All posts filed under: New Poetry From Ireland

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí   I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana   ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas, líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn   lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh   tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu. Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am   caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht   ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil, ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,   gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim   agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn, mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,   ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne. Níl éinne ann.   Rainforest   In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster on finding …

“Rosa” and other poems by Bernadette Gallagher

Hanging #2 (Things Fall Apart) For JL As I relax in Inchydoney reading ‘Things Fall Apart’ by Chinua Achebe you encounter a real life hanging and with no time to think you scale the tree and save a man’s life. Twenty four hours later I could do nothing to save Okonkwo, only read to the end of his story. First published by HeadStuff.org as Poem of the Week on 11 November 2015; Editor – Alvy Carragher; Audio recording by the poet Shades (After ‘To Any Dead Officer’ by Siegfried Sassoon) In memoriam: J.J.J. Well, how are things in Heaven? Better than 1916 when you were born? Humans fighting humans. Are there quarrels amongst the shades? Does he who shouts loudest get heard? Have you met Robert Tressell whose book sustained you? He, who died a pauper, yet unpublished. How many others have you met who died unsung or poor? How are Rembrandt and El Greco? And how fares William Blake who was buried in an unmarked grave? Have you heard the music of Vivaldi or …

“The Suitcase” and other poems by Breda Spaight

Her Cross   When I drink, it is always 1967. The dog lies still on the frozen grass, white blades bowed under blinking crystals; the chain from its neck to the conifer muddied and knotted like a root from which it draws life. I remember it as a pup, like all the pups my father ever brought home when drunk, the milky smell of its vigorous body, fonts of sorrow in sloe-black irises. What do we have here? What is this? He produces the pup from his inside coat pocket carefully as a birth, his face at its most wounded: he could cry, vomit, or even laugh, the pup held high like a boyhood memory beyond his reach yet as close as yesterday, alcohol collapsing time like time in a fairy tale. I am tired of my father; we’re all tired of him – a continuous season of storm upon storm, calm only the calm of the eye. And so the pup ends up tied to a tree, savage; the half-moon it inhabits no larger …

“Fabric” and other poems by Kate O’Shea

Fabric Italians hunt song birds, gawping silence, decaying rope from where a small girl hung in the rubber hoop of an old tractor tyre a lifetime ago, no limits on adventure growing up to carry the fire not knowing about box files, computer monitors the prescribed texts and reading lists that deformed desire replaced it with a constabulary of deception despite all this she did not dwindle into a wife and mother the spindle of life is cruel it twists and turns – one makes the other. The brushwood burns, watchmen flock together and camp in the open. The Night Watchman Love is not real estate expansive as flood plains intimate like silt destructive and constructive it is not for those who role play or get lost in the night led astray by bright lights and flesh turrets maidens with drawn out hair beefy knights. Love is insomnia of the soul and you are always watching it is more satisfying than breathing a little call that a life? to watch over, to be there, to …

“One Has To Admire His Ability As A Poet” by Kevin Higgins

One Has To Admire His Ability As A Poet “I was struck by … his courage in speaking out to defend the memory of Charles Haughey” Vincent Woods, RTE website To defend the memory of Boris Yeltsin’s vodka bottle. To take money from both the late Benito Mussolini and, when pragmatism demanded it, those who spat on him when he was safely hanging upside down outside an Esso station. To put in the proper context of realpolitik as practised in parts of County Wexford the late Father Fortune’s harem of boys. To share a Ouija board with President Duvalier while supping rum from the skull of an infant who was always going to come to this because, in the words of W.H.Auden, ‘poetry makes fuck-all difference’. To share a roast leg with General Amin and not mind which of his enemies was being eaten. To recite even his longer poems to a musical accompaniment of Vladimir Putin twanging his jock-strap, like a rude balalaika. To roll around wrapped in the French flag with Marine Le …