All posts filed under: Ephemera

Ephemera

“St Christina’s Gut” and other poems (series) by Clare McCotter

Published by

Saint Teresa’s Heart   Claiming it a charism too diamond for the dark they hung her heart out to dry in a glass globe. Scraped and chafed with a life story the walls of its chambers reverberate still. A girl calling out to another, scratches gold swallows and nival lilies on woodwork none can unravel. A mystic with inquisitorial breath brimming the nape of her neck etches on stone: he has no body but my own immaculate and shining in fields of barley this flesh has flown. A nun crossing night’s cedar soul, writes on an acre of snow: O my sisters this I left, leaving only entrails filled with stars and garnets. An old woman contemplating a wide geranium sky pencils in its margins: morning has come all is light and all are inexorably pierced peregrine and moons circling earth’s fine tilth.   Saint Teresa’s Heart published Abridged 0-39 (March 2015), p. 12. (Revised since publication)   Saint Christina’s Gut   Of all the trees my favourite this sea green turning silver pine roosting me …

“Magic Bullet” and other poems by Rus Khomutoff

Published by

  Untitled for Andre Breton   Nostalgic sentiments and new wave nocturnes intersecting in a normal chaos of life an hourglass of neglected affinities idols of saturated phenomena night of filth, night of flowers the aporia of revelation   Magic Bullet (for Tristan Tzara)    Smell of death smell of life of embrace a medicine of moments semiquavers and sundial conductors of the postspectacle deposits of legitimacy left behind sortilege of the divine decree words in blood like flowers   Grand Hotel Abyss    Selenophilia of our being the obscuring of the queen vexed in your hollow divine incipience of the notable nonesuch like fragrant paperwhites in the corner of the transcendental frame pleasure ground of annulled pretext in hysterically real daymares everyday extraordinary grand hotel abyss   Masque of the minutes for Adam Lovasz    Masque of the minutes like a red psychotonic cry agnosia of the just interloper scarlet bellowing of the deep end excisions on vacuous origins temporal flight of the elemental route   Hygge    A sense of timelessness surrounds her …

From “Parvit of Agelast” and other poems by Máighréad Medbh

Published by

  From Parvit of Agelast ‘Your face is ridiculous: O. . . . . leeeeee ugly 🙂❤ / thanks,  sure i know !’ :L’ – Ciara Pugsley, ask.fm net whn th little lite shinin frm abve doesnt n younguns mad fr luv r spected 2 b home thumbs go drum on magic pads n open windows so they travel in thr dreambots huntin souls they go weft upon th crystal warp unshuttled hookin up witout a plan 2 build a planet trances risin tru th base n snare of ask n tell wot u c is wot u feel n wot u feels rite tho snot a total giggle when th trolls r out —no1 knows th cause like with any freakin demic— bitch please u aint jesus wots wit all the posin howd u like my cock up ur ass, u cross-eyed ho som1 feelin tiny in the sprawlin fabric hauls back in2 her drum for a re-birth much 2 brite bodys blinded so her double takes it weepin 2 th woods to be an hero …

‘Red Hen’ and other poems by Shirley McClure

Published by

Maternity   I want to have poems by Caesarean section wearing my Infallible lip gloss   and counting on my designer obstetrician. I will keep my bump discreet,   drink litres of San Pellegrino, strive to avoid striae gravidarum, laser them later if it comes to it.   I want to live a normal life despite the media, and when it’s time,   my lines will glide out raring to open their lungs and wail as true as any natural birth.   Published in Clifden Anthology 35, 2013   Red Hen   We know nothing about hens, yet find ourselves in charge of half a dozen.   The odd girl out – you call her Mrs.One – loses her footing in the mud.   You carry her into the hen-house with piano player hands.   Still there the next day, she has turned her blunt red beak to the wall.   We talk to neighbours about red mites, infections, wonder if she’s egg-bound.   We fill her bowl with cabbage-leaves, stroke her tight wings.   …

Martyrdom by Kristina Marie Darling

Published by

Martyrdom   I never imagined love as a cause for suicide. But there we were, surrounded by all of the tell-tale signs: a breadknife, a withered corsage, a white dress with some ruffles along the bottom.   The night before I sensed that something had gone terribly wrong. He told her, brushing the hair from his eyes, how her sonnets failed to turn at the volta.   Now she’s gliding along the surface of the lake. Her hands folded like the knot on a small bouquet.   So he tries and tries to wake her. He looks at her perfect wrists, nearly submerged: cold skin , a silver watch, every bracelet fastened in place.   Martyrdom is © Kristina Marie Darling, from Brushes With (Blazevox Books 2013)   I did a brief reading of Kristina Marie Darling’s Brushes With on my Open Salon blog Kristina Marie Darling Blazevox Books An Index of Women Poets