All posts filed under: Poetry

“Eat Up” and other poems by Fiadha McLysaght

Eat Up   At home I bury my face in the crease of your elbow You cover my mouth as though quenching a flame In return, my fingernails incise the back of your hand as a gift to you coupled with a promise: I would never do that on purpose I cannot understand why you are not thankful I would be so grateful for that promise, so grateful someone had etched themselves into me   In the morning we sever ourselves on the rim of the tin can that encloses our breakfast haphazardly pried open to devour its kernel I blot my bleeding lip against my shoulder and leave a trail of watercolor stains moving down to the crease of my elbow I reach the back of my hand and realise that should you walk in it might appear as though I am purposefully applying hickeys to my body like a curious teenager   You beckon me into the kitchen once more Having forced open the can and fished out the discernible scraps of tin …

“Night Music” and other poems by Mary Shine

Lines Walk a side line, stepping at a right pace, resisting the intoxication of distasteful rhetoric. Steady the mind for the unprecedented reversal— tomorrow, a deepening unknown; a line I never thought could be, has been crossed. Illiberal States clutter of voices volume of noise a myriad of words exposed — an ugly new world If only it could be the week before all this uproar snapped at my heels like a snarling dog that wants to take me down. I might have had time to rearrange the furniture in my house. I might have set up a barrier or two at back and front doors. I might have put locks on my windows, chains on the gate – keeping the barking brute outside. I might still feel uncrushed– safe within walls of a liberal sanity. Colouring Our Way Forward Plum comes to mind, a deep down bruise. It’s taking over my walls. It’s blocking ease, bringing a swirl of losses. I sense it — out on the streets. I hear it echoed across too …

“affairs of the unsettled” and other poems by Olly Lenihan

The Robin   You show me your robin bright little bird you are gentle with him   He trusts you, dear, eats from your hand not scared in the slightest   Not as he should be not as I was you were not gentle with me   G.R.C.C. (Galway Rape Crisis Centre)   Through winding streets, I’d never seen before it didn’t feel like Galway at all more like a cardboard cut-out town   When I arrived it was silent, empty a maze of corridors identical flowery waiting rooms   A calm space, dangerous nonetheless I felt like if I fell asleep in one of those rooms they’d never find me again   I believe now that ghosts roamed those halls shells of those they’ve hurt white with nausea, I was one of them   Coming home, I caught snowflakes on my tongue pulled my stolen coat tight against the wind I felt so far from home. Still do–   I can’t tell what I am today whether I’m closer to me than I’ve ever …

microliths 240-241 by Paul Celan

Excerpts from microliths by Paul Celan translated by Pierre Joris ____________ [These are Celan’s first notes toward the conference project “On the Darkness of Poetry” which remained unfinished.] Pjoris 240 240.1 || Mysticism as wordlessness Poetry as form 241.2 The poem is inscribed as the figure of the whole language, but language remains invisible; what is actualizing itself — language — steps, as soon as it has happened, back into the realm of the possible.“Le poème,” writes Valéry, “est du langage à l’état naissant;” /“Poetry,” writes Valéry, “is language in the state of being born;”/ Language in statu nascendi, thus, language freeing itself. 241 241.1 Yesyes, not only the Geiger-, the “syllable-counters ” too, though despised by a literature that calls itself engaged, register something. ———————————— ↑ → 241.2 aesthesis is not enough; the… ;noesis is not enough; … ; what’s needed is personal presence, what’s needed is conversation; conversation and entertainment are different things; conversations are demanding, straining. 241.3 ——–——– Idea of the bracket (voicedness) syncope also the this vibrato of the words has se- …

‘Fire relies on the leaves of gum trees’ and other poems by Dominique Hecq

Originally posted on Poethead:
Hushed   Light pours down the unrelenting sky to earth ribbed and ridged with the tough stroke of Drysdale’s brush I track down words for hues and shades in books envy the skill of artist-explorers who forged new ways of seeing The cries of crows fall Through blues onto rusty ochres pulsing with raven dust This place stills my tongue ? Pulse   1   Somewhere in this night lives a light that turns in the open throat of time.  2   When the sky waits for rain birds squat in silence and longing is but one great sweeping movement that makes the earth quake. ? 3   The clock stands still in the heat, and I fear the mimicry of clichés— like a comma usurping all punctuation.   4   No, I don’t believe in the silence drying up on your lips.   5   I dream the wish that inhabits you is a space opening up a gap into the night.   6   What I write gleams like…