All posts filed under: Metamorphoses

“Eve Labouring for 37 Hours; the yes poem” at Levure Littéraire 12

ring Eve labouring for 37 hours; the yes poem   Great Monumental Eve in pain.   Will bring Forth a Cain / Abel Cannibal.   Exhausted stretch rather/rather/rather rather/rather/rather dilate/ than die/ yes.   So just. Sous justice. En vertu de la justice, pour :   (‘In sorrow you shall bring forth children’)   Face. Yes. Present. Yes. Hands. Yes. His image, Who conjured it?   Mouth of dry twigs The/sticks/stones Bones/buttons   a knee-piece/skulls.   There are piles of skulls pushing through my grimacing cunt,   All the pretty things, stones/bones/buttons a knee-piece/ skulls   Sous justice.   Merci !   The Burning Tree   Mineral planes impinge surface embed glares red,   deep red. A scarlet arrow burns out on my white tile, and cools.   The Burning- Years’ round brings Rothko light – Tree.   Glass stained is a bloody transparency.   Sun brings up the silica right to its surfaces, where they may glitter their red sparks.   Willow   Willow’s wooded music is hollow, dead, or veiled. She awaits yellow …

“Fintona” and other poems by Aine MacAodha

Windowless church   My church has no windows in fact it has no doors either and to be fair no altar it has no ordained minister or priest or gospels. Its in my heart, in the starry sky the moon shining over the land its the planets in our solar system the sun when it shines or not its the foods god/creator left us, berries, leaves, nuts my church has winter winds that cut to the bone and to enlighten I have the sweet smell of roses as I follow the seasons. It is bog cotton waving on an early Autumn evening as the sun bids farewell. On nights like these dark and Irish wintery the familiar trees and hills become ancient septs ready for battle with the ether. Fields caped in winter fog appear as crafted cities of the dead souls roam among the rushes in search of utopia or a home. Trees scan the darkened horizon the wind calls out names too and winter hangs around like a threat. This is my church. …

Canto 1 of Dante’s Inferno, a transversion by Peter O’Neill

Canto 1 of Dante’s Inferno   In middle-age I found myself in an obscure wood, for the straight road had long since been lost.   Christ, how hard it is for me now to even contemplate how harsh and savage a place it was, without renewing my old fears!   It is a place so bitter that death might come as a relief; But to speak of the good I will tell of the other things too that I found.   I don’t know how I can begin to describe how I entered, having been so drugged in a kind of sleep that I had long since abandoned the straight way.   But, when I reached the foot of the hill, there where the valley ends, and where my heart had been seized with such anguish,   I looked up, and I saw its shoulders dressed in the rays of the planet which directs us all to where we need to go.   Then the fear was a little quieted, which had endured well into …

‘the goldberg variations’ by Chris Murray

scene 1: the goldberg variations   a kiosk at the end of a dark train in an abandoned travelyard: two shadowmen ravel orange round about their nothing much the magician in his moth coat appears in a vaudeville flourish. your piano balcony is high above the narrow stone street, your piano plays the rescued Goldberg, plays, and plays through its charred pages, – their black edges. it is the gothic quarter men move in their coffins.  their coffins are white with crosses on (red)  their coffins are on narrow shelves of (stone) aside an archivum (shades of gray):     a shady tree     an etched stone     a skull and crossbones Scene 2 : the goldberg variations     that indestructible piano! the undestroyed Goldberg is playing (again) wending its tones above a skatepark of bullet-glass (the melody plays, yes). I see that:  the romans left their life-size eggs and urns below the city  stitches pull and sting on the underside of my elbow (pain) softening the blow here and here there is no stitching …

AND AGAMEMNON DEAD : An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry

Originally posted on Michael J. Whelan – Writer:
And Agamemnon DeadAn Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish PoetryEdited by Peter O’Neill & Walter Ruhlmann Hi everyone, I’m really happy to announce that a brand new anthology of contemporary Irish poetry has been published today (St Patrick’s Day) in Paris and I am also delighted to say that I have five poems included in the collection alongside a number of exciting and interesting new voices coming out of Ireland in the these early years of the 21st Century. And Agamemnon Dead An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry, Edited by Peter O’Neill & Walter Ruhlmann is published by Muavaise Graine (Paris 2015) – see https://www.facebook.com/mgversion2datura and among its 187 pages you will find poetry from Michael McAloran — Amos Greig — Dylan Brennan — Christine Murray — Arthur Broomfield — Peter O’ Neill — Rosita Sweetman — Michael J. Whelan — Anamaría Crowe Serrano — Peadar O’ Donoghue — Strider Marcus Jones — Colm Kearns — John Saunders — Kevin Higgins — Paul Casey…