‘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 order and that we are bacteria in God’s body.   First appeared in Red Roots-Orange Sky, Lapwing Publications, Belfast edited by Dennis Greig   Danube – Duel   Is that a boat or a coffin bobbing up and down on the river framed by the intricate lace of the parliament?   The country taught me hate the tightness of place, sometimes echoed when the gales gather and attack this island.   No escape, lie low, let the winds blow overhead, wait, even if you are sitting on a hot spring even if you fume vitriol.   Remembering the river’s bank ragged lines of men and women, shot after they were told to slip off their shoes.   Boney bare trees reach up into the sky grab the pain – hanging on pulling it down, draw it deep into the soil.   The Danube splits the land. From the crack incredible amounts of fresh water, hot and clear bubble up with the smell of rotten eggs.   Healing waters – they say – good for the bones and joints, the ailments that plague the core of the nation.   The Jews that never got buried float away into the sky – in the spas soaking people play chess in sulphuric silence.   First appeared on Poetry24 edited by Martin Hodges   I wanted to tell you, but there was no time   In my dream I had to take the key to your flat and leave it there It was very hard to do I had to balance on steep rocks and loosened iron hoops In my thoughts I tousled your hair and something lifted me up A force – and my stomach jumped into my throat. I was laughing, for this was what I wanted. Then it was over – (some new dream, new convolutions began about a girl who dived into the awesome blue of the sea – Cassandra – I was glad that she left me alone Like a sunset, her blonde locks sunk into the sea)   I was thinking about symbols on my way to you near the southern railways And my stomach was in my throat. Arriving, I felt the usual little pain, you said I was beautiful and I believed you. There was no doubt about it – I could love You as it was good for me. We were standing at the glass panels In front of us the space I did not tousle your hair, there was no embrace, although desired I left, I was in a street again and a force lifted me up – the one that was leaving dragged me with itself. I was a weak woman then, tiny and the struggle with my own power Seemed ridiculous. I let it fall into the void.   First appeared in A New Ulster edited by Amos Greig Broken – Winged   The first time I heard your voice on the line defensively bored, I thought my pleading rendered me powerless. But surprising: It was the key to your poor, broken heart.   I admired the splinters: Twisted sky, land, barbed wire manifold reflected, Medusa eyes flash, piercing the sadness, but whirls of winds carry us to new heights.   I believed in me being your healer – making you whole a possibility. Wanted to be the cohesive matter,   Superwoman with the magical torch, blind to your pain’s artful prosperity – to the cage of guilt and cunning reproach.   First appeared in Red Roots-Orange Sky, Lapwing Publications, Belfast edited by Dennis Greig   Photo by Alistair Livingstone Csilla Toldy was born in Budapest. After a long odyssey in Europe she entered the UK with a writer’s visa to work on films and ended up living in Northern Ireland in 1998. Her prose appeared in Southword, Black Mountain Review and anthology, Fortnight, The Incubator Journal, Strictly Writing and Cutalongstory. Her poetry was published online and in print literary magazines, such as Snakeskin and Poetry24, Savitri, Lagan Online, Headstuff, Visible Verse, A New Ulster and in two chapbooks published by Lapwing Belfast: Red Roots – Orange Sky and The Emigrant Woman’s Tale. Csilla makes videopoems, available on her website:  www.csillatoldy.co.uk &  https://soundcloud.com/ctoldy

“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.

“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 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 note from Olivia Guest at Jonathan Clowes Ltd.

Author and Poet Doris Lessing Doris Lessing died a matter of days after I had received permission to carry some of the poems from her Fourteen Poems on this blog indefinitely. I had put up the following note and message and see no reason to remove it. I am happy that I have carried her work for a few years.  I wrote a brief tribute to Lessing’s writing and influence on my writing life here.

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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