right to toil on our own soil.
Let us not lament further sacrifice.
OUR ETERNAL LOVE
A soft gentle milken hand caressed our hair, A sweet embrace pulled us close for comfort, A listening ear let us know we mattered, A wise word offered in times of distress, Warmth so innate it had the touch of the divine. A curious question to highlight your sense of devilment, A wry smile which knew what we were up to, A generosity which knew no bounds. You offered your heart openly to share among us all, We lapped it up as we did every delicious meal. A style merchant as well as a speed merchant, A domestic goddess as well as a hostess extraordinaire, The aroma of fresh brown bread married with a brew of tea Danced through the air and set the scene, You balanced it all while raising a family of ten. You were our sun, moon and stars, You made sense of the world when we had lost our way, You were our safe haven, Our place of shelter and warmth when the journey got weary. You took pride in us, you took delight in us. You gave us everything, And all you asked in return was our happiness. We yearn to have you near to us again, To remind you one last time how dearly we love you, Express our gratitude and inadequacy at your selflessness. Queen of our hearts, No time to say goodbye. A ray of heaven on earth, the apple of our eye, A presence so soothing, babes fell asleep in your arms. We knew this day would come – the eclipse loomed, Our hearts would know this heaviness. Our stomachs wrought with anguish. We know you are among the chorus of angels, We need you still to keep a watchful eye, Let us know you can hear us. May God cradle you in his arms just as you cradled us, May you have peace and joy and comfort in your heavenly home, We carry forward your presence in our hearts, And know you will continue to guide us in this life, Until we meet again Our Eternal Love.
The Wind of the World
For my grandmother
you are under the earth
I am on the earth
with your body that is tired of carrying
the wind of this world
-a stone in the middle of my heart
has been rolling without stop-
I don't know where you have gone
the only thing which is clear is that
you are not here
The Phenomenology of Writing
Now you are
an empty page
inviting
writing
–maybe-
because of lust
just not ready
-your call is on my mind for quite a while-
call me call me
the flow of ink
is a remedy
for my wounds
Illness
You hit me
like you were punching the wall
woman
isn't your cave
in which whenever you like
you can lie down
you can't climb over her
like a squirrel.
not of his nectar
but of his pee
he lets inside
he loves
like he shakes a tree
manhood
is a serious illness
Rajm
Outside is night
inside is separation
this must be the last day
of the world
-I think of him-
love ends (…)
the heart
remains as a woman who was stoned to death
in the middle of reality
my heart is the biggest
stone that God threw
at me
MÜESSER YENİAY was born in İzmir, 1984; she graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language and Literature. She took her M.A on Turkish Literature at Bilkent University. She has won several prizes in Turkey including Yunus Emre (2006), Homeros Attila İlhan (2007), Ali Riza Ertan (2009), Enver Gökçe (2013) poetry prizes. She was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Muse Pie Press in USA. Her first book Darkness Also Falls Ground was published in 2009 and her second book I Founded My Home in the Mountains a collection of translation from world poetry. Her second poetry book I Drew the Sky Again was published in 2011. She has translated the poems of Persian poet Behruz Kia as Requiem to Tulips. She has translated the Selected Poems of Gerard Augustin together with Eray Canberk, Başak Aydınalp, Metin Cengiz (2011). She has also translated the Personal Anthology of Michel Cassir together with Eray Canberk and Metin Cengiz (2011). Lately, she has published a Contemporary Spanish Anthology with Metin Cengiz and Jaime B. Rosa. She also translated the poetry of Israeli poet Ronny Someck (2014) and Hungarian poet Attila F. Balazs (2015). She has published a book on modern Turkish Avant-garde poetry The Other Consciousness: Surrealism and The Second New (2013). Her