The Geometry of Love Between the Elements by Fióna Bolger

Caught in the Cross Hairs   I bury my face in the thickness of your hair the darkness, the softness, the smell raw brain sweat, your innermost thoughts desire become scent   beneath the softness the hard skull skin a barrier you need and I want to penetrate   to enter see the wiring observe my image upside down in the back of your head then turn and peer through your eyes   I’d see the world as you   You’ve stolen my tongue   I thought I had the power in dreams I knelt at the chopping board an awkward sacrificial lamb I brought the cleaver down silencing my babble   but you held the knife and while I slept you forced my lips apart and cut at the roots ever the skilled operator you stitched me up needling the thread to connect the severed ends   I can still make sounds some almost words they think they understand but my tongue is in your hands   ‘Blue’ by Vani Vemparala From The Geometry of Love Between the Elements by Fióna Bolger. A Grimoire published by Poetry Bus Magazine.

cure for a sharp shock   it’s that moment when you trust let go the balloon your hope floats up into the air it’s beautiful and red   it bursts empty rubber pieces a shade darker float to earth   I read somewhere if you take these shreds put them between broken pieces of pottery and blow they’ll sound beautiful   I’m not sure I read it somewhere   cure poem for the lovelorn   a woman sits alone her eyes are on the swan feathers dropped by the moon upon the sea   she sees no-one on the horizon but who can walk on water dance on down   by day she weaves her stinging sadness into nettle shirts, by night she waits for her lover – the one who needs   to wear those painful clothes to be fully human again no longer trapped   on a cold moon dropping feathers on the sea   Cure Poems are © Fióna Bolger

Fiona Bolger’s work has appeared in Headspace, Southword, The Brown Critique, Can Can, Boyne Berries, Poetry Bus, The Chattahoochee Review, Bare Hands Poetry Anthology and others. Her poems first appeared in print on placards tied to lamp posts (UpStart 2011 General Election Campaign). They’ve also been on coffee cups (The Ash Sessions). Her grimoire, The Geometry of Love between the Elements, was published by Poetry Bus Press. She is of Dublin and Chennai and is a member of Dublin Writers’ Forum and Airfield Writers.   From Poetry Bus  A Grimoire is a book of magic and what is more magical than poetry? So instead of producing a series of chapbooks we’ve opted to create something a bit more special. Our first poet is Fíona Bolger and her Grimoire is called ‘The Geometry of Love between the Elements’   A beautiful book of poems illustrated by Vani Vemparala and featuring translations into Irish, Polish and Tamil by Antain Mac Lochlainn, Aleksandra Kubiak and R.Vatsala respectively.

‘Ceathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin’ and ‘A fhir dar fhulaingeas’ by Máire Mhac an tSaoi

