All posts filed under: Gardening

“Killruddery” by Helen Harrison

Beneath the elders Where bumble bees Lose themselves In flowering thyme; I lie down in dew-soaked ease. And dog-rose is the scent That makes my spirits rise In the kingdom of the low – Flying bird. I take comfort on the mossy soil; Last years leaves sweet; Damp In the wing-tipped breeze, To ease my mind and soothe My brow; In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight… And the worm-seeking thrushes Make a rustling sound Where life goes on Underground – Beneath the earthy mound. Killruddery is © Helen Harrison Helen Harrison was raised on the Wirral, seven miles from Liverpool, by Irish parents, and has lived most of her adult life in Co Monaghan, Ireland, where she is married with a grown-up daughter. She has had poems published in A New Ulster, North West Words, Mad Swirl, The Galway Review, The Bray Journal, and the Poethead blog. Her first collection of poetry The Last Fire was published during 2015 by Lapwing. Helen has been guest reader read at venues in Ireland including O’Bheal Poetry …

“Self Portrait as She Wolf” and other poems by Breda Wall Ryan

Self Portrait as She Wolf   You sheer away from the warm, many-tailed beast, spurn the communal dream.   Beyond the shelter of pine and fir you lope across open ground where cold scalds your lungs,   feel a soft-nosed bullet’s kiss, lick the salt wound clean, almost drown in a starry bog,   but break through its dark mirror, meet your reflection in a boutique window on a city street   among mannequins in ersatz furs, the last of your kind, or the first.   Only look back once, for a silhouette, a hungry scent. There is still time to re-trace your spoor,   answer the tribal howl. Your throat opens on one long, swooped syllable, almost a word.   The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife   (Katsushika Hokusai. The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife, woodcut c.1820.)   In the dark my fisherman shapes me, his girl-diver, to his wants, tastes his dream-geisha, inked teeth in her reddened moue, face nightingale-shit bright,   hair a lacquered bowl, camellia-oiled. I slip from his shingle-hard grip, …

‘The Goose Tree’ by Moyra Donaldson

The Goose Tree   ‘There are likewise here many birds called barnacles, which nature produces in a wonderful manner, out of her ordinary course.’ -Topographia Hibernia, Gerald of Wales   There are certain trees whereon shells grow, white-coloured, tending to russet.   Each shell contains a little living creature; like the first line of a poem, a thing   like a lace of silk delicately woven, one end of which is fastened to the shell,   and which at the other feeds into the belly of a rude mass, that in time comes   to the shape and form of a bird. When the bird is perfectly grown, the shell begins to gape.   First lace, then legs, then all comes forth until the goose hangs only by the beak.   A short space after, at full maturity, it falls into the sea, where it gathers feathers.   Those that fall onto the land perish and become nothing. A blank page. The Goose Tree is © Moyra Donaldson, from The Goose Tree (Liberties Press, 2014) Moyra …

may bell

may bell   not a rook to maycaw its mockery seats are pulled up to the maybell statuary   starling swipes up at a yellow tree laburnum is poison it sings   yellow fish are stitched into a tree tacked into the leaf and flower   the flowerpod the seed –   maybe all three: root, bloom, and seed   are stitched in.   seed   seed slopes, slews in the crystal pool   its flesh blooms to an effort at tone former desiccate, it corals the milk   sucking in meat from water’s distress   and living nonetheless–   winding in its silver thread beneath brine of flesh frond    and secret too   cells   draw in the silver thread beneath brine of flesh frond   shut in cold shut in light   a silica scar a stone embed   lit in rock deep cut in   it forms a bird graven arched   this place is unseamed   cells   draw to the frayed lifethread the flame of it is subdued to …

‘The Elm Of The Aeneid’ and ‘Spadework’ by Peter O’ Neill

The Elm of the Aeneid   After Virgil , Lines 282-295, Book VI     In the vast shadows of the Elm, Under her ancient boughs where, According to men dreams are allied to nightmare, Intricately woven into every arrow-headed leaf, There monstrous shapes and forms Become crafted by the elements, As beheld through the Light Trees, Where everyone fashions for themselves The proper demons which people their most Specific exactitude; Just as Aeneas saw, Him-self, those heady Chimera and which He pursued with wrought steel, On through the torturous waters of the Tarterean Archeron, where the roads led.   This translation of The Elm of the Aeneid, After Virgil , Lines 282-295, Book VI is © Peter O’Neill . Spadework    In memoriam   Out in the allotment, thinking and digging, And considering Heaney’s analogy Of the opened field – Immense acreage Of sovereignty to be found there   Emanating beneath the wood of his words, Their clayey, and powderish substance. And, pausing to take a breath, before I too Rake up the skeletal remains of …