All posts filed under: Art

Poems from “Strange Country” by Kimberly Campanello

These poems were first published by Tears in The Fence and are © Kimberly Campanello Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana. She now lives in Dublin and London. She was the featured poet in the Summer 2010 issue of The Stinging Fly, and her pamphlet Spinning Cities was published by Wurm Press in 2011 . Her poems have appeared in magazines in the US, UK, and Ireland, including  nthposition , Burning Bush II, Abridged , and The Irish Left Review . Her books are Consent published by Doire Press, and Strange Country Published by Penny Dreadful (2015) ZimZalla will publish MOTHERBABYHOME, a book of conceptual poetry in 2016.   Strange Country can be bought from Penny Dreadful Publications Sanctus by Kimberly Campanello We Protect The Weak by Kimberly Campanello

Honour the women of Irish Theatre

I very rarely add petitions on Poethead, but in the case of The Abbey Theatre’s baffling exclusion of women artists from the 1916-2016 Centenary I am willing to make an exception for a number of days. The issue of authority in the literary arts has always been problematic in Ireland. In poetry, in literature, and now in theatre it is usual for exclusions to occur. That exclusion is hurtful, demeaning and abusive is too much for me. That I saw my heroine Olwen Fouéré holding up a bit of paper calling for parity of esteem this morning has really angered me. They should be throwing roses at her feet. The idea that a skewed exclusionary narrative represents the intellectual and creative development of the idea of ‘State’ is not on. It is not acceptable. Eavan Boland referred to the absence of women artists in the canon as a ‘suppressed narrative’, there are too many fine Irish women artists for this type of exclusion to manifest at critical junctures in state celebratory events, in this instance …

‘Janus- His Mistress Responds’ and other poems by Peter O’Neill

Kitchen Maid with the Supper at Emmaus, by Diego Velasquez (1617-1618) For Máire Holmes Through the serving hatch, or silent butler, The Christ is seen at the moment of revelation, While the maid, in the foreground, averts her eyes From the immediate task at hand. The bowl, which is falling from the table, Like a globe, and which has just startled her Is certainly for mixing the ingredients; As the garlic lying temptingly to her side would testify. With it, no doubt, the contents of the mortar; Pepper and the ‘fine spice’ to add to her Dobladura De Carnero – Hercules being Mythologised in the toasted hazelnuts. Circumnavigating the room, bread breaks to thunder clap, And the bowl erupts at the announcement of the returning of the lamb. Dies Solis… An unseen yellow dwarf, over one million KMs In diameter, transforming 620 million mega tons Of hydrogen into helium per second, in a process Of thermo nuclear fusion, generates luminance, Which is transported upon solar winds, Taking eight minutes and sixteen seconds to touch The …

‘Blackbird’ and other poems by Imogen Forster

Testudo   A bone-hard carapace, a shell cast on a hot shore, emptied by the labour of leaving the nurturing sea, scraping broad ribbons up the sand’s glassy slope .   Gasping, digging a damp hole, she lays round, sticky eggs, a hundred leathery balls. Then spent, noon-dried, she dies, picked clean by quick scavengers.   Her hatchlings flail and scuttle towards the sea, led by the gazing moon, their plates small patterned purses, hardened in the rich sea-soup into a vaulted chamber built to the blueprints of this old architecture.   Published in Visual Verse   Blackbird   The blackbird sits, a smudge in the prickly hedge, stooped, wings and tail all downward.   I want to touch him, to feel the quick, warm shape in a cage of bare branches.   What does a bird fluffed against the cold see in his crouched stillness?   If I could grasp him by his ashy back, hold his whole breathing body in my hand   what would the soft bones tell me, the barbed primaries …

‘L’Heure Bleu’ poems by Aad de Gids and C. Murray

L’Heure Bleu a dwell in the night a, sigh. a dervish dislodged a textile, sigh it is the night it is a night on earth the hedges prematurely in bloom with almost lightning, flowers so, white and optic so,opioid a scent as some people sit on a bench and conspicuous leaves on the forestrial floor. oak moss and waterlily release pungent smells as pungent as sexual. it is the blue hour between love and war, dark mosses vessels almost for some astral war, the trail of laurel and pittosporum the navigational mappology by which we float as in, an unseen jar a headspace placed on the venezolan roraima to catch this petite star orchids’ unbelievable strong pineapplescent. as the classic perfumes however stay true to a private royaume along forgotten paths in venezuela, brazil, malaysia and italy, guerlain’s famous perfume l’heure bleue stays true to its 1912 formula….. L’Heure Bleue is © Aad de Gids . *L’Heure Bleue or ‘the bluish hour’ was created by Jacques Guerlain in 1912. The fragrance is velvety soft and romantic, …