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“Birth Mother” and Other Poems by Srilata Krishnan (K.Srilata)

Birth Mother

We are standing in front of the mirror,
my daughter and I,
brushing our hair and being vain
when I think of the doctor’s question:
“What was her birth cry like?”
I don’t know and never will.
She is fine, or will be, I know.
But looking in the mirror and into her almond eyes,
I wonder what she is like – her birth mother –
if she too, was once, afraid of words
and of the fluttering of pigeons,
if she has nicely formed arches on her feet
and whether or not her eyebrows make a bow
for good luck,
if she is small and slender-waisted,
if she is anything like my daughter,
or was.
Strange, but I don’t wonder at all about the father.

I tug at her pony.
“Amma, let’s go”, she urges into a mirror
that is slowly
her birth mother.

Our eyes meet in that eye of a little god
and she smiles
the sort of smile that is like mine.


What Penelope Said to Ulysses on His Return

And so you ask what I have been doing with myself
these past twenty years,
whether I have missed you and how much,
and how I have fared, all told.
That first one year I hurt all over,
your absence leached into my bones,
and dimmed the sun that insisted on rising each morning.
When they brought Telemachus to me, I turned away,
refusing to take him in my arms.
How could I when he looked so much like you?
The ache in my bones,
the dimming of the sun,
my turning away from Telemachus –
these are easy to conjure up,
but not so the rest.

Soon my fingers became birds
I sent off
to look for words
I can weave into this poem
I am writing even as we speak.
But I am growing less and less hopeful,
and the words I weave by day,
I unweave by night,
for I find they won’t do.

Twenty years of missing you, Ulysses,
and the words for that are still in hiding,
an entire forest of them,
out there somewhere,
beyond the flight of birds.


All the Usual Arguments

Gloveless, she incinerates them,
only to have them return at night,
feel her cheek with their phantom fingers,
wrap long umbilical cords around her waist,
snuggle against her breasts.

There are all the usual arguments of course.
Someone’s got to do it.
It’s the only work she knows.
It puts food on the table after all.

Never mind that its carnage she feels
on her tongue
when she sits down with her children
to eat.


This Road, This One

You are a thousand years old now,
older than all the photographs of yourself
that exist in this world.
Already you reek
of the sickly odour of death.
Your grandchildren can’t bear your embrace.
The good people want you to rest in peace.
They wish you well in your other journey.
They claim nothing else matters in the end.
They seem sure of it.
There’s no reason to be difficult, they say.
But you want this road, this one, to go on.
You want to follow the turn,
be surprised by it,
bequeath one more photograph of yourself
to ether
that no one will know what to do with,
write one more line
no one will ever read.

Birth Mother and Other Poems are © Srilata Krishnan (K.Srilata)

A poet and fiction writer, K. Srilata (Srilata Krishnan) is a Professor of English at IIT Madras. Her poetry collections include Bookmarking the Oasis, Writing Octopus, Arriving Shortly and Seablue Child. Forthcoming, from Poetrywala, Mumbai is a collection titled The Unmistakable Presence of Absent Humans. Her novel Table for Four was long listed in 2009 for the Man Asian literary prize. Srilata is the co-editor of the anthologies The Rapids of a Great River: The Penguin Book of Tamil Poetry, Short Fiction from South India (OUP) and All the Worlds Between: A Collaborative Poetry Project Between India and Ireland (Yoda), and the editor of an anthology of women’s writing from the Self-Respect movement titled The Other Half of the Coconut: Women Writing Self-Respect History (Zubaan). She is the translator of R.Vatsala’s Tamil novel Once there was a girl (Vattathul).


“The Beaching” and other poems by Denise Blake

The Beaching

The pod of whales beached themselves on Rutland Island,
chose the isolated sweep of the Back Strand to come ashore.
My grandmother in her final years would have understood.

Those long-finned pilot whales suffered some trauma,
became distressed and confused. And so for her that winter
when told her grownup daughter had died suddenly.

Three years later, hearing that her eldest had also
passed on threw something within her off-kilter.
Sent her mind homing towards the Back Strand.

The whales had wandered together, over thirty of them,
swam through Scottish waters to the Sound of Arranmore,
heading towards the crescent of shoreline and their ending.

She would have understood, the Rutland-born woman
who had long left the island but yearned for that place; called
for it constantly, rose from her sickbed in the middle of the night.

I need to go now. They will be waiting; it will soon be low tide.
She wanted to journey, follow those already gone,
float ashore, let grief beach her there on the Back Strand.


An off-white cup with three blue stripes,
soggy tea leaves sunk into the last sup,
a side plate coated in brown toast crumbs,
knife with the blade splattered in butter
and red homemade jam, a sugared teaspoon.
Mum had placed them all on the plastic
drainer at the sink, beside my cereal bowl
with the remains of floating cornflakes.
We hurried out of the house silently,
as Dad and all the rest still slept upstairs.
The plan was to stop for Mass and a cuppa
in Monaghan, lunch would be in Dublin,
dinner with my uncle, aunt and cousins.
A whirl of women rushed in that afternoon,
hoovering, washing, tidying, for her wake.
The cup, the side plate, the knife, the spoon,
were scrubbed clean of her touch, placed
with the ordinary crockery in the cupboard.

Becoming Shepherds

The morning of our anniversary, and we are out
on our lawn in Ramelton. The freshness of air
has shocked me awake. My shoes and the ends
of my jeans are drenched from the dew.
7 a.m. Facing the Lennon in glorious light,
low tide has sanderlings on the salt-water banks.
All around us are sheep munching for all
they are worth. We don’t know what they are worth,
who owns this flock, where they came from,
how they came to stake a claim here; chomping bushes,
pulling leaves and leaving their mess everywhere.
Laurence laughs, little did we think…
This morning thirty years ago, my sister began
the wedding preparations. I remember leaving home
with my father, being driven in a white Mercedes,
the walk up St Eunan’s aisle, Laurence at the altar.
The line of a reading; let us grow to old age together
as sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows.
In sickness and in health, I never imagined us
surrounded by sheep; never saw us as shepherds.
I picture sheepdogs chasing them on vast fields.
There are fifty or more here, we’ll be working all day.
Then Laurence shouts. They run from all corners,
head in single–file down the grassy slope of the hill.
Now I see the truth in the cliché, as we follow them.
The air is filled with the sound of their bleating
and I am caught by the strangeness of it all.
Last month our youngest left home for University,
moving from rural Donegal to Halls in the city.
I hadn’t realised just how rural we are.

Laurence hands me a stick, says stand there
so they don’t run past us. Neither of us know
what we are doing or where the sheep will go.
He whistles and like a scene from a dream,
they run to one place, rush over the bank,
onto the shore, down across the sandbar,
around the inlet’s corner, along the river’s flow.
Over fifty, in a long line, one following the other
like days following days, years following years,
until you wonder how it all passed so quickly.

Against Words

I’m opposed to words:
I told you so words,
You’ll get over it words,
When I was your age words,
That’s not the way it’s done words,
Welcome to my world words
I’m opposed to the words:
You still have your health
It’s only a job, it’s only a house
You’d need to pull yourself together
My cousin’s boyfriend’s sister had that
Sure, that’s nothing to be worrying about
Everything happens for a reason
Someday you’ll look back on this
It could be worse
You shouldn’t have
Why didn’t you
If I were you….
I’m opposed to them all. Give me
the silence that says: I’m listening.

Mother Goddess

Demeter: mother of Persephone, goddess of the harvest
and the cycles of life. The Universal mother whose daughter
went missing; who did not drink, eat or bathe until she found her.
Mother of grain and crop, the bountiful gift, blessings on
those who looked after her own. The curse of unquenchable
hunger on those who brought harm to the ones she had borne.
Mistress of the home, producer of life, she sent her cubs
through a darkened cave into immortality and a blessed afterlife.
As it was with her, it was with my grandmothers and my mother.
Good mother, blessed mother, working mother, fairy godmother.
Guardian angels; tooth fairy, baker of birthday cakes, lovelorn healer,
soother of hot fevers, stitcher of torn hems, night-time story teller
who taught us how to walk, talk, sing, dance, cry a river and then smile.
Mother Nature full of fresh berries, wild roadside flowers, lilac
filled fields. A lioness, black bear, white vulture, all-present mother.
Watch over my clan, watch over their future, watch over their care.
The Goddess mothers: Anu, Gaia, Toci, Rhea, Durga, my own;
a Cailleach and Bríghde, Glinda the good witch, moody woman, crazy
kitchen-dancer. Mommy, Mummy, Mum, Ma, Granny, a Mháthair.
Creator of cycles, unconditional love and hurricanes. The core of peace.
Give me guidance, nourishment and strength. Help me to hold on
and let go, be present and absent, wise and foolish, the past and future.
Help me to be the mother my own sons need, the person they will cherish,
and the woman who will warm a hollowed soul in those who need a mother.

The Beaching and other poems are © Denise Blake

Denise Blake’s third collection, Invocation was published by Revival Press, Limerick Writers Centre. Her previous collections, Take a Deep Breath and How to Spin Without Getting Dizzy, are published by Summer Palace Press. Denise is a regular contributor to Sunday Miscellany RTE Radio 1. She has wide experience of facilitating creative writing workshops in schools through Poetry Ireland Writers in Schools Scheme, with teachers and artists as part of Artists in Education, CAP Poetry in Motion and with a variety of adult groups.


These poems are published,

Invocation, Revival Press, Limerick Writers Centre
The BeachingThe SHOp magazine of poetry, Numéro Cinq – Uimhir a Cúig
Becoming ShepherdsSunday Miscellany
Mother GoddessNorth West Words magazine, Numéro Cinq

*useful links

microliths 240-241 by Paul Celan

Excerpts from microliths by Paul Celan

translated by Pierre Joris


[These are Celan’s first notes toward the conference project “On the Darkness of Poetry” 
which remained unfinished.] Pjoris


         ||  Mysticism as wordlessness
	     Poetry as form

241.2 The poem is inscribed as the figure of the whole language, but language remains 
invisible; what is actualizing itself — language — steps, as soon as it has happened,
back into the realm of the possible.“Le poème,” writes Valéry, “est du langage à l’état
naissant;” /“Poetry,” writes Valéry, “is language in the state of being born;”/ Language 
in statu nascendi, thus, language freeing itself.


241.1	Yesyes, not only the Geiger-, the “syllable-counters ” too, though despised by 
a literature that calls itself engaged, register something.


