All posts filed under: New Poetry From Ireland

A Celebration of Irish women poets on Bloomsday 2020

‘Words Like Stars’ by Roisin Ní Neachtain How they flow unformed Then fix themselves like the stars Shivering and held up Worshipped And I And they Staggering and squawking Sweating and squabbling Night and day Wobbling words Singing Dust Dust Dust Corrosive mantles Wrought to a stain Stain us Stain the water to the earth Hold these shapes in stasis Their lungs sooty and quivering How they wake songs in the trenches And beg for absolution © Roisin Ní Neachtain   Roisin Ní Neachtain is an emerging Irish poet and artist with Asperger’s. Her work is held in international private collections and she runs a blog featuring monthly interviews with women artists. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry. ‘Cegenated’ by Anora Mansour Here is the dusk baby plucked for the reading of luck the tumbledown tarot rhymes menthol and black stubbed grime. Here is the child indigo whose mumbled tale is Esperanto paid for with a slap and a diva’s shriek. And she a frozen caste freak watches the blind elephant …

“Children of Agent Orange” and other poems by Asma Zulfiqar

Mythical Night Oh Night, Oh Calm and Mythical Night, Have you not seen the moon? How bright! ‘Tis not the sun but the twilight, To the earth holding tight. How soothing! Cool and warm in winter’s night, Calling it the noon, ‘‘tis all right’’ See the stars twinkling at height, A moth gently flying around a streetlight. The trees singing in a soft breeze, And their shadows dancing in sweet harmony, Tomorrow night all trees shall freeze, But tonight listen to the crickets humming their lullaby in melody.   Monster in Your House Hold on to the curtains tight, Pull down the bruised red blind, Here it comes in the night, You say it is not right. But someone has got the blight, Blue unseeing eyes that turn white, Let enter nor shine no light. Smiling, stuck in oblivion in fright. Will it all end in demise, Or will you finally escape tonight, You and your child? Stranded on an island Stranded on an island -all alone I was, Lonely I seemed -brief would’ve been …

‘If I Weren’t Afraid’ and other poems by Ella Bowler

I Don’t Talk, I Let You Talk All The Time You sit opposite me, on a broken stool, smiling with your teeth. Rain drips from the ceiling, seeps into table cracks, running onto jeans. You speak in trauma, in childhood, in breathy laughs, in old love. I show my teeth. You take up more space than me. Your voice eats me, drinks me, you put your hand on my knee and kiss me. I don’t talk, I let you talk all the time. I stand in the kitchen, staring at the window. It has swelling eyes and tangled hair and clothes from yesterday. The colour drains from my cheeks. Washes down the sink. Your voice appears behind me. It’s bigger, bigger than me. Screams over dishes at the bottom of the sink. I show my teeth. You drink me with a straw, eat me raw fill my mouth, hands and stories. I don’t talk, I let you talk all the time. I sit on your bed in the black. The moon shines in from the …

“Threads” and other poems by Sara Mullen

  Threads Not long ago we were wearing our neighbourhood’s pass-along clothes. Dirndl skirts, duffel coats, old dungarees did the rounds of our townland. Two hills away, fourth or so cousins broke in new blouses and pinafores. Their jumpers next on the boys up the road; mine for a time the following year. A spell awhile with second cousins then back in time to fit my sisters. Mothers knitting, prodding, stitching love and themselves into raiments we wore. Fibres of us in the cotton, the wool, spores of our summers, the thorns and burrs of our everyday; secrets too, silently absorbed like melting snowflakes. Knots of us trailing to school in our communal stitches and threads, hawthorn blossom on our shoulders, catchweed clamped to our backs. Gossamer skeins of blood between us, but our clothes bound us thicker. We nod now from cars as we pass on the roads we used to tramp. At the back of a press the odd little giobal discovered, unfolded, held up to a face.   Dresden Plates My fingertips …

“Distancing” and other poems by Jessamine O’Connor

  Meet me for coffee Not a cup of tea, a pint or just ‘meet me’ because I want to wait awkward at a counter beside you with the steam spluttering, the espresso machine knocking and our overdressed elbows almost touching. I want to sit opposite you at a small table that can never be small enough, absorbing the heat of your hidden knees and then eyes when I catch you watching me lick the froth off my lips. I want us to be both fiddling with our round white cups, thumbing the holes that make the handles, intense with conversation while idling our fingers around and around those curves. I want to be alone with you in a clamorous place where no one will notice what’s not being said, that’s why I say safely, meet me for coffee, instead of suggesting something else. Winner of the Poetry Ireland Butlers Café competition 2017 Limbo You visit my room, punctually as if it’s an appointment and I’m never quite ready after waiting for days. Time isn’t …