All posts filed under: Dispossession

An Dúanaire

“The Devil, Oblique Angles and Polka Dots” by Sue Cosgrave

The Devil, Oblique Angles and Polka Dots For Grandmother Your host shimmers beyond the margin of this page as my fingers tap-tap you from the dead.   It takes you a while to snap into focus.   You remind me of a day when I was eight,                       or ten, at most,   the day I got lost in the woods. How I blubbered and wailed for you!   When you finally found me— a snot and hiccup spewing fountain – not pretty.   “What took you so long?”   It was strange how you appeared, seemingly out of nowhere; haloed in spring beyond the green fog of young birches, your sudden presence, not reassuring – not at first – “why did you leave me?” I cried   all the while, you, unruffled, reproached me: “Shame on you. A big girl crying like a baby. And for no reason at all. Don’t you know that God is watching over you, Detushka?’   Aha! This is …

“Sunflower” by Susan Millar DuMars

Sunflower In Memory of the 796 infants and children who died at the Tuam Mother and Baby Home.   I dream a face as rounded as a girl’s and then the petals bright like sunlit hair – I dream a sunflower unafraid to touch my shadowed skin, the nourishment of air.   Bury all the children underground far from harm, sheltered by the dirt. Stunted seeds, tucked in muck-dark beds. Safe from you, safe from me, safe from hurt.   © Susan Millar DuMars Susan Millar DuMars has published three poetry collections with Salmon Poetry, the most recent of which, Bone Fire, appeared in April, 2016. She also published a book of short stories, Lights in the Distance, with Doire Press in 2010. Her work has appeared in publications in the US and Europe and in several anthologies, including The Best of Irish Poetry 2010. She has read from her work in the US, Europe and Australia. Born in Philadelphia, Susan lives in Galway, Ireland, where she and her husband Kevin Higgins have coordinated the Over …

“Magic Bullet” and other poems by Rus Khomutoff

  Untitled for Andre Breton   Nostalgic sentiments and new wave nocturnes intersecting in a normal chaos of life an hourglass of neglected affinities idols of saturated phenomena night of filth, night of flowers the aporia of revelation   Magic Bullet (for Tristan Tzara)    Smell of death smell of life of embrace a medicine of moments semiquavers and sundial conductors of the postspectacle deposits of legitimacy left behind sortilege of the divine decree words in blood like flowers   Grand Hotel Abyss    Selenophilia of our being the obscuring of the queen vexed in your hollow divine incipience of the notable nonesuch like fragrant paperwhites in the corner of the transcendental frame pleasure ground of annulled pretext in hysterically real daymares everyday extraordinary grand hotel abyss   Masque of the minutes for Adam Lovasz    Masque of the minutes like a red psychotonic cry agnosia of the just interloper scarlet bellowing of the deep end excisions on vacuous origins temporal flight of the elemental route   Hygge    A sense of timelessness surrounds her …

“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 …

“Just as the blackbird strikes up his clear note” by C. Murray

dead hearts, dead dreams, dead days of ecstasy, Can you not live again ?   Nay, for me never dead.   (Constance Markievicz, Easter Week 1917) At each day’s dawn, they came to tell me, they came to tell me that they would be shot.   I heard the cracking and I knew my birds had flown. Willie Pearse, a carver in stone, shot, his body melted into lime quickly.   I do not know if it was the birds, that chaos of gulls and crows that told me they killed James, but then the screeching stopped.   And that silence, that silence before the cracking violence and they came to tell me, that they were to be shot.   As a child I knew how, Beyond the lamp’s circuit, Lay the shadow of the Shadow of this darkness,   They did not come to see me off. I stood, and I waited for the order to be carried out. They came to whisper their deaths,   no one came for me. I waited, listening …