     →  241.2  

aesthesis is not enough; the…		   ;noesis is not enough; 	          …		  
               ;  what’s needed is personal presence, what’s needed is conversation; 
conversation and entertainment are different things; conversations are demanding, 

241.3 ——–——–
Idea of the bracket			(voicedness)	 
			 also the this vibrato of the words has se-
			 mantic relevance

241.4 ______

The poet: always in partibus infidelium

241.5 ______

          Das      Kampaner Tal, p. 51, footnote:
	||... “as on the Jews’ houses (in memory of ruined Jerusalem), something
          always 		has to be left unfinished.” 

	     to    remember in the poem — remembrance as absence — 

241.6				Language planes

                   Nationallibr.: Bühler —



No syllogistic enriched with this or that theory of association, no logistic will ever be 
able to do justice to the fact of “poem” — the alleged thought- or language-scheme of 
the poem is never “finished.” 



syntactic (and other!) bracketings 









139. Psalm:         nox illuminatio mea 

	       ... darkness is like the light 


246.1					        an uneasiness similar to that in
“Lyrik-Dichtung)					relation to the word
					 →  		“Schrifttum / literature”

 The uneasiness	    Lyrik				  (which Heine
 the progress therein				     uses…)

Tension between Lyrik = Dichtung

Questions	Lyric Poetry
“Problems of Poetry”

246.2	We live in a brightly lit time, a time that illustrates everything; lyric poetry 
has a cosmopolitan trait: “Felice notte!” our so beneficially contradictory god poetizes. Benn…

246.3	_______

The secret marriage the word contracts in the poem with the real and the true is called 
“wild” mainly by those who do not want to forgo their lushly comfortable, well-guarded 
culture-harem and — especially — the eunuchal services that come with it. (Poetry 
certainly does not threaten this seraglio with any kind of abduction)

246.3  The — oh so wordily lamented — loss of tradition: the legitimism 
of those who “legitimize” themselves everywhere, so as not to have to justify 
themselves to themselves.


Excerpts from Paul Celan’s microliths (I)

162.1 ­

It is part of poetry’s essential features that it releases the poet, its crown witness and confidant, from their shared knowledge once it has taken on form. (If it were different, there would barely be a poet who could take on the responsibility of having written more than one poem.)



—Poetry as event
Event = truth (“unhiddenness,” worked, fought for unhiddeness)
Poetry as risk
Creation = /power­activity /Gewalt­tätigkeit (Heidegger)
Truth ≠ accuracy (­i­: consistency)


§ Read at Excerpts from Paul Celan’s microliths


Further excerpts from Paul Celan’s microliths (II)


22                                                                                                                                          Hermeticism—

Certain “citizens” and the poem: They buy the surprise bag; one knows vaguely what’s in it, it won’t be much, but then it doesn’t cost much either, and if one happens to visit the fair and one has enjoyed the lady without lower- but with upper body, one’s amusement also demands this. And when what’s in it turns out — but here too the buyer’s superior humor can prove itself — to be even cheaper than cheap, there still remains the fun that all of that was “too.



§ Read at Further excerpts from Paul Celan’s  microliths

§ Poethead Project /  microliths: series, trans. Joris

§ Excerpts from Paul Celan, Microliths. These translations are © Pierre Joris


‘Fire relies on the leaves of gum trees’ and other poems by Dominique Hecq



Light pours down
the unrelenting sky
to earth ribbed and ridged
with the tough stroke
of Drysdale’s brush

I track down words
for hues and shades in books
envy the skill of artist-explorers
who forged new ways of seeing

The cries of crows fall

Through blues onto rusty ochres
pulsing with raven dust

This place stills my tongue


Somewhere in this night lives
a light
that turns in the open
throat of time.

When the sky waits for rain
birds squat in silence
and longing is but
one great sweeping movement that makes the earth quake.

The clock stands still in the heat, and I
fear the mimicry of clichés—
like a comma usurping all

No, I don’t believe
in the silence
drying up
on your lips.

I dream the wish that…

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|The Girl in The Photograph| and other poems by Shreya Barua

|The Girl in The Photograph|

I’ll take you by the hand
and show you what it’s like
to sit under neon signs
when the city goes to sleep
and you’ll have known
a little bit more
about what magic looks like
I’ll take you by the lips
and show you what it’s like
to taste the snowflakes
I caught on my tongue
and you might get to know
a lot bit more
about what dreams feel like
I’ll take you to places
you’ll forget to remember
I’ll show you things
your eyes won’t believe
until you start to wonder
if I am real;
if any of it is

So, I’ll let go of your hand
one final time
break away from your lips
one last time
wrap all the magic and dreams
around your little finger
and go back to being
the girl in the photograph

|Syria’s Daughter|

I am Syria’s daughter.
I will soon be just as forgotten as my name is.

And when they come for me
rummaging through heaps of concrete,
sifting through blood and bones
looking for bodies
to add to their death toll,
tell them I tried.
Tell them I tried to live.

Tell them
That I tried to breathe the poison that swirls across my country like a midsummer’s breeze
That I tried to match my heartbeat to the gunfires on the street so that I wouldn’t bite my lip
too hard out of fear
That I tried to sleep but my ears rang from the haunted screams that echoed all the way
from Damascus to Aleppo
That I tried to find a piece of land to bury my brother, his pale mouth still lined with blood
he’d been coughing for hours, but they had their guns ready for anything that moved
That I tried to shed tears when my father died in my arms but I couldn’t because my eyes
were as parched as my throat
That I tried.

Tell them I tried.
Tell them I tried to live while they slashed open my land till the cracks brimmed over
with the blood of my people.
Tell them they won.

I was Syria’s daughter.
Tell them that they can now have my mother.

|Victim’s Curse|

Last night
I found a girl murdered on the streets
and while her body grew cold
against the slush laden concrete
They wondered
if death had finally caught up,
having been beckoned time and again
by the dozen healed slits across her wrist
They checked
for signs of struggle
leaving room for doubt
that if she didn’t fight back
she was probably asking for it
They took
samples of her blood,
checking for drugs
because one less junkie off the streets
was no harm done
They rummaged
through her phone
looking for signs of provocation
since one shouldn’t make enemies
if they can’t afford to
They examined
the knife jutting out of her abdomen,
blood curdled around it
making sure that it wasn’t in fact her
who had somehow found a way
to twist it through her insides

Last night
I found a girl murdered on the streets
and it was sad
that I felt happy
about her not being alive
to witness that she was robbed of her life
in a world
where the tag of a victim
came with a price to be paid
and where dying
just wasn’t enough

|Serenading Through A Broken Heart|

I know now what people mean when they say that they can feel their heart breaking

I know because I am breaking yours
and I can see the anguish with which
your pupils dilate when you look at me.
You unflinchingly carry the conversation on
but your voice breaks precisely eight times
in the past minute.
I try to inch my hand closer to yours
and your fingers shrink away
sensing my touch
which isn’t welcome anymore.
Your lips quiver ever so slightly
and I can hear the accusing words
that you try to hold back.
You look unchanged and unaffected
but the blood in your cheeks that
I have grown so fond of,
has slowly started to drain away.
You look away
and fixate your eyes at nothing at all,
letting your dry cappuccino grow cold
and with it,
your heart

I know now what people mean when they say that they can feel their heart breaking,
because the entire time that I thought I was breaking yours, I was sucking the life
out of mine

|My Type|

He said he knew my type.

He said, I was the spoilt kind
and if I slit my wrists
they would bleed out alcohol
four pints of Jameson, three of Miller Light
and ten shots of Calle 23
staining the skimpy dresses
and short skirts that I wear
to attract countless lusting eyes
in bars or the corners of dimly lit streets
where I much rather stick my tongue
down the throat of a beautiful redhead
who later finds herself in my bed
while I find myself in a white man’s arms
telling him made up stories
about the ink that I’ve used
to turn my body into an exhibit
fluttering my eyes, showing off my piercings,
teasing and taunting,
and spreading the smell of tobacco
splashed across my breath
into the many salivating mouths
that I’m too distracted to keep count
before heading back only to find
those captivating curls of red gone
and mourning her absence over
a perfectly rolled Malana
losing myself in smoke
and silhouettes of other conquests
that I allowed to get away

He said he knew my type.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
He couldn’t be more right.

|The Girl In The Photograph| and other poems are © Shreya Barua

Shreya Barua is a recent Trinity postgraduate. She moved halfway across the world, from Delhi to Dublin to be able to indulge in the two things that have her heart: literature and travel. When she is not too busy daydreaming, one can find her hiking on the Wicklow mountains or sipping a glass of red by the grand canal.

“English Breakfast Love Song” and other poems by Rhiannon Grant

English Breakfast Love Song

I am longing to pour out
my soul to you in words
which show my creativity
and let off my head of steam
but my soul is not so liquid
it comes out in funny lumps
uneven like old-fashioned sugar
ready to make sure your tea
is always too sweet and
never sweet enough.

Unengaged Concepts

Your thin God –
onmithis, omnithat—
is nothing beside
the wildness
of Goddess.
Love and suffering
may have reasons
but are not rational.
You say we can know
about ‘chastity’
without living it.
Outside a seminar
in a thick press of people
could you look the right way
maintain your dress just so
be chaste in soul
in ways you cannot describe?
You can use the word
‘God’ in a sentence.
So far, so good.
Do not presume to know
what my God is like:
how flowers dance for Her
how Thou is there in silence
how His sentences would make
no sense to you.
Goddess might not even be that
after all.


to fly, to grow
boldly into darkness
to freedom
journeys begin
with a single seed
but flights
fight trees
kingfisher distains
the city and the plane.
in freedom
and darkness
can we fly?

This Year

we have rebuilt
in our gathering
an anywhere temple
we spill ourselves
practising our faith
with a smile
giving small acts
(and large) in service
a ready sacrifice
we have come up
to see our faces
through God’s eyes

Career Counselling

Cheer up, you said.
There’ll be something, you said.
Not much, I said.
I am looking, I said.
Have hope, you said.
There are good jobs, you said.
Oh yeah? I said
Not for me, I said.
Oh yes, you said.
One is for you, you said.
I’ve tried, I said.
There’s tills and shelves and desks and files and typing and smiling and boredom and dying.
It’s fine, I said.
I haven’t a choice, I said.
You sighed, I said.
Nothing, you said.


I remember you
In all the weeks
we were together
one kiss, a hug or two,
no more.
Then I broke
too loud too honest
too clear too pained
and you left
English Breakfast Love Song and other poems are © Rhiannon Grant

Rhiannon Grant lives, writes, and teaches in Birmingham, UK. Her writing engages with questions about religion, philosophy, how we understand the world, and how we communicate with one another. Most of her published work so far has been in academic journals, but she has a book on Quaker theology forthcoming and some poems recently appeared in the magazine A New Ulster.

‘sunday DARTS and my phone’s dead’ and other poems by Alicia Byrne Keane

sassy ghost

sometimes I’m startled by how
perfectly my boots land when I take them off
in poses too outrageous to plan
like a dandy has strode into the room
and is posturing,
in my boots

i can’t draw shoes it makes me restless

(the art room of my school
with its swelling cabin roof
like an overturned ship,
the teacher played the bon iver album
with skinny love on it on repeat all the time
the song makes me sleepy and cold)

i can’t draw shoes, when i try they look like puddles or ghosts
everything about them less certain on inspection
the soles worn in places so the line will look uneven on the page

(the fear that no-one would know
you were accurately capturing the wobbly bits)


When we came out that morning everything was covered in ice

We talked about so much stuff that I can’t remember
Any of it really, just that I was nervous in a good way

And that we slept surrounded by paintings
You’d done on the backs of cornflake packets


sunday DARTS and my phone’s dead

sunday darts away from me
into a corner, becomes
an imagined dampness

like when you can’t tell whether
clothes on the line are still wet
or just really cold

I was meant to ring you tonight,
but I’m sitting in various places.


