All posts filed under: New Poetry From Ireland

“Flaxen Sheaf” and other poems by Laura Scanlon

Flaxen Sheaf Softly winnowing, shifting neat Deftly yielding seed from sheath, Sifting cleft wheat from weed, Sweeping sleeves bereft of seed Wielding fleets of sickle o’er Nimbly threshing flaxen plant, Cloven seams unwoven—spent, Shafts of sheafs—swiftly rent The chaffing teeth, The shearing tooth, The shaven chaff, The grieving root.   The Echo The echo resonates— confirmation you are alone, Borne along with contractions are pitches and tone. Giving breath to life is labour— breath pregnant with sound, –collected in thought, –delivered with care, –spoken aloud. The birth of words weighty, born into new air profound, the echo will perish, the meaning resound.   Sentiment as Sediment Gloomy Tuesday sits thickly like a pot of glue, thick and almost solid, —almost set Old Monday like forgotten honey rests, —Separate, The dregs lay, Heavy at the bottom of the thick glass Tuesday, a blue day.   Flaxen Sheaf and other poems are © Laura Scanlon Laura Scanlon has recently just completed an MA in Gender, Sexuality and Culture at UCD. Her dissertation focused on social media and the …

Fragmenting…defragmenting… by Breda Wall Ryan

(i) Woman, Fragmenting Out of reach of Bach’s Rescue Remedy, she free-falls through 2, 1, G to the basement. Wifemask says she’s fine, hides behind her Prozac smile, offers cake and tea, nods and nods. Wearing her disguise, she lies While chemicals scramble signals, sparks refuse synaptic gaps, the machine malfunctions, cables snap, she swallows despair, takes what’s on offer for toxic sorrow, peels her skin down to the raw child at the core of her unhinged matryoshka. Things can only get worse if nobody Zolofts her back to the surface. She tries to grip the creature—is it she?— sinking through air, land, water, submerging, seabedding. (ii) Woman, Defragmenting She searches for handholds inside her head, climbs her hair through a blizzard on the north slope. Choking on terrors of high unguarded places, she fights the urge to step off into nothing, give in to gravity, plunge through the sea-skin, then fly, half-cormorant, down to oblivion’s seabed. Spiralling riptides draw her under, she rides an undertow down, down where dolphins drown, stars nail the lid …

“Muiris” and other poems by Victoria Cosgrove

Killaclug IV I sat in a river in the land of the bad faeries up the country somewhere in County Cork When I dove in, the cold water stung my skin like an angry wasp— or a punishing whip— before settling me into it’s cool embrace. Calm. I tried to swim but the river bed is too shallow; filled with silt and stones and the bodies of warring brothers and changeling babies that washed in during the winter storms. Shallow graves in a shallow riverbed in the land of the Bad Faeries. When the river speaks it tells me the secrets the locals keep; but you have to listen. No one listens anymore. I sit on the bed of the brothers and the changeling babies and the water is cold and the breeze is sharp and the river speaks.   Muiris I am not a poet; words do not flow freely from my brain to a pen to a page. I am not a poet. My vocabulary is academic and varied, but my words arrange …

‘Saturnian Girls’ and other poems by Anora Mansour

Saturnian Girls Orbit of cramped pantaloons you offered painted blood as an apology my love. And I take it in turns to disavow the tureen of your torment — your stone soup its coagulated colours seared by Farsi tea and a spoonful of breast milk. You often fantasise about my forest path cries amongst the de-coupled tombs where the travellers sleep and porcelain panthers creep. Some womenfolk are screws to their kin  Guards grasping for that infinite love.  The needle that weaves time. Wicked you made me weep over identity papers lost and then I knew you’d become another Him.  One of the happenstance  patsies of pain. Greedy confessors whose tittle are a fiddle from the hush city streets. Their fistula make you say Aha. I must shake the rack this bacchanal ruin  your Thanksgiving banquet  for the baying peasants. Beware the Saturnian sea-girls clutching sharp pink conch behind their backs, Their chosen weapon of defence.   Detroit Waters I’ll soon be free yes, restless me. Glass holding up honky tonk hells- Leaden water cities …

‘Angel on High’ and other poems by Aoife Read

Angel On High   An angel came to me today, small and full of memories a hodgepodge of worn paint, and yellowed glue chipped on her edges and thick with the scent of my youth. Imperfect, old, barely there. You promised her to me when I was as small as her. Imperfect, young, barely there. You said to me, “When I die, you can have this angel, and she will always look after you, even when I’m not around anymore, to do it myself.” It took more than the two years since your death for her to find her way to me but today she finally found me. I’ve placed her somewhere high. Given her pride of place amongst childhood trinkets, things that I can’t bring myself to part with remnants of my smallness. top shelf, where all the best stuff is. She’s surrounded by gold now, real gold. The gold that grazed your weary flesh as you breathed your last. Rested on your pulse as you passed from one void to the next. The …