All posts filed under: New Poetry

“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 …

‘Everything’ and other poems by Evelyn Moloney

1. Everything   It’s truly a chaotic thing to suddenly see   starlight, heaven and everything   in someone’s eyes   2. Sky   The sky spilled sadness into paper cups   and   lilac clouds soaked up the dreams of a thousand grey print press people   with their coffee stained sleeves, keyboard click steps and empty minds   3. Pull   I wish I could pull all the sad out of you out through your chest   I’d fill up the empty spaces with flowers   chrysanthemum cardiac tissue your whole heart plastered in every pretty petal   As if I could bandage an entire botanical garden of happy blooming in your bloodstream   4. Crash   Oh my poor whole world is crashing down in stinging purple spark explosions and salty little girl tears that I can hear the sound of each time I’ve ever wished on pastel birthday cake candles   distorted, flooding   rushing like icy water, wish wish wish   5. Dizzy   My world is always sunset and …

‘The Scarecrow Christ’ and other poems by Shirley Bell

The Scarecrow Christ The fields are flat and brown, it’s hard to think they’ll ever stand high with corn, flare with rape again this summer. For now the scarecrows lurch at crazy angles. They trail old coats and rags. Polythene bags flap around the suggestions of their shoulders. And yet the wind lifts their shoddy clothes and they are touched with magic; they always seem about to fly. It’s Sunday and I’ve taken you to Chapel. Everything is grey and earnest. There’s no incense here, though a sense of well-meaning sifts gently through the air. I don’t think I belong. It’s Lent and the sermon is all about temptation. I feel I would not pass those tests. Now I see distraction in the corner of my eyes; a painting. When I can, I take a picture on my phone. It shows me strips of cloth, snarled around an empty cross, a tenuous fabric lifting in air currents, tangled with light. Something. Nothing. Faith, elusive as a sigh. A scarecrow pinned to a stick. Leaning forwards, …