A guy says

people at the platform are wearing
green woolly hats in a great number
and it still takes me a while 
to cop that there’s a match on

	the conversation behind me: a guy says Ssssssssupermacs 
	because he’s waiting for his friend to finish their sentence
	some people talk slower when they’re trying to interrupt you

another guy says jarringly

(I think: eradicate all ringtones that sound like
variations on the old-fashioned telephone bell)

	the train has no mind. 
	the display has said 2 minutes for 10 minutes
	so I step beyond the line and crane my neck
				don’t jump! a guy says
				as a joke,

I look 
at the space behind him.


sunday DARTS and my phone’s dead and other poems are © Alicia Byrne Keane

Alicia Byrne Keane is a spoken word artist and poet from Dublin, Ireland. She has performed at festivals such as Body & Soul, Electric Picnic, Castlepalooza and F Festival. Her poetry has been published in magazines such as Bare Hands, Headstuff, and Impossible Archetype, among others. She is a long-time performer at poetry events around Dublin such as Lemme Talk and Come Rhyme With Me, and was more recently involved in the Science Gallery’s INTIMACY exhibition. She is currently a PhD candidate at Trinity College Dublin researching translated literature and placelessness, more specifically in the case of authors who self-translate. Her work explores the absurdity that arises from losses in translation, even when interacting in one’s native language. She is interested in the effect of unexpected sincerity afforded by short, snapshot-like poems.

Poems from ‘Available Light’ by Maria McManus

from ‘Émigrés’


What is going on in your heart?
Prisoners of war live here
Throw off your gaudy vestments,
spring’s best and brightest fig
and let me see you naked
and then, more naked still —
Put your heart
in my hearts cavity.
Slip it in.

Bring your worry beads if needs be.
It’s not too late
to shred all documents
of denunciation.

Now we must
hunt by ear and
put our trust
in gossiping swallows,
the hooded crows, the herring gulls,

the wryneck’s potent drum.


Between silences
take notice
of the imago
of your stolen self.

Sold back
but at what price?



Collect wishbones,
place them in charnel houses,
quarter the ground
to make sure and certain
none are missing –
these things bring a plan to grief.



The song-birds are drowning,
the sea is now a cemetery.

The song-birds are drowning,
the sea is now a cemetery



Life’s comforts
are honeycombed
and treacherous,

and moths
appear to drink your tears
while you are sleeping


from ‘The House That Stood For Happiness’



This nest offers its mouth
to the sky. Blades of grass
imprinting against the limits,
fresh as linen.The house
that stood for happiness was lost –
but the heart beats on
for that which curves
and holds,

returning its call,
its sound.



Where there is light,
I want this place –
between heaven and earth,
a high place for dreaming,
a marriage of moss and down
cupped just out of reach,
given form from my breast,
pressed out with my body,
a dress to fit, breathed into.

I made good
these un-helpable
palpitations—I put them to work,
searching out the place that knows
the choreography of forest-love,
where the world and its hostilities
are muffled, suffocating, far away –
beyond the trees’ cordoning
I have found a place

to sing.

Émigrés and other poems are © Maria McManus (from Available Light, published Arlen House, 2018)

Maria McManus will be launching Available Light along with The Work of a Winter by Maureen BoyleLove, the Magician by Medbh McGuckianFeather and Bone by Ruth Carr, and The Uses of Silk by Gráinne Tobin,  Each of us (our chronic alphabets) by Natasha Cuddington.

Arlen House Dublin launch details at Eventbrite

Maria McManus lives in Belfast. She is the author of Available Light (Arlen House, 2018), We are Bone (2013), The Cello Suites (2009) and Reading the Dog (2006) (Lagan Press), she has collaborated extensively with others to put literature into public spaces. She is artistic director and curator of Poetry Jukebox and an active organiser and founder member of  Fired! Irish Poets.

bind; a waking book by C. Murray


They and I,
O how far we have fallen!
Just to burn here.

You can now order bind via Turas Press

43590323_10161018184305241_1979409105122492416_n (1)

bind cover photograph is © Christian Caller, original artwork Bound / Boundless © Salma Ahmad Caller

bind (Turas Press, 2018) was launched in Dublin on October the 8th 2018. I include here, with thanks, some details from artist Salma Caller’s response to the text. This is a note of thanks and appreciation to those people who have supported the book from the outset. Liz McSkeane, at Turas Press has written an introduction here  She has taken me through the process beautifully, including a visit to the type-setter, discussions on the visual art aspect of the book, and at all times she has kept me up to speed with the process. Turas is a new press, I urge poets to explore the possibility of publishing there. Eavan…

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‘A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas’ by Shadab Zeest Hashmi


An assortment of crooked 
and straight arrows
for the crest of a bulbul 
or a handful of sesame

Uncut turquoise
for juices of scorpions and glow worms
                                             A dozen poisons 
for an embroidered collar/
                                             a pinch of saffron/
                                             abalone knob

Spotted eggs for knotted shoes 
Peacock feathers for beet sugar

                                              How much fur 
                                         will buy cloves for my toothache?
                                      How many sprigs of mint/
                                          radishes to restring your rabab? 

The market is spinning 
between us 
                                        How much of us has been stolen
                                           by the ghosts of aromas?

When night comes 
there is spinach again
for the promise of quail 
Your dream of cake
feeds on wild berries

                                            You kiss my cold shoulder
I comb 
out the market from your hair

A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas

You give me Fez honey on Fennel cakes

in a ceramic saucer because you
say, to eat from this bitter clay (glazed and
caressed with geometric precision), will
draw me into the shapeless sob of the
future. You read invasion’s epistle even
in the smoothness of ebony— ashes
of ancestor acacia on your lashes—
I raise my tea glass to level with your
eyes, the snowy Atlas scintillates behind
you— cream on your dish of weeping clay.


Untying the knot of ker-chiefed bread in a cedar grove

she would shudder, your mother, child of exiled
Andalus, memory embossed with two kinds of
histories— one flitting like a citron
butterfly, the other wrapped in linen,
knotted, turned to cinder over a cedar
flame— tongue of the grand inquisitor
leaping from Spain to Morocco, night-sweats,
door-chains, the informants and their fistfuls
of gold, the choke-hold of banned prayers.
Tender, the bread sponges the lava of fear.


Only the footed teapot’s shadow

on the wall dismantles its truth, its rigid
stance and military-medal-silver
muted in the bounty of the skylight
flecked with pheasant foot-stains from nightly rain.
Its handle forms the shape of a perfect
heart, if there is such a thing, and between
breath of Konya and bloodbath of empire,
furs of sable, mink and squirrel, and the
soft grasp of a baby around the planet’s future,
there are names for the divine in every tongue.



“Straight from the tea gardens to the teapot”

Slogan from the island of Sita, thieved goddess
who takes her tea cold in America-of-the-
ice-blue-eyes, new trail of old jewels. Not my grandmother’s
time yet, the rupee coin in India bears an empress
looking away, facing West. On the reverse,
under a wreath, the coin says: East India Company
As in, coffers/coffins, divide/conquer. Neck to
navel, garlands of tea bags exhale the sweet manure
of Ceylon around Sir. Thomas Lipton, delicate-dark fingers
ghost across lifelong tea terraces, burial grounds of language


“You can buy estates here for a song,” Lipton’s agent says

Fungus consumes the coffee crop in Ceylon
before sellers and drinkers do, and like a kiss
snuffing a flame or a diamond in the ashes of a dead
lover, it seals Lipton’s fortune: Georgetown Semi-Weekly
Times says the Scottish grocer and tea Mogul Sir Lipton
(“the largest landowner in Ceylon and one of the wealthiest
tea merchants in the world”) is looking to
invest a sum of half a million in South Carolina—
A day for the rain raga, Serendip showers silver
dollars, pounding the earth with the reign of tea


Under the Tea Table, Watching CNN

Euphoric, gold-maned lion with tea (or assault
weapon?) in its raised paw, “Ceylon,” the box is
called, and sits next to a tin of condensed milk, scalloped
petunia teacups. The sweets from Alif Laila
are not real but are in phantasmagoric excess:
Syrup of Qandhaar lacing quince of Nishapur,
apples of Syria, Tus apricots, dates
of Kirmaan, Nawahand pears— I’m rocked
by the dream of a fruit-scented boat, eyes shut to
the television screen, quaking with grenades


Poisons of the Golden and Silver Screen

Splash of arsenic in the eye, the great
art of hooding and unhooding on screen:
naming me ‘enemy’ in the cartoon,
the four o’clock news, feature film, the late-
night talk show with the spotlight-artist of
my absurdity, star-novelist who
maps my crooked mind, catches me mid-dream
in my plum-palace of crime, catwalks, the
seven discarded veils of Salome— douses the lectern
in the slow, deep, tweed-colored toxins.


Fairy of Pearls and Poisons

I scratch out the horned demon on the cover
of my Urdu Dastaan and draw a fairy out of
his fangs. Not much to look at, and smaller than
the hero’s shield (the size of a peppercorn), she
saves his life with her piercing rain raga that ricochets
against the ruby-filled mountains of the dev, winning
the hero his freedom plus a trove of foreign gems:
turquoise of Nishapur, carnelian of Yemen,
garnets of Balkh. And local pearls. She will fight the famous
poisons for him: scorpion, centipede, glow worm — all, but vanity.


The Wise Sons of Serendip refuse premature power

refuse kneeling attendants and silk bolsters, each handing
back the crown to their father, the King, whose painstaking
work of raising princes is complete. I’m turning
pages from golden palanquins to the parched mountain
passes: parable narrated by Khusrao’s Princess
of the Black Pavilion, daughter of India, who teaches
the hero the uselessness of might against true power—
Not cleverness but forbearance saves the sons of Serendip—
Opaque watercolor ink and gold on paper, the princes hand back
my faith in a land of stolen languages, of rulers looking away.


Serendip Notes

  • Serendip is the Persian name of Ceylon or Sri Lanka.
  • The British East India Company’s exploitative trade policies enabled it to seize control of a large part of the Indian subcontinent. Ceylon became part of the British empire in 1815.
  • 1754; Horace Walpole coined “serendipity” for the faculty distinguishing the heroes of The Three Princes of Serendip, a tale that appears in a famous Persian poem by Amir Khusrao.
  • 1890: Thomas Lipton visited Ceylon and purchased tea gardens with Tamil workers from India. Lipton sold packaged tea throughout Europe and the USA beginning in 1890.