latest poetry book Before Me There Were Deserts was published in 2014 in İstanbul. Her poems were published in Hungarian by AB-Art Press by the name A Rozsaszedes Szertartasa (2015). Her poems have appeared in the following magazines abroad: Actualitatea Literară (Romania), The Voices Project, The Bakery, Sentinel Poetry, Yellow Medicine Review, Shot Glass Journal, Poesy, Shampoo, Los Angeles Review of Books, Apalachee Review (USA&England); Kritya, Shaikshik Dakhal (India); Casa Della Poesia, Libere Luci, I poeti di Europe in Versi e il lago di Como (Italy); Poeticanet, Poiein (Greece); Revue Ayna, Souffle, L’oiseau de feu du Garlaban (France); Al Doha (Qatar); Tema (Croatia); Dargah (Persia). The Anthologies her poetry appeared: With Our Eyes Wide Open; Aspiring to Inspire, 2014 Women Writers Anthology; 2014 Poetry Anthology- Words of Fire and Ice (USA) Poesia Contemporanea de la Republica de Turquie (Spain); Voix Vives de Mediterranee en Mediterranee, Anthologie Sete 2013 ve Poetique Insurrection 2015 (France); One Yet Many- The Cadence of Diversity ve ayrıca Shaikshik Dakhal (India); Come Cerchi Sull’acqua (Italy). Her poems have been translated into Vietnamese, Hungarian, Croatian, English, Persian, French, Serbian, Arabic, Hebrew, Italian, Greek, Hindi, Spanish and Romanian. Her book in Hungarian was published in 2015 by AB-Art Publishing by the name “A Rozsaszedes Szertartasa” She has participated in the poetry festivals like Sarajevo International Poetry Festival, September 2010 (Bosnia-Herzegovina); Nisan International Poetry Festival, May 2011 (Israel); Belgrad International Poetry Festival, September 2012 (Serbia); Voix Vives International Poetry Festival (Sete), July 2013 (France); Kritya International Poetry Festival, September 2013 (India), Galati/Antares International Poetry Festival, June 2014 (Romania), Medellin International Poetry Festival, July 2014 (Colombia); 2nd Asia Pacific Poetry Festival 2015 (Vietnam). Müesser is the editor of the literature magazine Şiirden (of Poetry). She is currently pursuing a Ph.D. in Turkish literature at Bilkent University, Ankara, and is also a member of PEN and the Writers Syndicate of Turkey.
Katie 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.
1. I didn’t see my grandmother’s tree in Chile, araucaria araucana, though they grow tall there and are many. I must have walked under them every day, tripped over their seeds, but I didn’t think of her, oceans away, standing in a square of green, raking leaves around her monkey puzzle tree. 2. For over a hundred years, that tree stood between pruned rosebush and clipped hedge, a long shadow moving over wet fields and stone walls. As a girl, I clung to the trunk when we played hide and seek, rough bark printing maps on my palms. 3. In April gales, the tree sways. From the window, my grandmother watches a chainsaw blade spin the tree into a flight of splinters, until only logs and sawdust are left. In each neat wheel of wood, an eye opens, ringed by lines of the past. The logs are split, stacked, the tree turned into armfuls of firewood which will rise as smoke to the sky, a puzzle unravelled.
Frozen Food
In the frozen foods aisle, I think of him when I shiver among shelves of green flecked garlic breads and chunks of frozen fish. I touch the cold door until my thumbs numb. Strangers unpacked his body in a lab and thawed his hand, watched long-frozen fingers unfurl one by one, until his fist finally opened, let go, and from his grasp rolled a single sloe, ice-black with a purple-blue waxy bloom.
Inside the sloe, a blackthorn stone. Inside the stone, a seed.
Standing in the supermarket aisle, I watch my breath freeze.
Museum
I am custodian of this exhibition of erasures, curator of loss.
I watch over pages of scribbles, deletions, obliterations,
in a museum that preserves not what is left, but what is lost.
Where arteries are unblocked, I keep the missing clots.
I collect all the lasered tattoos that let skin start again.
In this exhibition of erasures, I am curator of loss.
See the unraveled wool that was once a soldier’s socks,
shredded documents, untied shoestring
knots — my museum protects not what is left, but what is lost.
