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

The Penelopiad

“Thrushes In The Rowan Tree” and other poems by Maureen Boyle

Christmas Box   There is honey and chocolate on our doorstep since Christmas—sweet box and coral flower— one on either side. The heuchera with ruffled cocoa-coloured leaves hunkers in the corner but the sarcococca or sweet box is where we step inside by design so that on nights as dark as winter and full of storm we brush the bluff, squat, shrub and boots and coat trail the scent of summer into the hall. Its flowers are what are left of flowers, petals blown away—spindly threads ghostly in the leaves, the odd early blood-berry that follows. Its genus confusa is right—from so frail a bloom a scent so big, as if the bees have nested in it and are eager for their flight.  Thrushes In The Rowan Tree   The very day the rowanberries ripen, thrushes fly in, stately and speckled, as if summoned there. They turn the tree to illustration, an autumn square in an illuminated script, or a sultan’s tree of singing birds. Acrobats in motley, they swing, making lithe lines of branches, stretching—somersaulting …

“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.   Really?   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. …

‘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, invisible, 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 …

“Hair” and other poems by Kasey Shelley

My Name Is 1 Kasey 2 Bailer Kascerd Kasmeister Macy Bae 3 Casey Katie Tracey Lisa Chelsea Shelley 4 Bitch Slut Cunt Whore Prick tease Damp yoke 5 Kasim Kas Princess Hon Love Hard Work When the boy texts you to cancel your date, saying you’re hard work, say “OK”. Say “Thank you”. This will confuse him, obviously. He will be expected to respond with “How?!” “Why?!”, starting an argument, thus proving, you are hard work. When he writes back “what for?” you do not respond. When he texts you the next day saying “ah hun, babe” you still do not respond. He has already given up on something that did not have the chance to begin. Besides, you like men. Men who know what they want and go for it. Men who do not masquerade their own insecurities in yours. So you’re hard work because your walls are higher now than they were at what, sixteen? Well, he should now be taller than he was at sixteen. When you threw over a rope and …

How to Hide Unhappiness / Cum Ascundem Nefericirea by Ștefan Manasia translated by Clara Burghelea

The Miracle The red leaves struggle in the glass- angels whose name I don’t know I press them among the pages of the dead poet’s book, whose name I promise to unlearn. A little water (glittering like vodka) and their torture seems attractive to me. From the bus, I showed Estera the red tree like the one in Kim-Ki-duk’s Spring, Summer, Fall…Winter and Spring. I was afraid the driver might increase speed and she will per sempre miss the miracle. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal MIRACOLUL Frunzele rosii Rezista in paharul de sticla- Ingeri al caror nume nu-l cunosc. Le presar intre paginile cartii Poetului mort, De-al carui nume Promit sa ma dezvat. Putina apa (sticleste ca vodca) Si tortura lor imi pare Atragatoare Din autobuz i-am aratat Esterei Copacul rosu ca-n Anotimpurile lui Kim-Ki-duk. Mi-era teama ca o sa accelereze soferul iar ea va pierde per sempre miracolul. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal   Haiku My father sends off black energy also under the Moons of another planet.   HAIKU Tata emite energie neagra si sub …