The River  [PDF] by  Shadab Zeest Hashmi

A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas’ and other poems are © Shadab Zeest Hashmi 

Shadab Zeest Hashmi is the author of poetry collections Kohl, Chalk and Baker of Tarifa. Her latest work, Ghazal Cosmopolitan has been praised by poet Marilyn Hacker as “a marvelous interweaving of poetry, scholarship, literary criticism and memoir.” Winner of the San Diego Book Award for poetry, the Nazim Hikmet Prize and multiple Pushcart nominations. Zeest Hashmi’s poetry has been translated into Spanish and Urdu, and has appeared in anthologies and journals worldwide, most recently in Prairie Schooner, World Literature Today, Mudlark, Vallum, POEM, The Adirondack Review, Spillway, Wasafiri, Asymptote and McSweeney’s latest anthology In the Shape of a Human Body I am Visiting the Earth. She has taught in the MFA program at San Diego State University as a writer-in-residence and her work has been included in the Language Arts curriculum for grades 7-12 (Asian American and Pacific Islander women poets) as well as college courses in Creative Writing and the Humanities.

‘Mangoes are a night food’ and other poems by Finnuala Simpson


A candied calligraphy of colours, I said
that I would change the sheets later.
And I said also that I could handle it but I could not, and will I fry for that?
I may, but only if you return.

The stink of sheep hangs on me like wisdom.
You leave in a blur and your bag is heavy with spices,
I hope I do not let you back again.
It depends on my resolve, and on whether the seasons let me float.

I’ll take myself running for the friction of denial,
cross my legs under the tables of the library.
I’ll spin yarns and wear black and eat fruit in the evenings,
till I’m taller and more thoughtful than I have been before.

And I’ll try harder, too.
Kindness is like witchcraft, it must be brewed and stirred,
mulled over in secret with the herb scent of the night.
If it threatens to drown you, you must set yourself on fire.

Do you think of me? Or am I a stop-gap to you?
I marveled at you on the phone when you were talking like a man,
Not laughing or stroking like you laugh and stroke at me.
Talking figures like your car was a woman,
You said fuck it we will fix the white van instead
For by the time the summer comes you will be traveling.

I changed my sheets and they were smeared
sprinkled with both blood and mould.
But washed away now, and quietly, while you are asleep and going south.



God’s the opposite of sentient,
God’s gotta lot on their plate right now
You hate phone calls but you rang rang rang rang rang rang
Kinda like the knock knock don’t stop of the old stories about Jesus and the hearts.

I sit in a pub like the underground volts of mole town with glistening mirrors and brown
And think: and think: and think :
What if I AM us
What if we ARE me

Amen. That boy gets bloody sleepy-eyed and ties you down with internet rope to have the best time,
you can still be held by the every-man compass of inner direction and salt.

Lake licking
I’d be down for some
front door seconds

I love overhand
and crying boys
and absolute disgraces
and civil war tales make me puke
because we are you and I am us and they are
Jesus Christ and the cherubim all interconnected with stones and pencils and lust


Frown Upon Me

When winter falls out I cheer up
Semi-automatic pistol you grip and
It’s like
Put that down honey I’m
Just in league with the bears you know
Don’t be afraid
Just because I am socialist without understanding politics
Just because I say this is how I FEEL out loud loud
And you don’t do anything out loud loud
You say: I am bad at words
You won’t kiss me goodbye in the street
You’re a removable boy access unacceptable
When the moon looms
When your blood is flat
When you are sober
~ Biggest mood: you not letting go of my hand drunk


Mangoes are a night food

I unfurl a peach strip of self denial,
curling tendrils like the mannerisms that
wind me in a high spiral,
each time I sleep I see extensions of my worst trade-offs
and subtle lingering traces of worn out faces and fading tastes.

I see the way your limbs are positioned, they are unsure of
holding company with the air (and really baby I feel that)
yellow soft flesh without a skin and a concrete world he sings
that you stand in hallways thinking about the positioning
of your feet, and the happiness of our lives
was only coming.

I do indeed know the strangest of manifestations,
I do certainly keep company with the eeriest of loves.
Boys can surely contract themselves into small spaces,
the gaps in my brain are of the overly hospitable young.

I held onto him in our old bed and tightly traced
the profile graced with the ability that I gave him
his eyes were closed to look more firmly at the wall
he knew my heart was at his back
he may have held my hand but he did not.
I let love drop from my ears my eyes my tear ducts
Is forever I think)
I held him and said, I wish you well I wish you well I wish you
you hurt me so much
I wish you well I wish you well I wish you everything you can get nobly
I love you
Even as I fall for a better boy
I love you
He took my love in mime
Stayed curled-up, inaccessible and pure
In the dream my sister woke me with her heart at my back
She never touched me
I never touched him
I think that real love is forever
Mango is a night food.


No Chill Kids

I’m sweeping
cold callers collect thoughts and manic and deathly
are you grossed out by sad?
I’m the icky girl no chill just spooky abandon to the rhythmic pulse
gymnastics of feeling floods
like crying toilets drunk
maybe we’ll get cool again I’ll put weed on the balcony
I need a lamp to grow me a glo-up
half streaming
live rot

Well I take photos of lights to hold them in my wet hand cracks
Told her there were two of me that’s a lie there are a million and one
me things
Shakespeare was a matching addict holy hell that quill quick quick good god
give me some Adderall
but I’d only focus on the wrong thing

Drunk dial
Low capped smile
I’d get off at the next stop but he’s gonna miss it
while mentally I put myself down the stairs bang bang
The street slush don’t stop us
Every fucking night I get shot at in my dreams I’m not joking
Last night it was my grandfather
There’s fingers and there’s whingers but I barely kiss gingers
Someone threaded their headphones through their jumper strings
What a strange little hullabaloo
I could do better if I were you
Because I’m a neat-freak never-speak who clean eats
I’ll go far

Mad girls and sad girls might be onto something
I’m crying holla holla wake up at the stars looking down on this shit attack
Honestly get me out asap
I’ll sail space smooth and I won’t look back
But my bones are hollow they don’t ever crack

I see faces places and wastes but I am the one standing on a hill and
Pencey Prep is real as all hell
that is, not very, dubiously transient and flickering like the flame of
a secret place that never cleans itself so sleep me now


Mangoes are a night food and other poems are © Finnuala Simpson

Finnuala Simpson is a twenty-year-old english and history student based in West Cork. In her free time she likes to write, cook, and walk as close to the sea as she can get.

‘A Meeting With Myself’ and other poems by Wasekera C. Banda


Raise the fallen, walk over them.
Fear the consequences of a kind action,
undermine the impact of a bad deed.
Maybe there’s more to life, maybe there isn’t.
Fight the oppressor, break the chains.
Remain slaves?
These haunting memories,
these hopeless days,
These hopeful dreams.
Light a candle, say a prayer.
Close the door, cry in silence,
wear a mask.
These scattered pieces-
break me up, then make me whole.
I have no power over my thoughts.


Like a pride of lions
I am fierce.
The past,
The present and the future,
I represent them all.
I grace the world with awe.
Great storm,
I remain remarkable
In a broken world
I remain whole.
I am superiority,
I am a woman.


Walking with our shoulders straight
and heads held high
Our ambitions reach the skies
they throw stones at us
but we build ourselves up
with a belief so strong,
We could grow wings, fly.

We grace the world with awe,
hard rocks melt.
Roaring like lions,
we are heard and felt.

We break the chains of mediocrity.
We amaze them in every country
and in every city.
We have much more, we don’t need pity.
Shoulders straight,
heads held high,
we can’t break, we have our pride.

A Meeting with myself

We’ve met before.
I wouldn’t miss that voice in a million years.
It’s been a long road,
Oh, what a burden for you to bear!
I apologise for my absence,
I shouldn’t have left you to face the storm alone
I hope you understand;
how could I love you when you were broken?
But, Sister that pain you hold on to will suffocate you.
you need to let it go.
You can’t blame them anymore,
I pity you for letting them in,
I despise you for loving them,
I am sorry they hurt you,
but honey you need to heal.
Forgive yourself and learn to love those who put you down.
By forgive, I mean make peace with your soul.
Heal yourself.
More than anything, I wish to see you smile again.


I get lost,
Am too proud to ask, so I lose my way.
I get sad too, it’s hard to tell from this smile I maintain.
I have dreams, a little too big, maybe, to come true, but I keep dreaming.
Hopelessness makes a fool of you, stay sane and keep fighting.
I mm grateful for the little things, I count my blessings before I break down.
I get lost in these tears. Pieces of my soul I will never get back.

A Meeting With Myself and other poems are © Wasekera C. Banda

Wasekera C. Banda is a twenty three year old Psychology student at City College in Dublin, Originally from Malawi, she has lived in Ireland for three years and was the 2016 winner of the Irish Times Africa Day Writing Competition. Wasekera enjoys writing and reading poetry, she is inspired by the Late Maya Angelou.

‘Hinnerup’ and other poems by Jess Mc Kinney


It Began as most things do                              moist things do
everything everything       berry stained mouth
beer stickied floor & blood bloom undies
you ‘don’t mind’             and sure
                             I could probably get into you 
                             I only ever feel the bubbles on impact

                            during I’m somewhere else
                       the sun was a hot coal in the sky 
    seeing another one like you                 he came just before	       I                 
              decided a bit too late that I didn’t want what he
  asphyxiated thinking about sourcing justifications for those who insist      swear 
                          that my saliva isn’t a contagion
                          for those who are unknowing

  because kissing me will give you cancer 
  then you’ll never be the invisible thing you imagined running alongside the
and In Dreams                 my hair falls in chunks to a cheering audience
              I grow old & genderless for money
 nightly I wake feverish          trapped in the tight fist of your affection 
         drowning between cool bathroom tiles & Christmas cake sponge

but I won’t keep us downstairs            knitting and gritting at the base
                 begrudging closed doors & far off earing
              while I’m far off reliving tepid buoy lights
                    & what you wanted me to hear
  so I turn my mouth into a repurposed palette for the new                      you
   walking the length of it with sparse sentiments blowing 
					           you              but retaining no heat

       because unfortunately only others can administer the calming
              needed for the curdled bulb of my brain
      between me + heaven: 	           a place where I can smoke
    so I left you holding the cuff of your jumper 	    		     waiting 

                                   & bracing for the blow
AMY: spelled the right way

Frisbeeing your father’s slicked records into the ocean foam
not ‘boomeranging’ as you had once said
not coming back, not this time
but stuck in flux and spinning
reflective disks, CDs scratched and hanging
in the treehouse from which you will fall next year
on a wet November night when you weren’t old enough
trying to smoke a cigarette you stole
that’s why you fell, they said you weren’t old enough

Half our friendship was spent visiting each other in hospital
sparkling butterfly clips offered up on plastic sheets
conniving, bartering for my silence
I’m not supposed to tell anyone it happens
but it was hard to be alone after each cosmic collision
between tempered concussions and snapped clavicles
between fighting parents and shared rooms
so we continue, hushed and daring together, I pinky promise

Primary school passes, as it does, in a flurry
a few fearsome sparks and over, all of a sudden
as if all our memories already belonged to someone else
as if we didn’t need the fumbling trouble to become wisened
hardened, our most emblazoned fights mellowed
our passions come cartoonish like cheap plastic cheese slices
I can’t forget how you’d ring landlines all around town
to find me, 8pm and desperate before bed, to apologize

