All posts filed under: How Words Play

“A Guide to Feel-Good Doom” and other poems by Lisa Ardill

Dimples I am the wind that sighs at night through your bedroom window making your lovely hairs take flight. They rest against your cheek like affectionate little arms, and cling to your freckled flesh, its rosy flush their one dimpled source of life. Those could be my arms, holding fast to that imperfect reservoir into which I slip further each moment, sliding towards that gentle dip at the centre of your smooth skin. there is one on each side, To kidnap both mind and matter. The day I tumble into that tiny pool of love I will drown. and then I will float in your falling tears that follow me down whether those of sadness or joy, I will never know but either will hold me captive. Colourful Language your words are like flowers that come alive in a cold spring shooting from the ground with a gentleness that encumbers a hidden force they unearth their surroundings and mask others with their wondrous scent but sometimes their beauty is only soil deep the meaning tucked …

“Devotion” and other poems by Lani O’Hanlon

MY MOTHER’S LOVER   The occupational therapist who came to visit left an invalid toilet seat with handles in the bathroom and a gadget with a claw hand to pick up things from the floor. My mother demonstrated how they worked, rehearsing to be an old lady hobbling on arthritic feet. Until Stein arrived, the sailor she’d had an affair with thirty years before. ‘You have no idea how angry your father was.’ ‘I do. I was in the next bedroom.’ And so the Dutch man came, with flowers and still wearing her Claddagh ring. He had blue eyes and a dog called Bonny. The invalid toilet seat vanished. She made my sister go shopping for new underwear. First published in The Moth Issue 19 Winter 2014/2015 Ed, Rebecca O’ Connor BACK UP QUICK, THEY’RE HIPPIES   That was the year we drove into the commune in Cornwall. ‘Jesus Jim’ mam said, ‘back-up quick, they’re hippies.’ Through the car window, tents, row after row, flaps open, long haired men and women curled around each other …

“When The Queen Falls In love” and other poems by Ingrid Casey

Jazz in a Northern City   Amidst turmoil, paindragon carried me for nights, to see the Goth. She was in Macbeth with the artist, the room was filling with books, miniature figures, heated exchanges, we rolled downhill, to the galleries. I filled her ears with chocolate, she was beaming. Her black Halloween curls twined around doorways, illustrated our friendship. There are silences, empathy in the space, in the difference squared between floor and ceiling. On this day there was Sun Ra, at perfect pitches, head phones suspended in a whole constellation. The child inside could reach a star, listen. It was dark, melodious, soothing, and definitely love.   The Boxer Reads To Me   Sit here, I dare you, again for Sakhalin, salon moments, pore over the Poet, crease of hip cut before me like diamonds, spine coilsprung to recite. Talk to me about la Motta, the animal, warm bright rocks on me the primal the literary ones, you are coal walls lit up, it’s dark, I’m awake with you.   A Sonnet with an …

Merry Christmas 2018 Dear Poethead Readers ♥

Poetry publishing will resume in January 2019. I will be reading and responding to your submissions in the intervening period. Thank you for your emails, your queries, your support and responses over this year of 2018. As always, the site remains open and accessible. Please visit An Index Of Women Poets and Contemporary Irish Women Poets during the season.  My thanks to Salma Caller, whose wonderful artistic response to my 2018 publications graces this message, her work can be found throughout Poethead. Thanks to the many poets who submitted during 2018. Your tremendous work was an utter joy to read. Thank you for your patience in waiting for publication. I am delighted to have welcomed first-time poets, poet-translators, and work from experienced poets through this past year. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the season. The image accompanying this short post reminds me that in January, the first flowers begin appearing, something wonderful to look forward to.  (Image details) Chris Murray December 2018 Contemporary Irish Women Poets An Index Of Women Poets Recent features on Poethead  …

“English Breakfast Love Song” and other poems by Rhiannon Grant

English Breakfast Love Song   I am longing to pour out my soul to you in words which show my creativity and let off my head of steam but my soul is not so liquid it comes out in funny lumps uneven like old-fashioned sugar ready to make sure your tea is always too sweet and never sweet enough. Unengaged Concepts   Your thin God – onmithis, omnithat— is nothing beside the wildness of Goddess.   Love and suffering may have reasons but are not rational.   You say we can know about ‘chastity’ without living it.   Really?   Outside a seminar in a thick press of people could you look the right way maintain your dress just so be chaste in soul in ways you cannot describe?   You can use the word ‘God’ in a sentence.   So far, so good.   Do not presume to know what my God is like: how flowers dance for Her how Thou is there in silence how His sentences would make no sense to you. …