All posts filed under: Gardening

‘The Rosemary’ on Poetry File – RTÉ (Podcast)

‘The Rosemary’ She said that Aisling let her cut the sprigs. It is 3.15 p.m, it is Thursday, I am examining two rosemary sprigs their blue-green, their silver underlight. She is stripping the small base leaves from a third, tapping its heel, putting it in a glass of crystal-clear-water for planting out with the roses in October. I can taste lamb-stew with rowanberries, counting the trees– alternating Crab-apple Rowanberry         Crab -apple       Rowanberry that syncopated another’s drive— Memory insists that I stand on a bank of the River Tolka,  upstream from Socrates  and his garden of roses,  those colours we tasted– For here is the place that we committed him to memory that black water– Glas Naíon, the stream of the infants,  with petals,  with flower-heads. © C. Murray “The Rosemary” is a short poem from my forthcoming book Gold Friend (Turas Press, 2020). I recorded a version of it for Lyric FM (RTÉ) in late 2019. Thanks to Eithne Hand for recording the poems and to Evelyn Grant for broadcasting the …

“Harbour’s Mouth” and other poems by Annette Skade

Threnody I know why the sea churns. A woman gets the news, drops to the chair, floor – further, the quick in her bleeds out. She is liquid now, leaching away, this hour, this day, day-on-day. At the back of her eyes a face ebbs and flows: his lop-sided smile makes room for her touch, the tilt of his head calling drinks at the bar, wide arms swinging his kit, their young child, onto working-man shoulders. Can God breathe underwater? Each year a sacrifice: the man in blue overalls, flower-blue eyes, who loved his wife at first sight; the ready-laugh man collecting glasses in the pub in off times; the dancer bending into sound like a squall; the dare-devil larking about first night back, caught up in the dizziness of breathing; the ones who tread water, the ones who don’t know what hit them, the ones dragged down in sight of shore. All lost. They slipped from sight like water through our hands; our hands are empty of them, our mouths are empty of them, …

“The shame of our island” and other poems by Siobhán Campbell

The shame of our island is that we killed the wolf. Not just the last but the two before that. I knew a man who met a man who was the cousin removed of the great-grandson of the man who killed the third-last wolf on the island. Slit it he did, to see the steaming innards – how long they were, how tightly wound. Had it a white paw to the fore? That gene would have been recessive. Was there a black bar across the yellow eye? No time to notice its différence. Is this a wolf with its bared teeth and its lairy smell and its fetlock tipped with white? Is this wolfish?   Tone Tone says here is the other cheek, why don’t you have a go at that? Tone is when you’re giggling at a double bluff and you see someone crying. Tone is an artist dropping a Ming vase and calling that art. Tone is another artist slashing that guy’s canvas, calling him a fart. Tone is muscling up to the …

‘Fugue’ and other poems by Chelsea Dingman

British Columbia Pastoral   September: almost snow. White sheets across the sky, the fields. How strange   the frost, feral over desert hills. Sage brush caught in the cattle’s   teeth. The river cuts a swath where I am trying to tell you about grass   that presses up through the ground without urging. About merciless suns   taking our eyes. You shield your mouth as I speak. The wars I won’t admit   like dying daisies, their corpses linting the grass. In summer, we swam in the Thompson   River. In feral heat. Baptized new again. The kites of our bodies cutting   a swath through green water. But as water rises in spring, it will take you   with it. With thawed glaciers & snow. With bones we can’t make smaller   once grown. Dead trees claw at rocks on the river- bottom, swollen belly   of a child rising up like a balloon in the April sun.   (Originally published in Sugar House Review)   Accident Report: After the Baby Dies at …

‘Wild Fennel’ and other poems by Tess Barry

Raspberries I started out in western Pennsylvania hills with wild raspberry and blackberry bushes and my mother’s apple field. Bread and ripe fruit and fresh milk. My mother cleaned the carpet right off the floor. My father was a Troy Hill boy who played piano and smoked Pall Malls and drank whiskey. He won my mother in a dance contest. Who wouldn’t learn to jitterbug for a prize like her? They took a train to Cape Cod for a honeymoon and bought hats for their mothers. They sailed all the way from the Cape to ten children. My whole life has been ripe with wild fruit. All the men I’ve loved had left feet. I was innocent until I got myself a good pair of rain boots. There is no point in wondering what I’ll come to. With my first words I wrote my own path straight to New York: all night accents, brick stoops. I left there like a mad dog running free like our Dusty who got himself killed down the street, chasing …