And when the time came to finally confront you
we were 16 and alone in the middle of a field at night
I’d crawled away from the boyfriend I got to match yours
from the tsunamis of cider, from the gendered expectation
but it was impossible still to make you understand
probably between my being drunk and crawling
so you say it never happened as you help me up
and then I just can’t stand you


turning vodka into wine

*hushed* it’s not just
not just the tropic tonic_____ now
it‘s heavier glassier receptacles
that are emptied quicker

quickly quenching the wild fire
the candle burning at both ends
wilting there now_____by the oven
before bare feet & childish eyes

sonic mother, please provide the cover
and resuscitate my ignorance
hand over cries, humming under covers
could I have been anything_____but a lover?

steady the line between us_____ just & unjust
a lot thinner when you’re stumbling
I’d do anything to be older
old enough to help you up



when well-meaning people align with me
align their lives with mine
it seems that they quit trying to become
or achieve themselves for a time
in a dastardly sense which can only descend
descend to ashes on communion
quickly quenching my reckless romance
romancing which necessitates an end
and so I approach you with an openness
forward an eager and honest grasp
but with well-meaning hands instead I rouse
rouse the ashes already put to bed
tidied away when setting aside the past
covertly hushing the used and the dead
so my digits recoil with the disenchanted
dragging back reverberated perspectives
the intoxicating promise of new loves
desires staining my plain epidermis
with electric potential that will not adhere
when I explain that I’m trying to be good
I don’t want to be problematic at all
honestly not at all and I never did
but that’s the woe of commitment and honesty
a small drop of milk to offset the acidity
I just wanted to love and be loved once and truly
not violently over and over as it has been
a great many loves each more fantastic than the last
the salubrious possibilities adjacent my reaching
my salivating hands reaching towards you
pulling you into the room and into my life
promising you a great many things
leaning beyond you to shield my eyes
but yearning to stay put please
hands reaching to never stop holding yours
I don’t want to disappoint another one
I will not disappoint you anymore



sewing after so long
i wonder if there exists a song
a glass of water warmed in the sun
for each age she’s ever been
all the taps here run scalding
following the dregs of wine
flowing from hot water factories
tell me about her lover
stagnant on the periphery
who lived three towns away
making it harder to soak
she would travel hours to him
the wilting orchids
every other weekend
softening on the windowsill
found sanctuary with his family
reaching up into the day
young and in love
delicate and deliberate
i’d like to know how she felt
like grandmother’s thin fingers
on the birthday that I learned to hate
shaking but capable
the night i faked to get away

Jess Mc Kinney is a queer feminist poet, essayist and English Studies graduate of UCD. Originally from Inishowen, Co. Donegal, she is now living and working in Dublin city, Ireland. Her writing is informed by themes such as sexuality, memory, nature, relationships, gender, mental health and independence. Often visually inspired, she seeks to marry pictorial elements alongside written word. Her work has been previously published in A New Ulster, Impossible Archetype, HeadStuff, In Place, Hunt & Gather, Three fates, and several other local zines.

‘At the door’ and other poems by Eva Griffin

Are you feeling this?

My desire is holding you in its mouth
shaking like a dog toy
amputated to fit my mould.
Regularly, I confuse excitement for affection
in a slow, crowded elevator
where a whisper of white buttoned shirts
is the scream of a night sky in my head,
close as a shoulder brush.

Something to work with

For the work, he says.
Square panels of it
lighting up my screen:
tarp-painted abstractions
punctuated by self-capturing,
sun-faced with grey crown
but not old.
Never old.
A father’s age perhaps.
Yet, I open the message;
orange brimming notification
tells me that he’s thinking
of my shivering in bed
on the other side of the island.
Says that he’ll be good
if he gets the chance.
Good for me.
Good for his ego.
Small slip of a thing waiting
for a night visit, the hot
shower of another body
sliding under covers.
Strong tattooed grasp
on waist; leathered, but
not old.
Light breath in my ear
catches hair like a summer
breeze in his stubble.
As if we’re not in October.
As if we’ll ever be here again.
He whispers, for the work.
It’s all this is.
I am for the work.


Eyes into the fire he tells me
that he sees it,
the next painting:
chrome yellow,
petals on the floor like ash
by our feet,
heads drooping close
like ours could
if I hadn’t left my heart
in the dregs of a pint
soaked through, too wet to carry.
I hold it, cold glass
little sanctuary while my legs burn
bright against the flame shadow.
He notices
I keep stretching it away,
a short press against
the slick stone and back
in again to see the orange
flicker on white,
to feel the pain of stolen heat
and I wonder
will my thin calf be the painting;
warmer in his eyes,
burning under the weight of him,


A jug of milk in the fridge
is what he left me;
half of his own litre
brought from town.
For the tea, we imagine, but
standing in the kitchen
brewing it strong
he feels more like ground coffee;
ember smell of him
from lighting the fire,
rough-handed from work.
Outside, rusted mountains
crease along the skyline
like his eyes, laughing now;
almost disappearing but so full,
I want to believe, of me,
and the clouds of Kerry
in that moment
they look like cream.

At the door

Now, watch as I hang in the air
tempting as a sunset
and just as long.
Storms are not inclined to wait;
better to spill my secret wilderness
as I leave this love,
sucking light out of your blue.

At the door and other poems are © Eva Griffin.

Eva Griffin is a poet living in Dublin and a UCD graduate. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Tales From the Forest, All the Sins, ImageOut Write, Three Fates, The Ogham Stone, HeadStuff, and New Binary Press.

‘Sugar’ and other poems by Müesser Yeniay


I have another body
               of me

they call it

[but this is pain]

if I had carried you in my body
only then I would have felt your existence 
                                       this much


My heart melts 
when I think of you

the eyes aren’t satisfied with seeing
neither are the lips with kissing

it is with you
that the eyes feel hungry

it is with you
that the ears have appetite

in this state 
of madness

I find myself

[my love
my doctor]


so that you stay in me
                 so that you stay
I take you in

I’d like you 
to be my body

               [without you miserable
               without you unfortunate

               with you complete
               with you prosperous

               your humble servant]

*Arub means in Arabic “Woman who loves her man


Half of my body is earth
half of it is blood

half of my body is in the hands of a man
half of it is in fire

the soul
is crashing on the walls of the body

[only when you come, it calms down
my soul embellisher, my daylight]

in my mouth are pebbles
I become light as I empty them

I am as such I came from the nothingness 
deep in myself

I have a tongue
-if it knew, it would explain-

I am sugar melting in water
  my water is invisible

Sugar and other poems written and translated by Müesser Yeniay ©

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.


Making ‘Den of Sibyl Wren’ by Salma Ahmad Caller


Notes on Salma Ahmad Caller’s process for the making of ‘Den of Sibyl Wren’.


The Den of Sibyl Wren is my response to A Hierarchy of Halls (forthcoming, Smithereens Press, 2018) by Christine Murray. It is my response to words Chris wrote about how she feels about this poem, and what she sees in her mind’s eye.
Details of the image ‘Den of Sibyl Wren’ by Salma Ahmad Caller 
Materials: Watercolour, Indian ink, collage, graphite and gold pigment on Fabriano acid free paper 57cm x 76.3cm

My process involves an intense working back and forth with words and images in my imagination. I write a lot as part of my creative process as an artist, and these writings help me create and develop the visual image. The so-called ‘visual’ image is to me embodied, materialised, haptic and tactile. So the ‘image’ in poetry and metaphorical writing is almost the same as the visual image in art, to me. So there is not a huge gap between text and image. Not in my mind in any case. The flat 2 D image is neither flat nor 2 D – but rather it is a complex and multi-dimensional terrain of emotion, sensation and concept, just as is the written word, especially in poetry.

So it felt very natural to respond to Chris Murray’s very imagistic poetry, which I already love so much.

In preparing to make work in response to A Hierarchy of Halls, I spent time reading and re-reading the poems and reading and re-reading Chris’s little notes she had sent to me via Twitter. And so the The Den of Sibyl Wren emerged. My notes on my own thoughts and responses to reading A Hierarchy of Halls and to what Chris told me about her notion of a Sibyl that represented the wren and its qualities:

  • The smallness and greatness of Sibyl Wren, her green den of spaces that we cannot see and her flight paths carved out in the sky. Tiny but potent and majestic in her domain.
  • A shamanistic female bird being interpreting or bringing the mysteries of the other worldly to us.
  • A materialisation of the invisible.
  • A feminine nature of delicacy, strength and bravery. A guardian.
  • An oracle seeing into the unknown and leading the reader bravely forwards through pain and difficulty.
  • A garden world of tiny potent things.
  • A sky above that is carved into great structures and pathways by nature that we cannot see.
  • A fecundity and joyfulness. Spring, summer.
  • A soaring upwards towards mystery.
  • Invisibility of worlds around us and within us.
  • The dandelion clock telling of another time besides the time we know.
  • A bird shrine under a shadowy tree to the dead bird in Chris’s poem.
  • A tiny female presence sitting and moving in an underworld of unseen unspoken spaces.

Twitter Notes

What Chris Murray said in a series of little Twitter notes to me: “the chapbook is called ‘a hierarchy of halls’ and is about small things, flight, wrens, and huge dreamlike structures are implied, my sibyls and messengers are birdlike creatures/ the little chapbook is called ‘a hierarchy of halls’ and is about a wren’s flight through my garden, am obsessed with bird workings, i didn’t, see a sibyl specifically in bodies, but the first image on the poethead page has a little putti and she is small. this is how my head works: I see the wren as a type of sibyl , small messenger and female. the sibyl should represent the wren ! a type of oracle who leads one into the book

Salma Caller’s process and approach to the Smithereens Press published chapbook ‘A Hierarchy of Halls’

Salma Ahmad Caller is an artist and a hybrid of cultures and faiths. She is drawn to hybrid and ornamental forms, and to how the body expresses itself in the mind to create an embodied ‘image’. UK based, she was born in Iraq to an Egyptian father and a British mother and grew up in Nigeria and Saudi Arabia. With a background in art history and theory, medicine and pharmacology, and several years teaching cross-cultural ways of seeing via non-Western artefacts at Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, she now works as an independent artist and teacher.

