All posts filed under: Poet Bloggers

“Love & its Edges” and other poems by Anna Walsh

is it is it ok that i am lying on my bed not having any useful or funny thoughts is it ok that i do this is it ok that i am lying on my bed unshowered and not replying to anyone is it ok that i do this for no grand gesture but just because i can be lazy sometimes is it ok that when i don’t have to work or go, or eat i like that i don’t have to is that ok to just waste some time blinking   in times of overwhelming panic   it’s sometimes too overwhelming and sad to be alive in the world and to know that being alive is overwhelming and sad either way you have to sit down and be quiet and think, fuck, i’m so lucky i love the people that i love i’m not a total prick and i can sleep when i need to   love & its edges   i have decided to start practising assertiveness, and telling people how frustrated it …

AND AGAMEMNON DEAD : An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry

Originally posted on Michael J. Whelan – Writer:
And Agamemnon DeadAn Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish PoetryEdited by Peter O’Neill & Walter Ruhlmann Hi everyone, I’m really happy to announce that a brand new anthology of contemporary Irish poetry has been published today (St Patrick’s Day) in Paris and I am also delighted to say that I have five poems included in the collection alongside a number of exciting and interesting new voices coming out of Ireland in the these early years of the 21st Century. And Agamemnon Dead An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry, Edited by Peter O’Neill & Walter Ruhlmann is published by Muavaise Graine (Paris 2015) – see https://www.facebook.com/mgversion2datura and among its 187 pages you will find poetry from Michael McAloran — Amos Greig — Dylan Brennan — Christine Murray — Arthur Broomfield — Peter O’ Neill — Rosita Sweetman — Michael J. Whelan — Anamaría Crowe Serrano — Peadar O’ Donoghue — Strider Marcus Jones — Colm Kearns — John Saunders — Kevin Higgins — Paul Casey…

‘Bees and The Authorities’ by Dave Lordan

Solinus, on the authority of Camden, incontrovertibly declares that there are no bees in Ireland. Keating impugns both Camden and Solinus stating Such is the quantity of bees, that they are found not only in hives, but even in the trunks of trees, and in holes in the ground.   Modomnoc the beekeeper, who was with St David in Wales, was followed to Ireland by an adoring swarm of bees.   Writing in the 8th century, Bede the so-called Venerable opines Hibernia … et salubritate ac serenitate aerum … Diues lactis ac mellis insula … Or, so Google tells us, Ireland has a fine climate, and is a land rich in milk and honey.   In 1920 Benedictine Brother Adam hybridized the Buckfast Bee. According to The Economist in 1996 Brother Adam was unsurpassed as a breeder of bees. He talked to them, he stroked them. He brought to the hives a calmness that, according to who saw him work, the sensitive bees responded to.   The Buckfast Bee – Brother Adam’s supreme though far …

Sequences — (After Francis Bacon) by Michael McAloran

Sequences — (After Francis Bacon)   2…meat unto collapse/ stead lapse/ the lung’s abort in headless barrage the head is/ traces the/ meat’s sarcophagus is the light surrounding/ the forms that bind the subject-object/being in this from onset’s claim/ the stripping down of/ in gradual of irreversible/ meat does not climb it cannot/ it/ blind limit of/ in/ in conflict there its sense fed to the/ nausea all in the face of/ the sunken eye divulged of meat/ the meat that is the figure’s construct/ gallowing from bone/ opulent the sickness-pity for/from unsung/ carved out of/movement through nothing the flesh/ clamouring/ cascading yet inward and then yet none/ the laughter of the meat is silent/ the its’ cajole/ meat’s blood spills out of vacuum presence/ meat is not void the head is void in conflict there the meat devoid of/ un-sound…   3…the piss/ cum/ shit of celebratory nothing/ the ruptured meat weeps from the skin’s bind/ bound upon as if it/ or/ in that/ celebratory excavations before the foot of none/ meat’s saving graces …

‘The House of Altogether Nothing’ & Other poems by Jan Sand

The House of Altogether Nothing The countryside in which it stands Is broken with large jagged rocks. Its trees are dark, from northern lands, Whose branches scratch the sky; boney bough knocks One against the other. Cold winds finger through Odd strands of captured human hair, Torn newspaper strips look as if they grew Amongst the leaves to bleakly declare Of violence and despair. Black groves smell Of damp decay. They display white fungoid growth Through which black insects grope, explore a shell Deserted by a snail that caps its glowing trail. One is loathe To venture near this place of threats But winding through dead leaves, broken rubble Is the path where stumble those, full of regrets, Replete with fears, burdened with trouble, Pass to reach the house. Its peaks and walls Assault the sky like a cataclysmic scream, Intertwined grotesqueries that captures and enthralls Those destined to drop into its dream. The weary travelers approach in single file, one by one, Trudge to the door which swings open wide. They know their journey’s …