All posts filed under: 25 Pins in a packet women creators

The Penelopiad

‘The Suitcase’ and other poems by Breda Spaight

Her Cross   When I drink, it is always 1967. The dog lies still on the frozen grass, white blades bowed under blinking crystals; the chain from its neck to the conifer muddied and knotted like a root from which it draws life. I remember it as a pup, like all the pups my father ever brought home when drunk, the milky smell of its vigorous body, fonts of sorrow in sloe-black irises. What do we have here? What is this? He produces the pup from his inside coat pocket carefully as a birth, his face at its most wounded: he could cry, vomit, or even laugh, the pup held high like a boyhood memory beyond his reach yet as close as yesterday, alcohol collapsing time like time in a fairy tale. I am tired of my father; we’re all tired of him – a continuous season of storm upon storm, calm only the calm of the eye. And so the pup ends up tied to a tree, savage; the half-moon it inhabits no larger …

‘Laughing at Funerals’ and other poems by Helen Burke

Laughing at Funerals. Mam said you always should. laugh at funerals, that it was expected, well at least by the Bootle lot. Them being made of sterner stuff and all. And anyways death is only a flesh wound ain’t it? Its life that kills you, does the damage, kicks you in the guts and ups the anti. So, why not laugh? In fact, life falls into two camps, she said – Those who understand laughing at funerals, and those who don’t. So, choose your fellow mourners carefully. Sometimes, hearing the dead described – I cannot say I knew them at all. They are superheroes, saints, but their amazing save the world deeds, I do not always recall. I must have been in a telephone box myself, at the time – donning my save the world tights, and skin tight morals. That will be it. I look in the mirror and see a ghost in preparation. And will it be my finest hour – whose to say? I will bring Catwoman and Superman to my funeral …

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“Trompe L’Oeil” and other poems by Patricia Walsh

Trompe L’Oeil Tidied away, fast disappeared, what’s lost in the house isn’t lost. In a mid-sentence, blasting myths and fairytales I avoid the radiance of your eye. Hidden phallic symbols litter the test crunchy fallen leaves subdue the table reference books stand-offish, yet useful the clock, used to stares, reigns supreme. What escaped thought becomes you? What line unwritten begs attention? The trompe l’oeil of art crumbles a piece of fiction no longer necessary. It would do well to save ink and rest, watch Love/Hate till my eyeballs dissolve, or the TV licence man catches me. Anyway smartphones, smart bombs pave the way. Eyeball to eyeball, keeping in check a double decker bus is crashing into me, foolproof suicide, if you stand next to me, always having money to keep me sweet. Stuck in the village. You’re lost, after all. Winding through people, an avoidance strategy, cold calling my fantasies, standing aloof no eye contact can remedy this. Citrus Refresh Bruised flesh, eaten by spinsters’ cries calling for regional order. Sated for now, tomorrow might …

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“The Infinite Body of Sensation”; Visual poetry by Salma Caller

Sound is a shell Sound is a shell An ear Curves of sound Vibrating and condensing air Echoes in a curved space An ocean in the shell of sound Pearls Things that stand in for other things The Witches Pouches Bags of velvet black Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells Spells Pearls Things that stand in for other things Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells Black Lace Turn this talk into a tale A small dark textured cloth Shadows with shades of velvet Borders and edges tactile Spaces glittering and ornate An elaborate intertwining language Of touching A complex dance of bodies Claustrophobic close Obscure ornate organs Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations Rose Point Point de Neige Gros Point Punto in aria Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations Rose Rose coloured lips swirling around a dark spot Tasting …

“The Surrealist ” by Csilla Toldy

The Surrealist – honouring Leonora Carrington –   A young lady, treated as merchandise.   Society made no sense for Leonora, and her best friend the hyena.   She fell in love with a surrealist painting and sought out its creator to take him, too, on a free fall.   Life was real in France, married to their work of art, (and his wife) till the Gestapo took over the city and Max was arrested –   Leonora broke down, now fully. She fled to Spain, But not from family and pain. (After being sanctioned to electroshock therapy for three years), She ran   from the care of an Irish nun to the Mexican embassy in Lisbon, where united with Max and their entourage: his wife, his new lover and saviour, her own saviour ambassador, stand-in-husband – they held wake – over the corpse of Love.   Travelling together on the same boat, towards New York, in two distinctly different directions, she found herself in a weird future, alive and sane, in the company of …