All posts filed under: Archives

A Celebration of Women’s Poetry on International Women’s Day 2019

Image: Srilata Krishnan Poethead has been celebrating the achievements of women writers, editors and translators for over a decade. International Women’s Day 2019 is no exception. This year I have decided to highlight the work of women poets from my international index and to introduce my readers to some new Irish poets. I am very grateful to all the poets who submit to the site, especially for their patience. I do not think we would be heading into eleven years this March 2019 without the generous support and uplift that comes from my daily correspondence. Thank you, C. Murray, March 2019 ‘Birth Mother’ by Srilata Krishnan   We are standing in front of the mirror, my daughter and I, brushing our hair and being vain when I think of the doctor’s question: “What was her birth cry like?” I don’t know and never will. She is fine, or will be, I know. But looking in the mirror and into her almond eyes, I wonder what she is like – her birth mother – if she …

“Since She Did That” and other poems by E.D. Hickey

Home I rub, and RUB my eyes; Ferocious; Don’t, Don’t, sweetheart. Then the plane tips toward the cool thick Irish sea So that I can face it Gaze into it From my seat. Home! Clouds bubble over the razor wings The light jumps into my tired gaze. Home!   Steel There must be steel in women Who say no. I am made of utter fudge Compelled, somehow, to reply and smile And be grateful for the fleeting interest. This is exactly the kind of thing A better me Would never do.   August I have never been so hollow I will never be so hollow I just felt so hollow When I refused to fix it When you left that city a day too early When you cried to your mother on the phone She doesn’t even know me I wish I could tell her I was sorry.   Stucco I want to build I want to – I need to restructure Gut my foundations Cut into the old black brick below me Throw it …

‘Reluctant Oration’ and other poems by Fiona King

Birth The last point of the quadrant remains to be drawn, Out on the fringe of a shadowy dawn. The air is still, devoid of all sound, The raven encircles the battleground. The troops are assembled, their swords held with poise, To face the enemy engulfing his choice. He arrives with his foe, emits a loud cry, The prophetic bird falls dead from the sky. Morning’s mist begins to fade, The child is here, no longer afraid. CHILD’S PLAY The couple play a childish game, Their toys are guilt, betrayal, shame. They scatter them across the floor, Expose insecurities raw and sore. Their song is angry, well-rehearsed, A tune of sadness, bitterly versed. Their painting, an unfinished mess, Made in haste, under duress. They dance a dance of hideous precision, Wrong is right, final decision. Nothing to lose and less to gain, Familiar role play, hate and pain. Their child looks on, he takes the blame, Discarded toy in an adult game.   WOODEN SPOON Deed is done, misdemeanour little, Anger rises, no acquittal. Shriek …