All posts filed under: Nomadics

“Summer Haiku” by Maeve O’Sullivan

  summer haiku     choppy Irish Sea failing to dislodge this red starfish         poppy bed: the unopened ones as lovely as the blooms         a garden full of sunflowers swaying tall      muddy summer frogpond    no splash             reject samsara ? this wild summer river this wild path         these stone walls hemming him in too- cinnabar caterpillar         cloudy afternoon… my sweet pea flowers becoming peas     A Train Hurtles West     morning downpour- we have both dreamt about our mothers         lingering in my small bathroom… mum’s perfume         Auld Lang Syne in the background- I sign her DNR request              mother dying       a train hurtles west         death cert. incomplete   granny’s maiden name         All through the Night: this out of tune version strangely moving       …

‘Leda Revised’ and other poems by Celeste Augé

Ode More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoy’d…’ —JOHN KEATS, Ode on a Grecian Urn   You lie across my thighs as I write, my bone-warming hot water bottle, pure latex, guaranteed to delight the most discriminating women, mottle their thighs as they lie deep in their beds, pretending this rubber sack of warm water could never replace their lover.   The women of Ireland drive with you across their laps, hand-knit covers helping to keep you warm. More love, the patterns passed down from mothers and grandmothers, still enjoyed. They knit covers for each new bottle, battle the cold, inside and out.   Every woman remembers her first. I was twelve, three hours after landing in Ireland, in Granny’s front bedroom. You are the best invention after hot water on tap, and when old age hits and you warm through rheumatism— not period pains—I hope to bits I will have more to hug than my hottle (Granny’s word for hot water bottle).   Women Improve With the …

‘the goldberg variations’ by Chris Murray

scene 1: the goldberg variations   a kiosk at the end of a dark train in an abandoned travelyard: two shadowmen ravel orange round about their nothing much the magician in his moth coat appears in a vaudeville flourish. your piano balcony is high above the narrow stone street, your piano plays the rescued Goldberg, plays, and plays through its charred pages, – their black edges. it is the gothic quarter men move in their coffins.  their coffins are white with crosses on (red)  their coffins are on narrow shelves of (stone) aside an archivum (shades of gray):     a shady tree     an etched stone     a skull and crossbones Scene 2 : the goldberg variations     that indestructible piano! the undestroyed Goldberg is playing (again) wending its tones above a skatepark of bullet-glass (the melody plays, yes). I see that:  the romans left their life-size eggs and urns below the city  stitches pull and sting on the underside of my elbow (pain) softening the blow here and here there is no stitching …

intv. Kimberly Campanello at the Prague Micro Festival

  AN INTERVIEW WITH KIMBERLY CAMPANELLO BY CHRISTINA SCHNEEKLOTH SJØGAARD   Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana, and she now lives in Dublin and London. She has an MFA in Creative Writing, an MA in Gender Studies and she recently got a PhD in Creative Writing. She has written a pamphlet called Spinning Cities, which was published in 2011 by Wurm Press. She later wrote her first full-length poetry collection called Consent in 2013, published by Doire Press, and in 2015 her new collection of conceptual poetry MOTHERBABYHOME will be published by zimZalla. Also in 2015, Strange Country, her full-length poetry collection on the sheela-na-gig stone carvings will be published by The Dreadful Press. Campanello’s work is influenced by investigation of the society in Ireland from a multi-angled feministic viewpoint. Her poems are often of a highly political nature, and she seems to search for justice in an unjust society.   Questions: First of all, you have lived in different places in the United States, and now you live in Dublin and are often …

‘Nocturne for Voices One and Two’ by Christine Murray

Nocturne for Voices One and Two   Voice 1   Sea pummels shore, wind and reed knock trees. Winter trees’ wooded music is not green sapped   ‘under the Greenwood tree.’   But yet, yet but, and alone, the moon is all ?   Voice 2   Moon is not all, while the restive sea and you separate. Separated.   Silence, quiet.   Quiet, peace !   Voice 1   And sleep now ?   For, The bird skims dark waters The bird skims silver streams.   Stream encroaches on the bay, Stream sieves the sand.   Voice 2   And sleep now ?   In silence or peaceably.   The moon is all, it lights a trail.   Voice 1   It is with the voice of longing that you speak, Close your eyes that mock the moon.   Close your eyes that tremble on the reed, Close your eyes that discern the wing.   Not distance, not distance from.   Voice 2 Separated, separating.   V1 /V2   We do not in our …