‘burnt offerings’ and other poems by Anne Casey

burnt offerings swilling cinders of eucalypt forests burning up and down the coast tinged with hints of fear singed possum hairs lifting into clear blue air an earthquake in Italy shakes me awake a mother crying somewhere volcanic embers cycling into smoke of broken promises women’s choices smouldering charred remains of exiles’ lives democracy doused with lies and set on fire headless horsemen prancing in the coals blackened souls stirring soot from scorched relics ashes to ashes and my mother in a box too small to hold her all laid in a field with all the others when she could have flown with the four winds so I could taste again the sharp tang of her loss married to the rest lately everything tastes of ash (First published in apt literary journal on 3 July 2017, with sincere thanks to Editor-in-Chief, Clarissa Halston.)   where the lost things go we sat upon a golden bow my little bird and i indivisibly apart we dived into the sky and to the purple-hearted dark an ocean we did cry for all the lost things gathered there in rooms beyond the eye the aie, the I, the eye (First published in where the lost things go (Salmon Poetry 2017), with eternal gratitude to Jessie Lendennie, Publisher and tireless campaigner for women poets.)   Between ebb and flow Mist rolls off moss-green hills Where wind-wild ponies thunder Manes flying as they chase Their seaward brothers Locked in eternal contest On this deserted grey mile Past the little stone churchyard Long-forgotten graves spilling Stones onto the sodden bog A soft snore from behind My two angels sleeping Thirteen thousand miles From all they have ever known Running our own race To make the best Of spaces like this A rainbow rises along the horizon And I recognise her Come for my mother Locked in her own Immortal struggle The sister returned So I know it won’t Be long now And I cry a little at The unbearable beauty Of these diastoles When we are all Suspended Here in a heartbeat Between heaven and earth (First published in where the lost things go (Salmon Poetry 2017), with eternal gratitude to Jessie Lendennie, Publisher and tireless campaigner for women poets.)   Metaphoric rise A brief history of incidents surrounding the emergence of POTUS#45 i. rousting hot wind howls through a hollow log tawny tumbleweed trundles over downtrodden plains ii. ravening on a sunlit lawn a plump slug streaks forward eyes on stalks iii. a new religion branches bowed with bloated fruit nod to the gilded idol dark clouds fall in behind iv. aftermath a squat lizard basks on a sickle-hacked trail black legs flail from his lips v. in the bay beacon dimmed and tablet fractured the lady endures her robes about her feet vi. paradox lost a fiery sunrise heralds stormy days to come ice shifts at the poles (First published in The Irish Times newspaper on 20 January 2017, with sincere thanks to Martin Doyle, Books Editor. Subsequently published in where the lost things go (Salmon Poetry, 2017), with eternal gratitude to Jessie Lendennie, Publisher and tireless campaigner for women poets.)   In memoriam II: The draper “The town is dead Nothing but the wind Howling down Main Street And a calf bawling Outside The Fiddlers” My mother’s words, not mine In a letter, kept in a drawer These long years She had a way with words My mother That’s why they came The faithful of her following Leaning in to her over the counter For an encouraging word Or the promise of a novena Long before we had Local radio Our town had my mother Harbinger of the death notices And the funeral arrangements Bestower of colloquial wisdom Bearer of news on all things Great and small Who was home And who hadn’t come Who had got the Civil Service job And by what bit of pull The Councillor’s niece Smug in her new navy suit Oblivious to the circulating countersuit “Would you ever think of coming home?” Her words would catch me Unawares Lips poised at the edge Of a steaming mug Igniting a spitfire Of resentment each time Then draping me for days I’d wear it like a horsehair shirt All the way back Until the sunshine and the hustle Had worn it threadbare This extra bit of baggage In every emigrant’s case Their mother’s broken heart I never thought to ask her “Would you want me to…? So I could look out at the rain Circumnavigating the empty street And shiver at the wind Whipping in under the door…?” I don’t miss that question now On my annual pilgrimage ‘home’ My father never asks it Like me, I know he feels it Hanging in the air Alongside her absence I miss my mother And her way with words (First published in The Irish Times newspaper on 31 January 2016, with heartfelt thanks to Ciara Kenny, Editor, Irish Abroad. Subsequently published in where the lost things go (Salmon Poetry 2017), with eternal gratitude to Jessie Lendennie, Publisher and tireless campaigner for women poets.) burnt offerings and other poems are © Anne Casey

Anne Casey’s poetry has appeared internationally in newspapers, magazines, journals, books, broadcasts, podcasts, recordings and a major art exhibition. Salmon Poetry published her debut collection, where the lost things go in 2017. She won the Glen Phillips Novice Writer Award in 2017 and has been shortlisted for prizes including Cuirt International Poetry Prize, Eyewear Books Poetry Prize and Bedford International Writing Competition, among others. Originally from west Clare, now living in Sydney, Anne is Co-Editor of Other Terrain and Backstory literary journals (Swinburne University, Melbourne).