Máire Mhac an tSaoi poetry Original Irish versions followed by English translations . Ceathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin A fhir dár fhulaingeas… Ceathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin I Ach a mbead gafa as an líon so – Is nár lige Dia gur fada san – B’fhéidir go bhfónfaidh cuimhneamh Ar a bhfuaireas de shuaimhneas id bhaclainn Nuair a bheidh arm o chumas guíochtaint, Comaoine is éiteacht Aifrinn, Cé déarfaidh ansan nach cuí dhom Ar ‘shonsa is arm o shon féin achaine? Ach comhairle idir dhá linn duit, Ná téir ródhílis in achrann, Mar go bhfuilimse meáite ar scaoileadh Pé cuibhreann a snaidhmfear eadrainn. II Beagbheann ar amhras daoine, Beagbheann ar chros na sagart, Ar gach ní ach bheith sínte Idir tú agus falla – Neamhshuim liom fuacht na hoíche, Neamhshuim liom scríb is fearthainn, Sa domhan cúng rúin teolaí seo Ná téann thar fhaobhar na leapan – Ar a bhfuil romhainn ní smaoinfeam, Ar a bhfuil déanta cheana, Linne an uain, a chroí istigh, Is mairfidh sí go maidin. III Achar bliana atáim Ag luí farat id chlúid, Deacair anois a rá Cad leis a raibh mo shúil! Ghabhais de chosaibh i gcion A tugadh go fial ar dtúis, Gan aithint féin féd throigh Fulaing na feola a bhrúigh! Is fós tá an creat umhal Ar mhaithe le seanagheallúint, Ach ó thost cantain an chroí Tránn áthas an phléisiúir. IV Tá naí an éada ag deol mo chíchse Is mé ag tál air de ló is d’oíche; An garlach gránna ag cur na bhfiacal, Is de nimh a ghreama mo chuisle líonta. A ghrá, ná maireadh an trú beag eadrainn, Is a fholláine, shláine a bhí ár n-aithne; Barántas cnis a chloígh lem chneas airsin, Is séala láimhe a raibh gach cead aici. Féach nach meáite mé ar chion a shéanadh, Cé gur sháigh an t-amhras go doimhin a phréa’chas; Ar lair dheá-tharraic ná déan éigean, Is díolfaidh sí an comhar leat ina séasúr féinig. V Is éachtach an rud í an phian, Mar chaitheann an cliabh, Is ná tugann faoiseamh ná spás Ná sánas de ló ná d’oíche’ – An té atá i bpéin mar táim Ní raibh uaigneach ná ina aonar riamh, Ach ag iompar cuileachtan de shíor Mar bhean gin féna coim. VI ‘Ní chodlaím istoíche’ – Beag an rá, ach an bhfionnfar choíche Ar shúile oscailte Ualach na hoíche? VII Fada liom anocht! Do bhí ann oíche Nárbh fhada faratsa – Dá leomhfainn cuimhneamh. Go deimhin níor dheacair san. An ród a d’fhillfinn – Dá mba cheadaithe Tréis aithrí ann. Luí chun suilt Is éirí chun aoibhnis Siúd ba cheachtadh dhúinn – Dá bhfaigheann dul siar air. Cathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin from, Margadh na Saoire. Dublin: Sairseal agus Dill, 1956, 1971. Mary Hogan’s quatrains I O to be disentangled from this net – And may God not let that be long – Perhaps the memory will help Of all the ease I had in your arms. When I shall have the ability to pray, Take communion and hear Mass, Who will say then that it is not seemly To intercede on yours and on my behalf? But meanwhile my advice to you, Don’t get too firmly enmeshed, For I am determined to let loose Whatever bond between us is tied. II I care little for people’s suspicions, I care little for priests’ prohibitions, For anything save to lie stretched Between you and the wall – I am indifferent to the night’s cold, I am indifferent to the squall or rain, When in this warm narrow secret world Which does not go beyond the edge of the bed – We shall not contemplate what lies before us, What has already been done, Time is on our side, my dearest, And it will last til morning. III For the space of a year I have been Lying with you in your embrace, Hard to say now What I was hoping for! You trampled on love, That was freely given at first, Unaware of the suffering Of the flesh you crushed under foot. And yet the flesh is willing For the sake of an old familiar pledge, But since the heart’s singing has ceased The joy of pleasure ebbs. IV The child of jealousy is sucking my breast, While I nurse it day and night; The ugly brat is cutting teeth, My veins throb with the venom of its bite. My love, may the little wretch not remain between us, Seeing how healthy and full was our knowledge of each other; It was a skin warranty that kept us together, And a seal of hand that knew no bounds. See how I am not determined to deny love, Though doubt has plunged its roots deep; Do not force a willing mare, And she will recompense you in her own season. V Pain is a powerful thing, How it consumes the breast, It gives no respite day or night, It gives no peace or rest – Anyone who feels pain like me, Has never been lonely or alone, But is ever bearing company Like a pregnant woman, in her womb. VI ‘I do not sleep at night’ – Of no account, but will we ever know With open eyes The burden of the night? VII Tonight seems never-ending! There was once such a night Which with you was not long – Dare I call to mind. That would not be hard, for sure, The road on which I would return – If it were permitted After repentance. Lying down for joy And rising to pleasure That is what we practised – If only I could return to it. Translation by James Gleasure. Cathrúintí Mháire Ní Ógáin from, Margadh na Saoire. Dublin: Sairseal agus Dill, 1956, 1971. A fhir dar fhulaingeas… A fhir dar fhulaingeas grá fé rún, Feasta fógraím an clabhsúr: Dóthanach den damhsa táim, Leor mo bhabhta mar bhantráill Tuig gur toil liom éirí as, Comhraím eadrainn an costas: ‘Fhaid atáim gan codladh oíche Daorphráinn orchra mh’osnaíle Goin mo chroí, gad mo gháire, Cuimhnigh, a mhic mhínáire, An phian, an phláigh, a chráigh mé, Mo dhíol gan ádh gan áille. Conas a d’agróinnse ort Claochló gréine ach t’amharc, Duí gach lae fé scailp dhaoirse – Malairt bhaoth an bhréagshaoirse! Cruaidh an cás mo bheith let ais, Measa arís bheith it éagmais; Margadh bocht ó thaobh ar bith Mo chaidreamh ortsa, a óigfhir. Man for whom I endured… Man, for whom I suffered love In secret, I now call a halt. I’ll no longer dance in step. Far too long I’ve been enthralled. Know that I desire surcease, Reckon up what love has cost In racking sighs, in blighted nights When every hope of sleep is lost. Harrowed heart, strangled laughter; Though you’re dead to shame, I charge you With my luckless graceless plight And pain that plagues me sorely. Yet, can I blame you that the sun Darkens when you are in sight? Until I’m free each day is dark – False freedom to swap day for night! Cruel my fate, if by your side. Crueller still, if set apart. A bad bargain either way To love you or to love you not. Translated by Biddy Jenkinson.