The Infinite Body of Sensation; visual poetry by Salma Caller
Patterns of Sensation, the Bodies of Dolls, by Salma Caller



All images & images associated with ‘The Den of Sibyl wren’ and ‘A Hierarchy of Halls’ are © Salma Ahmad Caller


‘Invisible Insane’ and other poems by Afric McGlinchey


You can’t decide, you keep glancing
between two lines of thought
the whole length of the tree-hung street;
and you recognise someone saying your name,
and you go right up to the moment,
right up to the third person within you,
but they’re a different shape
in some essential way,
and you re-read your traces,
like a tree, stroking
its silver leaves against the wind
a tree in the cold,
a tree its own breath.
First published in Tears in the Fence (Ed. David Caddy)

On the Road to Westport

I’m trying to shift
focus to the brain, but my heart’s driven
all the blood to my gut, which is churning.
Didn’t know that I’d lost it, till I found
myself halfway to Westport, following you,
a BLT in my lap, cappuccino
in the console, cats’ eyes leering. On the stereo,
You knew all about the racing start
of the heart, then the skidding halt at the trespass.
I race onward, into the dark,
letting my terror be for the bends I’m going round.
It feels like some sort of countdown.
Eleven years ago, I thought about the lesson
I’d learnt from you. Had it at the start
of the journey, alongside this pot
of gladioli, flashing their bravado.
Sit tight, I tell them. We’re taking off.
You knew all about hitting the road
in a rage. The time you rocked
up at our student digs, surprising me and the lads–
and you didn’t bat an eye when you found
I was sharing a room with one. The fellas
adored you, the way you flirted, sitting on the counter
top, impressing them with your rugby know-how.
Praising Robbie for his cooking.
Four long days of liberation,
swimming in the sea
with a boogie board, margaritas
on the roof. Then, you tucked
tail for home. Ah, mum.
I only know that it’s Westport I’m going to,
because I passed the signs three weeks ago.
How long have I been on auto?
See the shovel in the footwell? It’s to honour
a runaway rebel. I’m going to plant
these brazen beings on your grave.
Then follow through.

Invisible insane

  ‘It was always the other way round’
– Margaret Atwood
Not merging
with your reflection in a shop window,
or your shadow up against a wall,
or three-legged jaywalking
across the city’s
huddled roundabouts –
but no matter where,
there’s no getting you out
of my mind.
After all, our planet’s just a snowglobe
for the angels.
Are you google earthing me?
Is that you I can hear,
between bells, faintly?
(‘Invisible insane’ is Google Translate’s Japanese version of the English proverb: ‘out of sight, out of mind.’)

Storm, passing

All kinds of things are happening to me.
Skin’s becoming scaly, forehead a terrain of anthills,
and my feet are stiffening as though belonging to a corpse!
Hair’s falling out of course. And there’s my vision.
I try to read, but words swirl
in little whirlwinds on the page;
even when they’re behaving, I feel
I’m gazing at some complicated log of random numbers.
Enough of this I say aloud, take to the beach –
perhaps it’s distance my eyes are seeking.
But there I find fish tumbling from the sky,
myself face up in a clump of seaweed
foamy wavelets eddying about me.
Almost blinding,
the light is different from what I’m used to.
and I wonder if I’m dreaming,
back in the southern hemisphere,
if this sinking will have a rising too.
The next cat out the bag’s
a girl, fifteen or so,
standing, mouth ajar,
saying nothing.
A mackerel on my belly, flapping.
I see her stare,
want to reach a hand, see if I can touch her
but suddenly she’s not there, and I come to,
still lying in damp sand like a heavy log.
There’s nothing for it but to roll over,
watch the water gouge a groove
where my body’s been.
Back home, I make a cup of tea.
The kettle boils. I lift a green mug from a hook
pour, and squeeze a lemon in.
So far, so good. I wash pots and plates, utensils.
Stare out at laundry, ponder.
The light is dimming and a rush of heat comes over me.
A massive bank of thunderclouds controls the sky.
I put on headphones, turn up the volume,
dance until my body feels fifteen. Rain pounds against the window.
I close the blinds, keep dancing.
(First published in the Italian journal, Inkroci. Ed. Sara Sagroti)

In an instant of refraction and shadow

A plane floats overhead,
lethargically as feathers.
Egyptian cotton billows.
A train somewhere whistles.
You aren’t happy, he tells me,
until you consider yourself
The afternoon light is falling
in a diagonal the length of the floor.
An arrowed line
of black gun powder.
I follow it, feel him
brace for it, my familiar cry…
and then I’m migrating, I’m gone
and there’s only grief here.
(First published in Poetry Ireland Review, ed. Eavan Boland.)


it overwhelms me, an instant of ocean,
delayed grief for the lost years
i dream you back into existence
i dream you back into
i dream you back
I dream you
I dream
i follow you to an unknowable past, mama
each detail of the journey becoming a magnified ignorance
it’s taken this long to find that a solitary walk can result in a headful of light;
returning, i step into my footprints, a kind of retrieval…
cradled in a closed palm, the ring of plaited light
i write until my fingers bleed, i write out my sorrow,
i write into the terror of forgetting
listening to leaves settle, like the drift of a gown on ceramic tiles,
telling you: i think of you, sometimes,
and the sky is infinite, maybe.
First published in Southword (ed. Leanne O’Sullivan)

Afric McGlinchey is a multi-award winning West Cork poet, freelance book editor, reviewer and workshop facilitator. She has published two collections, The lucky star of hidden things (Salmon, 2012) and Ghost of the Fisher Cat (Salmon, 2016), the former of which was also translated into Italian by Lorenzo Mari and published by L’Arcolaio. McGlinchey’s work has been widely anthologized and translated, and recent poems have been published in The Stinging Fly, Otra Iglesia Es Imposible, The Same, New Contrast, Numéro Cinq, Poetry Ireland Review, Incroci, The Rochford Street Journal and Prelude. In 2016 McGlinchey was commissioned to write a poem for the Breast Check Clinic in Cork and also for the Irish Composers Collective, whose interpretations were performed at the Architectural Archive in Dublin. Her work has been broadcast on RTE’s Poetry Programme, Arena, Live FM and on The Poetry Jukebox in Belfast. McGlinchey has been awarded an Arts Council bursary to research her next project, a prose-poetry auto-fictional account of a peripatetic upbringing.
Invisible Insane and other poems are © Afric McGlinchey

Ghost of the Fisher Cat


‘Tracing Rivers’ and other poems by Ilyana Kuhling

Ambiguous Loss

She is a mortician.

You see
she doesn’t move.
No eyes open, only
ragged breath. Flushed cheeks.

She has prepared the body
nearly a century.
Not yet embalmed
but ready.

The lipstick is a light rose,
it makes white face
seem ghostly

And glasses perch on a nose
like mine
if lids were to open
they still wouldn’t see

She is her own mortician.

I have come to the funeral
every saturday
I have said goodbye

And kissed her

I have watched
the process
of becoming a corpse


Fixed Vortex

Feeble fingers have collapsed into themselves
her fist, like an infant’s
lies limp in her lap

As if made of marble
the grip won’t relax

“What is it that you
are holding on to?”

I take her thumb
try to unfurl the claw, the nails
digging into her palm

she must
be searching for some sensation
some sting of pain


I am watching two blue planets
to see if they
notice the sound

if gravity can pull them,
alter the orbit,
and turn them toward me

“Do you know who I am?”

they are empty planets
they don’t move

she is here
and not here

in the fixed vortex
of this
in between


We took you to mass today
I can’t remember
the last time you spoke

it could have been a year ago

and yet,
the words of the rosary are on your lips
a softest kiss

you can’t forget


I am looking at you now,
piece by piece
to reconstruct the you
you were

I strip away
the hair, white wisps
the skin, paper-thin, translucent
the muscle, the fat,
the soft

Right down to the bone
your bones
containing multitudes
of a lifetime
and my father’s
and mine

I piece you back together
carve the muscles that would
hold me tight in your arms,
the fat that made your
embrace so warm
the skin, toughened with time
the hair as thick as mine.

I am looking at you now
and you are looking at me too.
in those eyes of deepest blue
I think you recognize me,
And I, you

Tracing Rivers

Your frailness
the veins, thin filaments
just under the surface

I trace with light touch
three rivers
as if faintest pressure
might stop the flow

Did you know
some cacti
survive years
without water?

Have adapted
to rainlessness
still bloom

But you?

It has been years.

Would anything
be better
than this?

Even drought.

Athrú / Change

Tá an seanteach seo
ag titim.

Siúlaim istigh, ar chosa éadroma
lámha sínte
chun clocha a ghabháil

Níl ach deannach fágtha


This old house
is falling down.

Palms outstretched
to catch the stones.

Only dust
is left.

Ilyana Kuhling is an Irish-Canadian poet based in Limerick, and a lover of all things spoken word. This year, she won the British Psychological Society’s 2017 poetry competition and her poem Multitudes was published in the August 2017 issue of The Psychologist. Ilyana’s poetry has also been published in Silver Apples, Artis Natura and Dodging the Rain, and she was featured in the Poetry Day Ireland 2017 Mix-Tape, curated by Lagan Online and Poetry NI. Her favourite poets include Sylvia Plath and Elizabeth Bishop, and she firmly believes that a good cup of tea can solve almost anything.

‘Fugue’ and other poems by Chelsea Dingman

British Columbia Pastoral

September: almost snow.
White sheets across
the sky, the fields. How strange
the frost, feral over desert
hills. Sage brush
caught in the cattle’s
teeth. The river cuts
a swath where I am
trying to tell you about grass
that presses up through
the ground without urging.
About merciless suns
taking our eyes. You shield
your mouth as I speak.
The wars I won’t admit
like dying daisies, their corpses
linting the grass. In summer,
we swam in the Thompson
River. In feral heat. Baptized
new again. The kites
of our bodies cutting
a swath through green
water. But as water rises
in spring, it will take you
with it. With thawed glaciers
& snow. With bones
we can’t make smaller
once grown. Dead trees
claw at rocks on the river-
bottom, swollen belly
of a child rising up
like a balloon
in the April sun.
(Originally published in Sugar House Review)

Accident Report: After the Baby Dies at Birth

First, I asked for
mercy, when mercy
was a small sliver
of light. My bones
softened by the body
leaving them. You asked
questions, green
tea in hand. Some
lemon. A cleanse
of sorts, as I refused
your prayers. The sky,
faithless, darkening
again. You wanted
to know what’s next,
when we would try
again, what every doctor
had to say. I was
an empty stall
in a gas station
bathroom. I said, never.
But now I say
now, let’s try now,
before I lose
my nerve. But you
don’t want to touch me
yet. You eye my body
like a broken trough
looking for any sign
of seepage. I drink
from the mug. You move
away, the way the wounded
animal moves before
it tucks tail & runs. Every
good-bye is unnecessary
after holding something
as it dies. I want to feel full
again, I say. The door, open
as a mouth. You raise
your hand over my body
& ask, where does it
hurt? But I can’t say,
everywhere. I can’t
say, it hurts everywhere
I’m touched. I can’t
say, touch me every
-where. Please.
(Originally published in Bennington Review)


“When Plath’s journals, with their claims of abuse, began to be published, many critics pointed out these claims as not only false but also proof that Plath was paranoid, crazy.”
-Emily Van Duyne
There is a river, & in its mouth, the holocaust
night I gave birth to a broken mirror,
the shard that stuck in a man’s neck.
He pulled it out & that was the beginning
of blood. The nightmares. Being chased
through a small ghost
town, windows shut & boarded, only shadows
to command: break or break me.
I had a god, once. Somewhere, I think
I’ll know how to be full & limber
& not the husk that held the crowning
dark. Not the woman, unbelieved.
He hit me. The night the baby died,
I was tired of the blank stars dying quietly
years from here. I should’ve braced myself—
his fists like arrowheads. The glass
river, leaking bodies. I’ll fucking kill you.
Even now, I close my eyes & hear water.
There is no baby. There never was.
forthcoming in Pleaides

Traveling Through Tennessee in January

Again, I drive through dead forests
longing to flower. I think of nothing.
Not you. Not our children with their mouths
hanging half-open like shutters
over the windows, the summer
Rita followed Katrina into the Gulf
& taught us what women are capable of.
Frost on the ground, the morning after
Rita left, when it had been ninety degrees
a day before. The remains of the poor
creatures that couldn’t withstand the cold,
curled on white-tipped grasses. Fields
& hills pass outside the car’s windows, late
afternoon. Houses riven from each other
by land. Not water. Not here, north
of where I left you. The fields, lit from inside
as the sun slides behind hills. I try to remember
your voice. Low, like dusk. It didn’t mean anything,
you said. But I know that you can’t feel
anything & I can’t feel anything
less. At the interchange of I-75 North
& I-24, I drive further into the night
from where I left you. From
where you were standing
when a voice on the radio cautioned us
against a new woman blazing
in from the east, a bloody heart
tucked between her teeth.
Originally published in Arcadia

Hunger [or the last of the daughter-hymns] 

(n) a feeling of discomfort or weakness caused by lack of food, coupled with the desire to eat—

as I talk to wind winnowing my ribs into wind
   chimes. I swallow small coins from the counters,
wanting change my body can keep. I stand

   on the street corner in the rain & coax water
into my mouth like a woman who doesn’t know
   the fullness of the sea. My mother worked

three jobs to feed our family. Now, I horde
   toilet paper & paper towels in spare closets
with cans of soup & creamed corn. The wind

   hollows the oaks. Their bones don’t know
what it is to break, but I am a hollow
  instrument, a sacred text. Daughter [less].

