All posts filed under: Saturday Women Poets

A Saturday Poem by a Woman Author

“Tarmac” and other poems by A.M. Cousins

REDRESS After Junichiro Tanizaki. Give us this day your problems. Allow us to torment ourselves about shadow and beauty and good taste and we’ll swap all that we’ve got for one hour in the life of a tortured artiste who wants to sit in a fancy lav and listen to a mosquito. We’d leave the shadows to the banshee and the pooka, and the nun who died young – she lurks and snaps bony fingers as your backside hangs through a hole in a bench. You tilt forward to tear a scrap of newspaper. All useless decoration stripped in Sunday’s Well where Little Nellie dances for Holy God, Artane boys march and Heaney’s henhouse child views the moon through a chink in a plank. Ancient Magdalenes and crones – sister-stitchers with blackened teeth and white, pinched faces glowing overmodest grey kimonos – enhance heaven’s cloth, embroider Limerick lace. Give us this day. (published in The Stinging Fly.)   BLESSED after Padraic H. Pearse. I grudge them – more than any of you will ever know …

“English Breakfast Love Song” and other poems by Rhiannon Grant

English Breakfast Love Song   I am longing to pour out my soul to you in words which show my creativity and let off my head of steam but my soul is not so liquid it comes out in funny lumps uneven like old-fashioned sugar ready to make sure your tea is always too sweet and never sweet enough. Unengaged Concepts   Your thin God – onmithis, omnithat— is nothing beside the wildness of Goddess.   Love and suffering may have reasons but are not rational.   You say we can know about ‘chastity’ without living it.   Really?   Outside a seminar in a thick press of people could you look the right way maintain your dress just so be chaste in soul in ways you cannot describe?   You can use the word ‘God’ in a sentence.   So far, so good.   Do not presume to know what my God is like: how flowers dance for Her how Thou is there in silence how His sentences would make no sense to you. …

‘Siegfried’s Homecoming’ and other poems by Suzanne Stapleton

Siegfried’s Homecoming You come home from the war at least a third emptier than you were, Like all the words were scooped from your head with the butt of a rifle that you constructed with your own hands and demolished too, leaving so much of yourself in the barrel. The teeth in your gums white crosses and country lines, none of them belonging to you anymore, rattle like augury bones in your sleep because in the night you are some twisted, ugly thing like a trout gasping for breath on the floor of a fishing boat, running from the yawning mouth at your heart to get away from what remains here : a battlefield. You come home from the war and leave your love behind in the hands of a poet, a soldier whose eyes stare out at you in each nightmare the claiming mark of his blood splattered across your face and emblazoned on your soul, his smile tinged mustard yellow in your memory but his hands so vivid; pencil, pages, and the pistol, …

‘I wanted to tell you, but there was no time’ and other poems by Csilla Toldy

Kitchen   With hot chilli in my eyes I read between the lines, a coded message of noises: A child’s scream sheathed in wind blasts,   gashes through the cracks. The mandalay porcelain clock, riveting, ticks between my shoulder blades. I carry my life like a snail.   The fridge sighs, a boiler roars into motion, it broils the oil of the seas and heats – my place, the kitchen at dawn.   Clouds scrub the stratosphere with desert sand; a mad dog, stuck in fear, just shrills. The river at the bottom of our glen, shushing its song, cushions our senses.   In my body’s kitchen the heart spins unrelenting. Organs send impulses talking to each other. “Thanks for the parcel, we enjoyed the food.”   The universe of enzymes awakens, matter is transformed, vibrations vocalise. My body is gauze, from Gaza, letting through the particles of light – staunch at covering the wounds, so absorbent.   Beyond its wonders I remember last night’s cosmic dance at this table, our conversation about intelligence and …

“The Dream Clock” and other visual poetry by Susan Connolly

Susan Connolly’s first collection of poetry For the Stranger was published by the Dedalus Press in 1993. She was awarded the Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry in 2001. Her second collection Forest Music was published by Shearsman Books in 2009. Shearsman published her chapbook The Sun-Artist: a book of pattern poems in 2013. She lives in Drogheda, Co. Louth.