Máire Mhac an tSaoi (born 4 April 1922) is one of the most acclaimed and respected Irish language scholars, poets, writers and academics of modern literature in Irish. Along with Seán Ó Ríordáin and Máirtín Ó Direáin she is, in the words of Louis de Paor, ‘one of a trinity of poets who revolutionised Irish language poetry in the 1940s and 50s. (Wiki) Máire Mhac an tSaoi

These poems are published courtesy of Micheal O’Conghaile at Cló Iar-Chonnachta. My thanks to The O’Brien Press for dealing so swiftly with my queries regarding sharing some poetry and translations by Máire Mhac an tSaoi. Thanks to Bridget Bhreathnach at Cló Iar-Chonnachta for providing the physical copies of Mhac an tSaoi’s poetry, and to translators  James Gleasure and Biddy Jenkinson.

• Cló Iar Chonnachta 
• Centre for Irish Studies/ NUI / Galway
• Máire Mhac an tSaoi at CIC
• A fhir dar fhulaingeas… at The Poetry Project

A Rough Wooing , by C. Murray

great dawn stretches his golden fingers into and about slumbering Danae   slowly she viviates / rounds him about    ‘Fuck off (declares she)  I need my kip’   A Rough Wooing is © Chris Murray

A note from Olivia Guest at Jonathan Clowes Ltd.

I am thrilled to have received the following note from Olivia Guest regarding my licence to carry Doris Lessing’s poems, here on Poethead. EDIT: 17/11/2013 I am sorry to hear of the passing of Doris Lessing today.

Dear Christine We’d be delighted for you to host the poems for longer especially if you’re getting such good reactions. Doris Lessing was never very keen on her poetry and didn’t think it was any good so I doubt we will see a re-issue but at least this way, they are available in an alternative form.   Many thanks and best wishes   Olivia

• Poems by Doris Lessing
• Index of Women poets
• Author and Poet Doris Lessing
• Open Salon

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Gillian Prew Previews

Fragments from Noticing    i   The wick, uprooted/ left of light – ice-shawl thawing to the leaf-ends dissolves to the rain/ the rain’s bloom.   ii   Wet-edge/wet-air lifts the birds dampening to the rim of cloud quietly.   iii   Not-evening/ a dimming seam behind the treeline/rising a black whir of crows.   iv   Opposite/    unfastened flowers mantling the stone/summer’s tumbled frock.   v   Mirror-firth/silver with sky, with gulls’ backs.   vi   A dug-in place/a shadow. A black edge/a knuckle/a grave.   Fragments from Noticing is © Gillian Prew . Edge/Untitled   Waiting among ghosts on the bursting stone/ white of memory/the wild weeds moved-in. White of the rushing sea/ the gull backs/the moon. Waiting/as if a blue-lit eye/a voice of glass/a leaf-sway – rain. As if the rain a slow-motion dust. The past – a field/a room. Wearing the grasses/the books letting go/not letting go. These pieces corrupted by time. Small-sound stories half-writ. The past whittled to white/and it is ready a cut-through bone. Edge/Untitled is © Gillian Prew

Throats Full of Graves by Gillian Prew Lapwing Poetry Website  Purchase Link for Throats Full Of Graves (Lapwing) Poethead reading of Throats Full Of Graves