All posts filed under: Gardening

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

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 …

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí   I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana   ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas, líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn   lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh   tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu. Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am   caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht   ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil, ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,   gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim   agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn, mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,   ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne. Níl éinne ann.   Rainforest   In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster on finding …

“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 …