(v) have a strong desire or craving for

a body inside my body—
a child, a man. 

Fields, full. The sun,
aflame. Fear like a shot

-gun, an aborted flight
plan, people jumping

from buildings. But 
my daughter, I draw back

down. The one I lost. 
The ones I have left

to lose. Like snow—
the bodies that are ours

for a season. For less.

(v) to feel or suffer through lack of food

        the weak sunrise

in my daughter’s new

      silence. My skin, a loose 

sheet. Her clavicle, hip

        -bone, head. My cervix, 

thinned. Her body, an offering. A prayer

I whisper as I tear

			new maps in a lucid dream

where I live alone

	& she folds herself into a crane

			to hang from the ceiling

of someone else’s womb. 

Originally published in Sycamore Review
Near Narajiv Selo 

-Hunger, cold, and ethnic oppression forced Ukrainian and Jewish people to look for refuge in faraway lands
(1919-1939, when Eastern Galicia belonged to Poland) - Roman Zakhariy

A dark road. Stars like paper 
    lanterns. Long grasses unthread in thousands 

           of flickering fingers. Poppies’ 

mouths buttoned black, as wind 
      shrifts crimson 

petals from stems, from fields torn by tractor tires, from a barn below 
       the hill. My stomach, where I left things 
                 pierced by little more than night 

       air. Like shackled light, the moon is
       outlawed in the pines. I unholster 
the sky: 
        at dawn, cattle cry in the clearing 

as I dig up 
      rutabaga, cabbage to wrap the rice. Water claws through 
      dirt. Claw hammers

for hands, I carve our breaths
into trees. Our breaths, like silver buildings. As I slowly empty
            the earth, sky

          buries night. Night 
  that smells of gunpowder and grease. Night 
         that leaves nothing 
         than a handful of stars, twined 
    in the pines’ 
rime. Nothing more
			than a river
		where no one has drowned.
Originally published in Southern Humanities Review

Chelsea Dingman’s first book, Thaw, was chosen by Allison Joseph to win the National Poetry Series (University of Georgia Press, 2017). In 2016-17, she also won The Southeast Review’s Gearhart Poetry Prize, The Sycamore Review’s Wabash Prize, and Water-stone Review’s Jane Kenyon Poetry Prize. Her work can be found in Ninth Letter, The Colorado Review, Mid-American Review, Cincinnati Review, and Gulf Coast, among others. Visit her website. 

“Alethiometer” and other poems by Eleanor Hooker


for John & Fedelma Tierney
I have one marble only, glass-curled greens and blue.
It’s kept inside a golden globe with turquoise studs,
I swing it from a chain: my dowsing stone, my truth-seer.
Once it knocked against an ancient head, cracked it so its walnut core
Leaked sepia images of a being lived inside another time, another age,
Before the image replaced the real and the real was more than shadow.
Outside the cave I glassed the play of light and shadow,
And when my only marble fell from its golden globe onto a blue
Tiled ocean floor, I swam after. The ancient head, wise with age,
Told me he had too lost his, recalled the studs
Inside the coloured orb, their curled blues, their seedy core
His own two eyes: Learian days that left him sightless and a seer.
My ancient friend dismissed the lies of a mummer seer
Whose falsest claim is that to love someone is to dispossess him of his shadow,
To wipe out every trace of him. Is this not indeed a murderous future? Our core
Belief that we are sworn to good and not extremes is not illusory. Those blue-
Eyed boys in ivory towers profess there is no truth, no self, nothings real; the studs
That breed such suasive tales are only there to fill the storybooks of our age.
Along the furrows of my brow I found a little pebble, it seemed an age
Since I had lost my marble. This purple stone weighed but a fraction of a seer.
It rattles in the golden globe, its hollow ring dislodging all the turquoise studs.
In the desert of the real, we watched the sun expand and then contract my shadow.
The ancient head has none. Though he is dead, we still talk. When the moon is blue
And the sky is starry nights, we harvest all the fruits of happy thoughts and core
Them for their seeds. “Is all of speech deception, all meaning at its core
Inherently unsound?” I asked the wise old head. He’d reached an age,
He said, and no longer feared such things, was satisfied there were no blue-
Prints or master schemes, simple truths apply—it does not take a seer
To tell you that the darkest hour is just before the dawn. All of us are shadow-
Dancing but mustn’t let the darkness intercept the light. The mettle studs
He riveted to the heart of my resolve are turquoise studs
In reinforced solutions. I’ve made up two new moulds, hollowed out their core
For curled glass in colours of the universe, whose negatives in shadow
Graphs are images of beings lived inside another time, another age,
Before I was madder than unreason and he mapped inscape as a seer
And gladness had another view, before betrayal choked intentions blue.
Talk on this blue-green sphere sets the lens within our glass-eye studs,
Through which the seer sees us stumble through the worth of words, in that core
Bewitchment of every age that cannot tell the real from dancing shadow.
First published in WOW! Anthology 2011, and subsequently in The Shadow Owner’s Companion (2012)

Escape Route

You fix our ladder in the scorched earth,
watch as the crows crowd round us,
I hear their cautionary caw-caws, but cover
your ears against their thin black sermons.
And so we climb. Me. Then you.
Runged, we stroke each bird,
‘sedate and clerical’ –
one bestows a molted quill feather,
colour-run like oil-marked silk.
Is it an omen? You ask. Should we go back?
I don’t answer; I’m too busy holding up the sky.

New Year’s Eve / Old Year’s Day

We are the survivors
who wait by the barricade
for the slow countdown.
Some of our dead slip through,
stand beside us, unsteady, unclothed, low –
we cannot take them with us.
The cry goes up for cheer,
smile, they demand, be merry.
Fireworks tear the stars
from the moon, pock the night
with dissimulated Armageddon,
the awed throng pitches forward.
If not in groups then kinfolk
keep in hailing distance,
their calls, inmost, distinctive,
provisional. My Dad sees me first.
He’s changed; parchment against bone,
eyes gone the colour of vertigo.
I am a smashed pane
that lets the rained downpour in,
in to vacant tenure.
As the countdown begins
there’s a clamour for the barricade,
and this is where we’re obliged to live on.
“Escape Route” and “New Year’s Eve / Old Year’s Day” are © Eleanor Hooker

Eleanor Hooker in an Irish poet. Her second collection, A Tug of Blue (Dedalus Press) was published October 2016. In 2013 her debut, A Shadow Owner’s Companion was shortlisted for the Strong/Shine Award for Best First Irish collection from 2012. Her poems have been published in literary journals internationally including: Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, PN Review, Agenda and The Dark Mountain Project (forthcoming). Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart and Forward Prize.

She is featured poet in the winter 2017 New Hibernia Review, University of St. Thomas, Minnesota. She won the 2016 UK Bare Fiction Flash Fiction competition. Eleanor holds an MPhil (Distinction) in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin, an MA in Cultural History (Hons) University of Northumbria, a BA (Hons 1st), Open University. She is Programme Curator for Dromineer Literary Festival.

She is helm and Press Officer for Lough Derg RNLI Lifeboat. She began her career as a nurse and midwife.

Eleanor’s website.

“Nightmare” and “The Fall” by Eleanor Hooker (Poethead)

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí

I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab
nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana
ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas,
líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn
lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha
a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh
tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu.
Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am
caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú
ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht
ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil,
ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,
gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann
ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim
agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn,
mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,
ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne.
Níl éinne ann.


In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster
on finding a view I’ve never noticed before
surfacing on the wall, a new window, sunlight-snipped,
filled with shadow-twist and leaf-flit. Branches shape
the sunlight from outside, sculpting dark forms
and setting them dancing on the wall, green-furred with foliage,
light swaying and simmering through. I watch it become
a window to some other world, a time and place forgotten,
lost in a Brazilian forest, where I imagine a man stands, gazing
at the forest floor, at the reflected speckle-shadow, enthralled
by the play of shade he sees there, and he is forgetting his map,
the parchment that is swiftly transforming in his hand, emptying
itself now, until no trace of a pen remains and a sudden void
stretches before him. He hears a footstep and his breath quickens,
a gasp, a fast-glance back over his shoulder,
as I glance over my shoulder now, too,
but neither of us see anyone.
No one is there.

(Don Té a Deir nach bhfuil Gá le Bronntanas i mBliana)

Tosaím i gcroí na Samhna. Cíoraim gach seilf,
gach siopa, gach suíomh idirlíon. Caithim laethanta
fada ag cuardach fuinneoga na cathrach ach fós,
ní thagaim ar an bhféirín cuí.
Tagann agus imíonn na seachtainí. Táim ar tí
éirí as, in ísle brí, go dtí go ndúisíonn glór na gaoithe
i lár na hoíche mé, freagra na faidhbe aici.
Tabharfaidh mé boladh na báistí duit, a chroí.
Meán oíche. Siúlaim síos staighre ar bharraicíní
chun múnlán oighir a leagan ar leac fuinneoige.
Oíche beo le báisteach atá romham,
díle bháistí á scaoileadh sa ghairdín.
Amach liom, cosnochta faoin mbáisteach.
Bailíonn braonta na hoíche isteach sa phlaisteach,
seomraí beaga bána ag borradh le huiscí suaite
na spéire tite, dromchla gach ciúb ar crith le scáil
na scamall tharstu, agus ina measc, blúirí den spéir
réaltbhreac. Ritheann creatha fuachta tríom agus fillim
ar an tigh, rian coise fliucha fágtha i mo dhiaidh.
Sa reoiteoir, iompóidh an bháisteach ghafa ina hoighear.
Cruafaidh scáileanna réalta ann, claochlú ciúin, fuar.
B’fhéidir nach n-inseoidh mé an scéal seo duit riamh.
I ngan fhios duit, ar iarnóin Nollag, b’fhéidir
go líonfaidh mé gloine leis an oighear ar do shon,
féirín uaim, cuimhneachán d’oíche nach bhfaca tú,
nuair a d’éalaíos uait, chun braonta agus réalta
a bhailiú duit. I ngloine, sínfidh mé féirín dúbailte
chugat – boladh na báistí agus luas a titime araon.
Scaoilfidh mé braon ar bhraon le titim tríot,
báisteach na hoíche ag stealladh ionat, á slogadh
scornach go bolg, titim réaltbhreac tobann.

