All posts filed under: A Saturday Woman Poet

“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 …

“Doris Lessing said I was a child of violence” and other poems by Linda Chown

Too many moons   for Jack Gilbert who went further Too many moons in his poems, he said they said. Too much sky. But what if he had lived on islands under the sun with fishermen. What if he had heard silence sounding in the water. What if there were no words. What if to him a southern moon stared At infinity in that night light And held the chaos of lovers. how to say what   Words are the clothes thoughts wear. Samuel Beckett To say nothing the same. In the space. To repeat nothing, And everything. Put it there over the moon with the heart outside. When you. And it’s all read/red. Granny Smith is gone. Took a kind of a powder. If I only were in a dark of my own making. Making out fireflies touch things sticky. Do tell how to say what: do Prague lights shine spatial hollows in Slavic moonlight when nothing says anything any more. More than more. Two is not one.again. Grasshoppers have thin legs and I …

“Fintona” and other poems by Aine MacAodha

Windowless church   My church has no windows in fact it has no doors either and to be fair no altar it has no ordained minister or priest or gospels. Its in my heart, in the starry sky the moon shining over the land its the planets in our solar system the sun when it shines or not its the foods god/creator left us, berries, leaves, nuts my church has winter winds that cut to the bone and to enlighten I have the sweet smell of roses as I follow the seasons. It is bog cotton waving on an early Autumn evening as the sun bids farewell. On nights like these dark and Irish wintery the familiar trees and hills become ancient septs ready for battle with the ether. Fields caped in winter fog appear as crafted cities of the dead souls roam among the rushes in search of utopia or a home. Trees scan the darkened horizon the wind calls out names too and winter hangs around like a threat. This is my church. …

“The Pathologist’s Wife” and other poems by Natalia Spenser

For Sylvia-Down in Adoration   You were Fulbright a seismic enigma the fleet foot hare rising in pastel dusk. It stalked like crows in the breast of a man who sold your head for hapless wanderlust. Your damage was like splintering of glass. Could he not understand what it is to be a milk jug, wasted lipstick, the outcast shadow hung from a star-struck hemlock tree. But a quiet voice is so more loquacious than a risen phoenix roaring through air. Maybe now is the time for tempered hush time to weave your bridal crown through red hair. He brought Devon sea shells to your headstone you were his lotus his night passage glow.   For Jane Kenyon   Ten years on, while storm buffets glass and juniper, snowflake tiers inside my porch finger an army of miniature baubles.   The plastic robins perch lopsided. Even that new star, a rushed afterthought, curtseys on its axis where a black one legged doll should be.   Dear Jane I never met you. But I guess your …

“Satellite” and other poems by Roisin Kelly

To a Writer   You write of raspberries and snow of the mimosa flower’s scent of how it makes you feel to put on lipstick and heels. Of how it feels to wander home   below the stars, drunk but not too drunk how you always like to show a little cleavage though you never undo more than the top two buttons of your shirt.   But there’s so much else I’d give to you like the full pale weight of your breasts bared to the world and wild. During menstruation, don’t stay in   breaking chocolate before a laptop screen: dip your fingers between your legs and stain your face with red. Write down all of last night’s dream   not just the parts with crystal seas but the parts you’d rather not think about. Drink whiskey until you vomit. Stand on a beach in your bare feet   and cry about the guy who betrayed you but comfort yourself also with thoughts of his drowned body his groin now a home for nibbling …