I keep deleted jpegs of strangers with eyes crossed,
and the circle of pale skin where you removed your wedding ring.
I recall all the names you ever forgot. I am curator of loss.
Here, the forgotten need for the flint and steel of a tinderbox,
and there, a barber’s pile of scissored hair. I attend
not what is left, but what is lost.
I keep shrapnel pulled from wounds where children were shot,
confession sins, abortions, wildflowers lost in cement.
I am custodian of erasures. I am curator of loss
in this museum that protects not what is left, but what is lost.
Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an award-winning bilingual poet, writing both in Irish and in English. Paula Meehan awarded her the Ireland Chair of Poetry Bursary 2014-2015. Her collections are Résheoid, Dúlasair (Coiscéim), A Hummingbird, your Heart (Smithereens Press) and Clasp (Dedalus Press). Her work is regularly broadcast on RTE Radio One. Doireann’s poems have previously appeared in literary journals in Ireland and internationally (in Canada, France, Mexico, USA, Scotland and England). Two of her poems are currently Pushcart Prize nominated. . www.doireannnighriofa.com & DoireannNiG
The countryside in which it stands Is broken with large jagged rocks. Its trees are dark, from northern lands, Whose branches scratch the sky; boney bough knocks One against the other. Cold winds finger through Odd strands of captured human hair, Torn newspaper strips look as if they grew Amongst the leaves to bleakly declare Of violence and despair. Black groves smell Of damp decay. They display white fungoid growth Through which black insects grope, explore a shell Deserted by a snail that caps its glowing trail. One is loathe To venture near this place of threats But winding through dead leaves, broken rubble Is the path where stumble those, full of regrets, Replete with fears, burdened with trouble, Pass to reach the house. Its peaks and walls Assault the sky like a cataclysmic scream, Intertwined grotesqueries that captures and enthralls Those destined to drop into its dream. The weary travelers approach in single file, one by one, Trudge to the door which swings open wide. They know their journey’s almost done. They tremulously step inside. Halfway down the long bare hall Their head is seen to wobble, shake. Comes now a groan, a gasp. Then the fall. It thumps and rolls. The arms quake And drop as well. The torso tumbles, Then the legs topple like loose lumber. The parts now chute in sliding jumbles Through a hole in the floor. Nothing left to encumber The next traveler. The house re-opens its front door. The upper stories flicker, luminesce. Moonlight glistens. Something rises to soar From out a square chimney – glaucus, incandesce To dissipate like spectral steam. Something wakens from a dream.
There are rains that drag fog skirts Across the country-side in stealthy hiss, That, gently, in determination Dampens down the grass with sodden kiss Of sky to earth as caring as a mother Calms her resting child. There are rains of panicked horses’ hooves That illuminate their stampede With angry lightning flashing on black roofs While trees sway and shudder in dismay And water demons pound on window panes. But some rains come and merely sit And drum in steady patient siege, Work soft hammers on the dents and wrinkles of the day Smoothing anger and distress to flat peace, Tempt shy dreams to peek from hidden thoughts And welcome in safe surrender to sleep’s release
The early black Is still unstirred By yawning morning. The ceiling fills With predatory thoughts, Like quiet children Come to play Their silent games, Poking sticks into Dark passages Of forgotten memories; Memories like frightened mice That scurry off in panic. The sadly moaning bell Sixty years ago on a lonely buoy Shrugging its shoulders In a choppy sea. A special purple Strangely found on both An apron and a stub of clay In kindergarten. The round eyed stare Frozen to my mother’s face As cancer pain Prodded her to certain death. A pet white rat curled in snooze
On my pillow by my cheek. The falling crescent moon Smiles in my window Like my long gone mother Soothing me Back to the peace of sleep.
Jan Sand is originally a New Yorker. Currently a resident of Helsinki, Finland. Having read and enjoyed his poetry at Open Salon, I requested some work for Poethead.
