All posts filed under: Metamorphoses

“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. …

bind; a waking book by C. Murray

Originally posted on Poethead:
They and I, O how far we have fallen! Just to burn here. ? You can now order bind via Turas Press bind cover photograph is © Christian Caller, original artwork Bound / Boundless © Salma Ahmad Caller bind (Turas Press, 2018) was launched in Dublin on October the 8th 2018. I include here, with thanks, some details from artist Salma Caller’s response to the text. This is a note of thanks and appreciation to those people who have supported the book from the outset. Liz McSkeane, at Turas Press has written an introduction here  She has taken me through the process beautifully, including a visit to the type-setter, discussions on the visual art aspect of the book, and at all times she has kept me up to speed with the process. Turas is a new press, I urge poets to explore the possibility of publishing there. Eavan Boland very kindly read the text and provided an endorsement for me, I am very grateful to her for responding to the text. I have…

‘Following the River Exe on a Wednesday Afternoon’ and other poems by Kate Garrett

Granny Woman The men leave us be; at times like this they take themselves out to the porch with pipes and tin cups. Everyone trusts the granny woman. She knows best, walks for miles when there’s a baby coming, brings her bag along. The bottles of green-smelling whiskey, fat leaves smooth and big as her hand, rolled into jars, rattle next to mud bases for the poultice. She eases the pains away, welcomes every life into the wild world, soothes swollen breasts so new young ones can feed. Now and then she brews up roots and stems for some silly girl with a problem. I’d say the men on the porch never know much about that. Some must believe they’re lucky. They never say anyhow. They don’t see what we see: the other side of the granny woman, when she doesn’t bring joy, calm and a blessing, when she carries pain in her bag, cramps, red blood, and a flat relief.   *Until the middle of the 20th century, it was typical for rural communities …

‘A Proper Poem’ and other poems by Abigail Dufresne

Big Brother Is Watching.   I wanted to push off into the crashing, Batter against bridges Be swept away by currents   You preferred the shore No sharks on shore No undertows to rip away your red tide sister   I wasn’t allowed to kayak without you, And you weren’t willing to hold all my fire Even with all that water, my flames are still reckless   We were both cradled by waves, Rocked by the sound of seagulls, Ate our sandwiches out of plastic buckets   Last month I fumbled every fiery part of me into the open mouth of a kayak for the first time in years, Held the paddle in both hands, still pretending like I know what I’m doing, Each stroke splatters lake water onto my face, it gets into my mouth, I am smiling so big   You own a kayak of your own now, Step into it with much more grace than the hot coals on my feet could ever manage, There’s a hook for your fishing rod and …

‘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 …