All posts filed under: Dispossession

An Dúanaire

‘Saturnian Girls’ and other poems by Anora Mansour

Saturnian Girls Orbit of cramped pantaloons you offered painted blood as an apology my love. And I take it in turns to disavow the tureen of your torment — your stone soup its coagulated colours seared by Farsi tea and a spoonful of breast milk. You often fantasise about my forest path cries amongst the de-coupled tombs where the travellers sleep and porcelain panthers creep. Some womenfolk are screws to their kin  Guards grasping for that infinite love.  The needle that weaves time. Wicked you made me weep over identity papers lost and then I knew you’d become another Him.  One of the happenstance  patsies of pain. Greedy confessors whose tittle are a fiddle from the hush city streets. Their fistula make you say Aha. I must shake the rack this bacchanal ruin  your Thanksgiving banquet  for the baying peasants. Beware the Saturnian sea-girls clutching sharp pink conch behind their backs, Their chosen weapon of defence.   Detroit Waters I’ll soon be free yes, restless me. Glass holding up honky tonk hells- Leaden water cities …

Poems by Valentina Colonna translated by Pawel Sakowski

  Ho raccolto un’ombra quando salivo le scale. Stava giusto scendendo.   Mentre toccavo le tegole ho perso un’idea. Rotolava avvolta tra i panni. Poi il vento ha smosso le fila: è scivolata travolta di vuoti.   Il carro stava giusto passando. – Flatus Fluit Ad Fortunae Fossam –   Ho appena cambiato l’acqua ai fiori.˜ I picked up a shadow when I was going up the stairs. It was just going down.   While I was touching the tiles I lost an idea. It rolled down wrapped in cloths. Then the wind moved the strings: and the idea slid away overwhelmed with emptiness.   A cart was just passing by. – Flatus Fluit Ad Fortunae Fossam –   I have just watered my flowers. Mentre cammino in terrazza la banda suona e ti dico “La senti?” Mi insegue da una parte all’altra del perimetro di confine al mio riso perché non sentano i vicini quest’allegria dei miei anni spaiati al vento. Così suona nella casa di fronte poi dietro in piazza, davanti al secondo piano …

A Celebration of Women’s Poetry for International Women’s Day 2018

  ‘A History of Love Letters’ by Seanín Hughes   Miss said every time I told a lie, Baby Jesus had a nail hammered into his hand. She said I had a sad mouth, corners downturned, pointing to hell.   Stephen with the p-h had a mouth like sunshine. I gave him a token: a tiny toy dinosaur egg, pale blue and gold. I wrote his name on my hand and hoped the egg would hatch.   My body grew and Granny said, never shave your legs, so I did. Better bald spring chicken; better descaled and plucked bare for boys to touch with their nervous fingers, and work me open.   The one who wrote love letters spilled his entrails in black Bic biro, telling me in no particular order the parts of me he liked best — some illustrated.   When Napoleon begged his Josephine to lay herself bare, he meant for her flaws to fold her into neat and precious squares — for her to be less than his clenched-fist heart could hold.   …

‘It Was I’ and other poems by Dolonchampa Chakraborty

  Perfect Storm I look at my palm It’s full of scars, crosses and half-lines Neither money nor the life line is full Index finger bends a lot Which means I’m not rigid enough Fingers of my feet are not feminine A desirable bride would have Different set of feet. These are my favourite though They ran through the paddy fields Bent over the pond and picked lotus Danced in the rain To collect rhythm That would later become baskets Of rose and gardenia, I now share with monsoon I hold them in the palm of my hands Doors of the seashore-huts open Children run out They come running towards me, The water and salt The wooden boat And the grey bundle of clouds They come running towards a perfect storm The storm that will destroy the lines of nothingness From every little palm Lighthouse I saw you beside the ocean, counting steps Found you inside the lighthouse, Seasoning waves Watched you through the storm, floating off the shore In my silent cry I became …

Fired ! Irish Women Poets and the Canon: Preamble To The Pledge

This is the preamble to a pledge aimed at redressing the gender imbalance in Irish poetry. The pledge, which we invite scholars and writers of all genders to sign, commits signatories to asking questions about gender representation.   Since the penning of this pledge was prompted by the announcement of The Cambridge Companion to Irish Poets, ed. Gerald Dawe (Cambridge University Press, 2017), we include here a brief account of the misrepresentation of women’s contribution in Irish poetry in critical volumes like the Cambridge Companion as well as in anthologies, conferences and other publications and events. We see the Cambridge Companion as a single stark iteration of a much wider problem.   We suggest some of the ways in which this volume might have acknowledged the contribution of women to Irish poetry. By drawing attention to women’s contribution, we intend to set a positive example for future editors, publishers, teachers and organizers in Irish literature.   Critical volumes such as the forthcoming Cambridge Companion to Irish Poets are presented as surveys of the canon of …