Bio: I am a former industrial designer formerly a New Yorker, now retired and living in Helsinki, Finland. I have been writing poetry for several decades but am more or less unpublished except at a couple of web sites run by acquaintances met on the web. I know no other poets but take up my time with graphics and poetry and innovative cooking and baking and learning Finnish and relating to the wild animals in my area.
a scrap of satin – some wood and what is beneath the wood ? dirt, the earth, it is cold is it alive ? it contains the stir of flowers it contains the whispering grass and above it all ?
I learnt how to stand put from a flower Saw no other sun drank no other water I recognized my roots as a village my earth, the sky Seasons passed above me a nest of ants, bosom friends I learnt how to be a flower solely… solely, standing put
Between My Body and the World
In my hair, despair is growing longer its root is in me, however like earth I am smooth in the center of it if I put my memories in a tent -and myself in another tent – my eyes are disappearing… I am as if I have gone out a seed I will go back into that seed I am a footprint of a horseshoe on the face of daytime between my body and the world I should put a distance
Now Do not Tell Me of Men!
My soul hurts so much that I awaken the stones under the earth My womanhood, a moneybox filled with stones a home to worms, woodpeckers a cave to the wolves climbing down my body on my arms, new seeds are sprinkled the man of your life is searched that is quite a serious matter My womanhood, my cold snack and my pubic, a home for nothingness, the world stands here and you! live with the rubbish thrown into you When he is gone, tell him that flesh leaves nails that you live with the science of the break tell him of that serious illness like a lamb skin, I am cold in your gaze I am not in debt to you your mothers womb, sir! my womanhood, my invaded continent neither am I a land cultivated… scratch off the organ that is not mine like a snake skin, I wish I could drop it it is not reasonable to be a mother to a murder it is not homeland that is divided but the body of woman now, do not tell me of men!
Müesser Yeniay was born in İzmir, Turkey in 1984. She graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language and Literature. She has won several prizes in Turkey including Yunus Emre (2006), Homeros Attila İlhan (2007), Ali Riza Ertan (2009), Enver Gökçe (2013) poetry prizes. Her first book Dibine Düşüyor Karanlık da was published in 2009 and her second book Evimi Dağlara Kurdum is a collection of translation from world poetry. Yeniden Çizdim Göğü was published in 2011. She has translated the poems of Persian poet Behruz Kia under the name of Lalelere Requiem. She has translated Selected Poems of Gerard Augustin together with Eray Canberk, Başak Aydınalp, Metin Cengiz (2011). She has also translated the Personal Anthology of Michel Cassir together with Eray Canberk and Metin Cengiz (2011). Lately, she has published a Contemporary Spanish Anthology with Metin Cengiz and Jaime B. Rosa. She has also published a book on modern Turkish Avant-garde poetry The Other Consciousness: Surrealism and The Second New (2013). Her latest poetry book Before Me There Were Deserts was published in 2014 in İstanbul. Her poems have appeared in the following magazines abroad: The Voices Project, The Bakery, Sentinel Poetry, Yellow Medicine Review, Shot Glass Journal, Poesy, Shampoo, Los Angeles Review of Books, Mediterranean Poetry (USA&England); Kritya (India); Casa Della Poesia, Libere Luci (Italy); Poeticanet, Poiein (Greece); Revue Ayna, Souffle, L’oiseau de feu du Garlaban (France); Al Doha (Qatar); Tema (Croatia). Her poems have been translated into English, French, Serbian, Arabic, Hebrew, Italian, Greek, Hindi, Spanish and Romanian. She participated in the poetry festivals like Sarajevo International Poetry Festival, September 2010 (Bosnia-Herzegovina); Nisan International Poetry Festival, May 2011 (Israel); Belgrad International Poetry Festival, September 2012 (Serbia); Voix Vives International Poetry Festival (Sete), July 2013 (France); Kritya International Poetry Festival, September 2013 (India), Galati/Antares International Poetry Festival, June 2014 (Romania). Müesser is the editor of the literature magazine Şiirden (of Poetry). She is currently pursuing a PhD in Turkish literature at Bilkent University, Ankara, and is also a member of PEN and the Writers Syndicate of Turkey.