All posts filed under: New Poetry

“While girls my age were toddling in heels” and other poems by Ruth Elwood

There’s no place like…   In the life God never bestowed my home would be more than a crate residing on the side of the road it’s with you and her puppy, running for treats not you judging me alone on the concrete.   An age has passed; left broken by your mum you look at me now, drunken scum never knowing I could have been your father.   Your first hero taught you to read, write push you on the swing   but she didn’t want me or the ring.   While girls my age were toddling in heels   My mind drifting elsewhere – like on saving for my own set of wheels scanning milk and jam by day, it was the nights that sent cash my way. promo and waitress for “Al’s Betting Joint” “Come to Al’s bring your pals” or “ Would you like some ice?” “interested in rolling the dice?”   Shop money simple stable, Al ‘s nightly, radical all under the table.   A moral battle in my mind, …

“Kafes” (The Cage) and other poems by Müesser Yeniay

Carvansarai of Night Tonight here should be dance of words -in the carvansarai of your glory- tonight I am as joyful as the grasses that saw the sun and full with the existence of my dream.   Kafes (The Cage) Like a bird looking for its cage, I am flying around time In my chest, human voices… Then an army of ants dissolving -an ant is eating another- They call it a proverb as they pound on the country   Menstruation Postfeminismus Silence becomes word drop by drop I am a woman, a poet in this nothingness that batters my body egg that leaves my womb every month has a legend in my body it has a trace my womenhood my Achilles toe my dog that barks every month a man can’t be a poet a man can be a pen for a poet Kafes (The Cage) and other poems are © Müesser Yeniay, translated by the poet. MÜESSER YENİAY was born in İzmir, 1984; she graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language …

“Blackjack” a bilingual volume of twenty contemporary Irish poets published by Singur Publishing

Blackjack; A Contemporary Volume of Irish Poetry (Singur Publishing, 2016) Cover painted by Sorin Anca Coordinated by Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu The twenty Irish poets translated into Romanian for this volume are: Afric McGlinchey, Billy Ramsell, Breda Wall Ryan, Christine Murray, Damian Smyth, David Butler, Dean Browne, Edward O’Dwyer, Eileen Sheehan, Eleanor Hooker, Eugene O’Connell, John W. Sexton, Leeanne Quinn, Maeve O’Sullivan, Mary O’Donnell, Nessa O’Mahony, Noel Duffy, Paul Casey, and Roisin Kelly.   The Blackjack translators are: Dr. Isabel Lazãr, Maria Liana Chibacu, Margento, Elena Daniela Radu, Mãdãlina Dãncus, Mihaela Ionitã, and Oana Lungu. I would like to thank Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu for including my poems, Delicate, Pretty Useless Things and Descent From Croagh Patrick in this edition. Thank you for a lovely launch evening, and I would like to expand the Index at Poethead to include more Romanian poets. The online edition of Blackjack. Revisita – Itaca  

From “Parvit of Agelast” and other poems by Máighréad Medbh

  From Parvit of Agelast (Verse Fantasy, to be published by Arlen House in 2016. The poems below are aspects of the ‘real’ world.) ‘Your face is ridiculous: O. . . . . leeeeee ugly🙂❤ / thanks, sure i know !’ :L’ – Ciara Pugsley, ask.fm net whn th little lite shinin frm abve doesnt n younguns mad fr luv r spected 2 b home thumbs go drum on magic pads n open windows so they travel in thr dreambots huntin souls they go weft upon th crystal warp unshuttled hookin up witout a plan 2 build a planet trances risin tru th base n snare of ask n tell wot u c is wot u feel n wot u feels rite tho snot a total giggle when th trolls r out —no1 knows th cause like with any freakin demic— bitch please u aint jesus wots wit all the posin howd u like my cock up ur ass, u cross-eyed ho som1 feelin tiny in the sprawlin fabric hauls back in2 her drum for a …

“Cuween Chambered Cairn” and other poems by Tim Miller

Cuween Chambered Cairn   I should go on my hands and knees to you, you farmers from five thousand years ago. Even though your skulls are no longer here or the small skulls of your two dozen dogs, in retrospect I realize how wise I was, dipping in and out of your dark —the familiar main chamber and three rooms— to never pause in all my picture-taking to never stop and extinguish the light to have found you at the end of the day, so that we were tired and a bit rushed. Something like the terror at what went on here would have overwhelmed me in the moment, the seriousness of generations which I only became aware of later: like an ancient fireplace still smudged with smoke, our shoulders were soiled from the gloom on your hands.   Horses on Orkney   Horses curled in the flaming spiral of sleep, the huge immensity of their bodies   belied by the blankets they wear, or the tight scroll they twist themselves into on the ground, …