From Parvit of Agelast
(Verse Fantasy, to be published by Arlen House in 2016. The poems below are aspects of the ‘real’ world.)
‘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 wit a reel hank o rope
‘…the body of Wafa became shrapnel that eliminated despair and aroused hope.’ – Adel Sadew
The Key to Paradise
You will be snatched back from the place of no landmark,
You will regain the unrivalled kingdom of your source,
Your lover will adore you under the great tree, and there
Best of all, you will be thought wise, not inessential.
Sleep is the only escape I have. When I don’t dare think, I dare to dream.’ – Jaycee Dugard
Each autumn, in Lake Tahoe, El Dorado county, CA,
that some unabused women sport as symbols of perhaps love.
Jaycee’s eleven were a tiny tint to that time spread,
That darkened in the backyard in the small shed where sleep
A pine can last a thousand years, an eye much less; Jaycee eighteen
You are alone in what they would call a new life. What they don’t know is that for you
Seeking maybe nothing, but in that mode, hiatus behind and before. It has seemed true
Entirely it might seem, but like minerals that leave a trace in water, small events make change.
Woven into your consciousness now like most of your clothes, but you wore this slinky to a
Flaunting was your wont in a sub-chador sort of way. Exclusivity was the bait, the prospect of
Back to where you sat huddled in a lone hut by a struggling fire, watching the small yellow flame
Grace was a false thing, you said, being rustic. But many thought you walked like a careless queen.
Indifferently endowed, you thought you were, and hardly cared, except for the faint sense
Showering in what was given, you might have made some plans, not waited for a suitor to tear
climacteric in the extreme
the room darkens. foetal faces draw spotlights from the dense matrix. she kneels. not a whimper but centrifugal quake and strain. ovular potentials huddle in lines for stringing crowded and frozen onto a tight choke. she hugs her shoulders, surrogate, unconsoled, and a creature leaps out, trailing chains, snarls and spits, goes surfing the tidal walls. he will not come again to her bucking bounty, her bawdy talk, her raucous primitive yells; she will not be the bright-haired goddess of the barstool, fabled and revered in ten parched villages. hail of the ripped legend falls in blades, a thing of flesh flames in the mouth of the monster and she recalls a hard prophesy told in the spring grass. lincolns rev on the melting brick informants crouch in a lonely copse and beg for mercy in the torture room the air sparks and yellows black seeps into old pictures and the girl with the lank dead hair creeps blindly from the screen. she probes her body and finds a silent blowhole. her fingers return a thousand red messages that pool and brindle in the cradle of her palms. if she screams she doesn’t know, but colours curry the weather pumpkin, desert and vulva, lunatic yellow, bum-in-the-gutter green. she crashes, glass and glint flinging themselves too, watches her eyes picked to the veined bone. girl, crook and goblet smithered on the lizard- dark floor.
(from ‘the second of april’)
I walk. Where is home except in repeated kisses of foot and ground. I am having affairs. With, for one, the bonded pavement, complicit as a slice of river. I glide on ice, step lightly on the unreflecting glass panel of a foyer floor. Nakedness is rare. I don’t tell how I used to take off my shoes and mesh my toes with sand. But even that was a skim. I slyly stepped on a rock and, recalcitrant, took off. I pause at running water and watch its inscrutable fingers take sun to rock in a work of art, then abandon it, dissatisfied. Among a tree I become a stretch of soil and burnt grass and harden. There are always tears. They seem to come from outside and wash me down until, like ivy, I am again rambling. On a tarred path my jaw is jolted by hard, inexplicable haste. My ankles wound each other. I bleed and wonder if I should spancel myself to slow. There are creatures who only pace the one field. Even a hobbled route finds knowledge. I look at my feet and don’t know them. Too long with my eyes on a misted goal has cost me my body. Happenings are always outside. Strange, when I see no walls. Where is the place of occurrence? I thought life was movement. Coming to gravel I have less ground and that brings thoughts of release. Water is too deep and I fear high places. To walk is the freest I can do and I wipe my tracks. What will pass is the breeze of a small body, non-native, a light touch on a puzzled cheek.
Máighréad Medbh was born in County Limerick. She has six published poetry collections, and a prose work, Savage Solitude: Reflections of a Reluctant Loner, was published by Dedalus Press in 2013. Since her first collection, The Making of a Pagan, in 1990, she has become widely known as a performance poet. She likes to explore themes, which led her to write a sequence on the famine, Tenant, published by Salmon Press, and a sequence inspired by astrology, Twelve Beds for the Dreamer, published by Arlen House. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, and has been translated into German and Galician. She has performed widely, in Europe and America as well as Ireland, and on the broadcast media. Máighréad has written three novels and a fantasy sequence for children. The novels are online as ebooks. She has also written for radio, and publishes a monthly blog/essay on her website. A verse fantasy, Parvit of Agelast, is to be published by Arlen House in 2016.