All posts filed under: Images

“Animals are in Communion” and other poems by Polly Roberts

Animals are in Communion   I came home to find him doing nothing. Limp armed. Could do nothing. Sat on the sofa lost to the world. I have some bad news   I’ve been seeing ghosts. Birds on water.   The day before I received the news, two swans flew low over my head. Their wings thrummed like a helicopter. Eyes turned to watch the rescue vehicle, and instead saw white bellies. The sound travelled, nothing like their usual flapping, as they soared over and onto water. Returning to my boat, a shadow shifted on the river bank. A furry creature – small, sleek – edged its way through the grass, took a moment to drink, then slop, slipped in.   Animals are in communion for you. As are we, nosing each other’s armpits as we bed in for warm companionship. Because you went cold.   Though the civility of civilisation frightens me, I visit somewhere populated. A graveyard made squirrel territory. One squirrel for every gravestone. They mount lichen-covered peaks and keep lookout. They claim …

Poems written in Dublin by Sarah Chen

The Defamiliarizing Effects of Walking Around as a Passerby in Dublin City The defamiliarizing effects of walking around as a passerby in Dublin city a camera in hand and a greater inclination to look up are sweeping and various. You suspend dizzy with secrets – knowledge of red bricks and grass blades spoon-songs echoing from street to streets teal bikes intertwined in leggy daydream watching beer barrels sleep – or is this just the hangover from last night? The pink lady and the blue lady glide past the Celtic refrain but are enchanted yet same as you. The many lovers in the green are the same as the bookish man beside you is the same as the jogging woman in heels is the same as the boy feeding the seagulls is the same as the man laughing at the boy feeding the seagulls is the same as the seagulls are the same as you. Jerking back and spinning forward many times and many “sorry’s” sudden stops and the ever-present hesitance to street-cross you’re swept dizzy …

“The House of Childhood” and other poems by Ute Carson

The House of Childhood We return to the place where we first heard voices, smelled the air and tasted nourishment, where hands caressed or frightened us, where comfort was our cocoon or neglect made us shiver. The tears of harm are cold, the tears of joy warm as a lagoon. We carry the house of childhood within us, and spying through its translucent walls we keep life at a distance-or embrace it.   Ode to Water I am a nymph, I inhabit the rivers, lakes and streams, sing to the brooks, the ocean, dance to life starting within. I rise as a mermaid an aquatic creature, drown fires, quell the thirst of the earth, mix with the air. The moon is my lover, together we balance the rhythm of the tides.   Crying is a Gift I dislike sentimentality and have always thought that tears should be shed sparingly until our 8 year-old grandson complained, “I don’t like my friends to laugh when I cry. How can I be happy again if I don’t cry?” …

“Birth Mother” and Other Poems by Srilata Krishnan

Birth Mother We are standing in front of the mirror, my daughter and I, brushing our hair and being vain when I think of the doctor’s question: “What was her birth cry like?” I don’t know and never will. She is fine, or will be, I know. But looking in the mirror and into her almond eyes, I wonder what she is like – her birth mother – if she too, was once, afraid of words and of the fluttering of pigeons, if she has nicely formed arches on her feet and whether or not her eyebrows make a bow for good luck, if she is small and slender-waisted, if she is anything like my daughter, or was. Strange, but I don’t wonder at all about the father. I tug at her pony. “Amma, let’s go”, she urges into a mirror that is slowly swallowing her birth mother. Our eyes meet in that eye of a little god and she smiles the sort of smile that is like mine.   What Penelope Said to Ulysses …

“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. …