All posts filed under: Poetry

How to Hide Unhappiness / Cum Ascundem Nefericirea by Ștefan Manasia translated by Clara Burghelea

The Miracle The red leaves struggle in the glass- angels whose name I don’t know I press them among the pages of the dead poet’s book, whose name I promise to unlearn. A little water (glittering like vodka) and their torture seems attractive to me. From the bus, I showed Estera the red tree like the one in Kim-Ki-duk’s Spring, Summer, Fall…Winter and Spring. I was afraid the driver might increase speed and she will per sempre miss the miracle. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal MIRACOLUL Frunzele rosii Rezista in paharul de sticla- Ingeri al caror nume nu-l cunosc. Le presar intre paginile cartii Poetului mort, De-al carui nume Promit sa ma dezvat. Putina apa (sticleste ca vodca) Si tortura lor imi pare Atragatoare Din autobuz i-am aratat Esterei Copacul rosu ca-n Anotimpurile lui Kim-Ki-duk. Mi-era teama ca o sa accelereze soferul iar ea va pierde per sempre miracolul. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal   Haiku My father sends off black energy also under the Moons of another planet.   HAIKU Tata emite energie neagra si sub …

“mia council casa es tu council casa” and other poems by Ali Whitelock

i am the sea that january. prestwick beach. the sea heaves. swallows herself down like cough syrup in thick slow gulps. we’d sat on this rock just two days before, both of us with our backs to the world staring out across and into the thickness. i counted a thousand and one seagulls that day watched them huddle together, balance like storks on a single orange leg the other nestled up in the warmth of their soft white bellies as they, with uncharacteristic patience, waited for the rain that would surely fall and when the wind whipped up, andrew jumped from our rock pulled his emerald green kite from his rucksack tore off down the desolate beach his kite ploughing a trench in the sand behind him, eager for the gust that would lift it to where it wanted to be and every few seconds he’d turn around and run backwards untangling cords and calling out across the increasing distance between us, ‘c’mon on ali! c’mon!’ and i heeded his call, jumped from our rock …

bind; a waking book by C. Murray

Originally posted on Poethead:
They and I, O how far we have fallen! Just to burn here. ? You can now order bind via Turas Press bind cover photograph is © Christian Caller, original artwork Bound / Boundless © Salma Ahmad Caller bind (Turas Press, 2018) was launched in Dublin on October the 8th 2018. I include here, with thanks, some details from artist Salma Caller’s response to the text. This is a note of thanks and appreciation to those people who have supported the book from the outset. Liz McSkeane, at Turas Press has written an introduction here  She has taken me through the process beautifully, including a visit to the type-setter, discussions on the visual art aspect of the book, and at all times she has kept me up to speed with the process. Turas is a new press, I urge poets to explore the possibility of publishing there. Eavan Boland very kindly read the text and provided an endorsement for me, I am very grateful to her for responding to the text. I have…

‘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, …

‘A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas’ by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Trade An assortment of crooked and straight arrows for the crest of a bulbul or a handful of sesame Uncut turquoise for juices of scorpions and glow worms A dozen poisons for an embroidered collar/ a pinch of saffron/ abalone knob Spotted eggs for knotted shoes Peacock feathers for beet sugar How much fur will buy cloves for my toothache? How many sprigs of mint/ radishes to restring your rabab? The market is spinning between us How much of us has been stolen by the ghosts of aromas? When night comes there is spinach again for the promise of quail Your dream of cake feeds on wild berries You kiss my cold shoulder I comb out the market from your hair A Glass of Tea, a View of the Atlas You give me Fez honey on Fennel cakes in a ceramic saucer because you say, to eat from this bitter clay (glazed and caressed with geometric precision), will draw me into the shapeless sob of the future. You read invasion’s epistle even in the smoothness …