All posts filed under: A Saturday Woman Poet

‘Poem’ by Mary Cecil

Sometimes I think, do I write as a woman? Are my thoughts so different? What concerns woman and not men Do they have a gravitas I do not?   Is the world I experience The search for truth To flay a heart and dissect a thought Should I be remote, detached as a diary?   Where do my thoughts sit What else save love and loss to expect Am I not serious in my journey? Is there a scale I know not of?   Are all the challenges reserved for men? To pontificate to helpless women Or is the emotional turmoil in poetry A commonality of the writing process?   So in consideration I shall continue And explore the frontiers of being human Disregard the doubts And write, simply because I must   untitled is © Mary Cecil Mary Cecil is the mother of large family and Grandmother to eleven. The widow of Rathlin Island’s famous campaigner, diver, author (Harsh winds of Rathlin) Thomas Cecil. Lover of Rathlin Island, Northern Ireland’s only inhabited island. Mary enjoys …

‘Lepus’ by Stephanie Conn

Lepus   Their collective noun is ‘drove’ though they mostly live alone, content with a solitary life,   or become one of a pair growing brave in the spring; chests puffed out, as if   fluid has filled the cavities and dropsy has caused a long-forgotten frenzy, that gives rise   to a meadow dash in daylight or a moonlit boxing match below the moon hare’s dark patches;   that ancient celestial ancestor, as a distant cousin is driven south by the hunter and his dogs.   Lepus is © Stephanie Conn (first published in Burning Bush II) Stephanie Conn was born in Newtownards, Co. Down, in 1976. Her poetry has been widely published. She was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Prize, highly commended in the Mslexia Pamphlet Competition and selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions Series. She is a graduate of the MA programme the Seamus Heaney Centre. Stephanie is a recipient of an Arts Council Career Enhancement Award and recently won the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing. Her first poetry collection is due …

‘Lifelike’ and other poems by Jennifer Matthews

Family Portraits   “With skin like that, you don’t have to open your mouth.”   Muting praise; Mother twirled back the sardine-tin key of his sister’s tongue.   Richard Avedon, embryonic photographer fixed his Kodax Box Brownie on Sister, to exhume her from her own beauty.   … she believed she existed only as skin, and hair, and a beautiful body …   He sought sun, the negative of his muse in hand to place on his shoulder: used his own skin as a contact sheet for the image to burn into him, to carry her as widows clutch framed photos of loved ones lost to war.   ok   1.   His tattoo: a stitch of self harm, a barcode, a brand, a word he wants so badly to replace his own skin that he signs consent to be burnt blue. He lies down to give his flesh to the upper-hand, the cruel beautician.   2.   Beauty is nothing but a flaw so stunning it can’t be ignored. Its twin image burrows into …

‘The Last Fire’ and other Poems by Helen Harrison

CROSSROADS   Nineteen forty-five was like that Free-wheeling to the crossroads; Fifteen miles later; her own birth-place; Travelling was the best part, the wind at her back, A greeting ahead. News from home….   Roaming the familiar lanes, sisters Continuous chatter; away from the Clatter of feeding hungry hens, pigs and Cows. She could roam without children, For a day: To pause for some rest.   A small slip of time away from the chores That shaped her life. No sooner had the Ceili begun, it was time for the door: among Promises to write, feeling satisfied to have rested Those tired limbs. She’d set off, her frame;   Feeling heavier, cycling up hills, the thrill Of the annual visit finished; her spirit slightly Diminished, yet younger. She’d relay through letters, How when she got back to the crossroads….the First thing she’d hear; to spoil her wonder   Were her pigs squealing with the hunger..   PASSING SUNSETS   Evening, and there is nothing To tempt me indoors.   Warmed from a day spent in …

‘Mulcair’ and other poems by Amanda Bell

The beauty of the game   is lost on me when I watch you play. I see the curve of your cheek, the rounded base of your skull – once a custom-fit for my palm – and feel again the warm weight of your incipience.   No more walnut-snug in my armour your head now bobs around the pitch and air shrieks with the thwack of plastic against wood, against bone.   (first published by The Ofi Press)   Dark Days   i.m. Savita Halappanavar   Suspended at the end of Krishna Paksha, the moon is a sickle freeze-framed in the night sky.   The fireworks have been cancelled, replaced by candles and a vision of you dancing on the cusp.   These are dark days between Diwali and Advent, waiting   for the moon to wax. (first published by the Burning Bush 2)   Troglodytes   On visiting Lascaux cave for the 70th anniversary of its discovery   Inland, the road torcs into forest. Among walnut trees, the house vibrates with life: bees, hummingbird …