(For One who Says that No Gift is Needed this Year)

I begin in November, and search every shelf,
every shop, every website. So many afternoons,
spent peering through windows, and still
I can’t find a gift for you.
Weeks come, weeks go, and I become glum,
I begin to think that I’ll have to give up. But tonight,
the wind’s voice wakes me and her answer is clear.
I will capture the smell of rain for you, my dear.
At midnight, I tiptoe downstairs
to place a plastic tray on the windowsill
and find the night alive with rain,
a flood-fall spinning in the garden.
Barefoot, the rain lurching around me, I watch
drops rush into the plastic cubes until all
the small white rooms brim with storm-waters;
between surface reflections of cloud,
slivers of a vast dark speckled with stars.
Shivering, I turn back home, drizzling damp
footprints after me. In the freezer,
this captured rain will turn to ice.
Stars will harden and take hold in a transformation
both silent and cold. Maybe I won’t tell you.
Maybe on a Christmas afternoon, I’ll just
fill your glass with these ice cubes, a silent gift
from me to you, souvenir of a night you never knew,
when I crept out to catch rain and stars and parcel them
in ice for you. When I hand you a glass it’ll be a twin present –
both the scent of rain, and the velocity of a fall.
The drops will plunge again, a night-rain
moving inside you, gullet
to gut, a sudden, star-dappled plummet.
A gift.
Foraois Bháistí agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa & english translations by the poet

Faoi Ghlas 

Tá sí faoi ghlas ann          fós, sa teach          tréigthe, 
cé go bhfuil          aigéin idir í          agus an teach 
	a d’fhág sí          ina diaidh. 

I mbrat uaine          a cuid cniotála,          samhlaíonn sí 
	sraitheanna, ciseal glasa          péinte 
ag scamhadh ón mballa          sa teach inar chaith sí — 

	— inar chas sí          eochair, blianta
ó shin,          an teach atá          fós ag fanacht uirthi, 
	ag amharc          amach thar an bhfarraige mhór. 

Tá an eochair ar shlabhra          aici, crochta óna muineál 
	agus filleann sí          ann, scaití,          nuair 
a mhothaíonn sí          cloíte.          Lámh léi 

ar eochair an tslabhra, dúnann sí         a súile agus samhlaíonn 
	sí an teach úd          cois cladaigh, an dath céanna 
lena cuid olla cniotála, na ballaí          gorm-ghlas, 

teach          tógtha ón uisce,          teach tógtha          as uisce 
	agus an radharc          ann: 
citeal ag crónán,          gal scaipthe,          scaoilte 

ó fhuinneog an pharlúis, na toir          i mbladhm, 
	tinte ag scaipeadh          ar an aiteann 
agus éan ceoil a máthair ag portaireacht          ina chliabhán, 

ach cuireann na smaointe sin ceangal          ar a cliabhrach 
	agus filleann sí arís          ar a seomra néata, ar lá néata 
eile           sa teach 

altranais,          teanga na mbanaltraí dearmadta          aici, 
	seachas please agus please agus please, 
tá sí cinnte de          nach          dtuigeann siad          cumha

	ná tonnta ná glas. Timpeall a muiníl, 
ualach          an eochair          do doras a shamhlaíonn          sí 
faoi ghlas fós, ach          ní aontaíonn an eochair          sin 

leis an nglas níos mó     tá an chomhla dá hinsí     i ngan fhios di 
	an tinteán líonta          le brosna          préacháin 
fós, fáisceann sí an chniotáil          chuig a croí 

ansin baineann sí dá dealgáin          í, á roiseadh go mall arís, 
arís, na línte scaoilte          ina ceann          agus ina gceann 
	snáth roiste:          gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas

gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas gorm-ghlas          amhail cuilithíní 
	cois cladaigh      nó roiseanna farraige móire.      Sracann sí 
go dtí go bhfuil sí          féin          faoi 

ghlas         le snáth         á chlúdach         ó mhuineál go hucht. 
	Ansin,      ceanglaíonn sí      snaidhm úr, snaidhm      docht, 
ardaíonn sí na dealgáin          agus tosaíonn sí          arís.

	Under Lock and Green

She is locked there 	still, in the empty 	house, 	
despite 	   	 the ocean between her	and this house, 
	the one	she left 		behind her.

In the green sweep 	of her knitting	 she imagines
	layers, green layers			of paint
a wall peeling 		in the house where she spent –

– where she turned 		a key, years
	ago, before, 	the house that is 	still waiting for her
gazing 			over a vast ocean.

She wears the key on a chain 	that hangs at her throat
	and she returns 		there, sometimes, 	when 
she feels 	weak.		With one hand

over that chained key, she closes 	her eyes and daydreams
	that house 	by the beach, the same colour
as her wool, the walls 		blue-green, 

a house		from water, a house 	of water
	and the view 	there:
a fretting kettle, 	its steam loose, 		leaving

through the parlour window, where the furze is 		aflame,
	fires swelling 		through the gorse,
and her mother’s songbird chirping 		in its cage,

but thoughts like these bind 	her chest too tightly
	so she lets go, and returns  	to this neat little room, this neat little day
another		in this home

this home for the elderly	where she forgot the nurses’ words years ago
	except please 	and please 		and please, and she’s certain
that they		understand neither cumha 		

	nor tonnta 	nor the glas		at her throat,
the weight of a key	   for a door 	she imagines	
	still locked, but 		the key won’t slot 

into her remembered lock	the door has fallen from its hinges	in her absence 
	the hearth fills			with the kindling 	of crows
still, she nestles her knitting 	in near her heart

then lifts it from the needles, 		unravels it slowly again,
again, the lines released		one		by one
	unravelled, the thread:		blue-green blue-green blue-green 

blue-green blue-green blue-green 		like little ripples 
	scribbling on the shore 		or immense ripping oceans. She tears
until 		she is		under

lock and green again, 	with wool 	covering her	neck and chest.
	Then, 	a breath, and then,		she ties		a new knot,
lifts the needles 			and begins 		again.

Doireann Ní Ghríofa is a bilingual writer working both in Irish and English. Among her awards are the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, the Michael Hartnett Prize, and the Ireland Chair of Poetry bursary. She frequently participates in cross-disciplinary collaborations, fusing poetry with film, dance, music, and visual art. Doireann’s writing has appeared widely, including in The Irish Times, The Irish Examiner, The Stinging Fly, and Poetry, and has been translated into many languages, most recently to French, Greek, Dutch, Macedonian, Gujarati, and English. Recent or forthcoming commissions include work for The Poetry Society (UK), RTÉ Radio 1, Cork City Council & Libraries, The Arts Council/Crash Ensemble, and UCC. Her most recent book is Oighear (Coiscéim, 2017)



SCA/OPES – by Nicole Peyrafitte



Lake Palourde







Tide Pools

Encinitas, California, October 2013


Re-visiting Encinitas California &
measuring the past: 

“how to measure such distances
how to count such measures” sz PJ


in step with Pacific ocean
memories’ ebb & flow
tide-pools of hardy organisms
cast reflection
but what measure measures the past?
remains? newbies?
Anthopleura elegantissima?
I too stretch
& clone myself
wear a shrapnel
shell camouflage
practice both sexual
& asexual reproduction
temporarily attached to
immersed objects

Pollicipes polymerus?
our peduncle is plump
short edible
attached to a rock
beaten by the waves
coping with flux & reflux
anemones, goose barnacles
pelagic witnesses
symbiotic walk
on provisory bottom
onlookers mirror
life of constant changes
shared illusion with
sardines & mackerel
the alternate rhythmic condition
back & fro movement
decline & renewal 

a mighty fear
a sounded fear
a good fear
in a rare intertidal zone
mussels prey on barnacle larvae

Revoir Encinitas, Californie 
& mesurer le passé:

“comment mesurer de telles distances
 comment compter de telles mesures” dit PJ


dans la foulée du Pacifique
ebbe et jusant des mémoires
flaques résiduelles d’organismes hardis
jètent une réflexion
quelle mesure mesure le passé?
les restes? le neuf?
Anthopleura elegantissima?
moi aussi je m’étire
& me clone
porte un camouflage
d’éclats de coquillages
je pratique les reproductions
sexuées & non-sexuées
attachée temporairement
aux objets immergés

Pollicipes polymerus?
notre pédoncule est charnu
court comestible
fixé à un rocher
battu par les vagues
surmonte flux et reflux
anémones pouces-pied
témoins pélagiques
marche symbiotique
sur fond provisoire
où les
spectateurs reflètent
les changements constants
une illusion partagée avec
sardines & maquereaux
une condition rythmique alternée
avec mouvement avant arrière
déclin & renouveauune

peur puissante
une peur raisonnée
une bonne peur
dans l’estran rare
les moules se gorgent de leur larves

West Wing

In Flight To Seattle, Washington, March 2014



image01 image07

nicole_peyrafitteNicole Peyrafitte is a pluridisciplinary artist born and raised in the Gascony part of the Pyrenees & residing in Brooklyn, N.Y with her husband poet, essayist, translator Pierre Joris. Her texts, voice-work, paintings, videos, films, translations & cooking are displayed in a range of multi lingual & multi-faceted performances. Peyrafitte’s work is informed & characterized by a daily practice — a quest for life in art and art in life between two continents & four languages. 

Latest publication: Bi-Valve: Vulvic Space/Vulvic Knowledge, 17 paintings, 17 multilingual texts, 1 recipe & 1 CD (Stockport Flats, 2013). Forthcoming: Land0Scape (bi-langual texts), éditions Plaine Page, France. Her translations work includes, Nicole Brossard, Yoko Otomo, Gary Hill, Marcela Delpastre, Bernat Manciet.

                                        Images and words are © Nicole Peyrafitte

More info on publications & more:

“Sanctus” by Kimberly Campanello


And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? – James Joyce


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 neighborhoods, 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.


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


Kimberly 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 IIAbridged , and The Irish Left Review .

Pic by Brian Kavanagh

phrase to image by C. Murray

Phrase:The bowed white orchid takes so long to open,
I am unsure if he is alive or dead.’
(notebook date: 05/02/2019)




bowed, the white orchid
encloses his white flame–

slow to unfold,
slowly, his enpetalling—

he waxes,
wanes — with 
moon’s white-lamp-globe

I do not know if he drinks–

phrase to image is © C. Murray from garden notes /light