All posts filed under: Poetry Journals

Poems from “Off Duty” by Katie Donovan

Wedding   “Hasty,” the judge mocked until he read the letter from the consultant, his jaded face changing to pity. We got the green light then, to marry in a hurry.   We turned up in our jeans and limped through the ceremony – upsetting the officiating lady, determined to make this a special occasion.   Outside the registry office we inked a shadow on the next couple: the bride, glowing in her plumage, her robust young groom, their flower girls fidgeting.   My brother and his wife had used their lunch hour to be our witnesses. They went back to work, and my new spouse rode off on his bike: the big triumph that, with six months to live, he could still cycle.   I had to collect our children – the paltry nuptials would have been disappointing – no frocks, no fun – just this boring signing thing, and so I kept it secret, left them with Gran.   I sloped off to the train. It was bright, a May day, and I …

‘Moving Like Anemones’ and other poems by Lorna Shaugnessy

Crystal   The blower adds breath to heat, turns and blows within the mould until he finds precise form. Molten glass vibrates. It takes ten years to learn how deep you can cut before the glass shatters, how deep you have to go to catch the light. Mistakes pile up waiting for the furnace, a second chance, instability anchored by the weight of lead.   Río Tinto   We cannot enter the Roman graveyard. The gates are padlocked and chained so we press our faces to the wire, squint at the skewed angles of mossed stones, the departed minions of enterprise and empire. Behind us the mines, where pulleys and sidings punctuate strata of centuries-old endeavour. Rock and mineral are bared in russets and ochres too raw for peopled places. Their cratered wounds fill with water so deep you could drown there. Today is Sunday. In the high, hushed absence of trucks to rumble up the hill we try to hear beneath the wind, listen for the sound of stone, touch the injured past, its …

‘Chasing Tails’ and other poems by Layla Hehir

Beware of the Hey Man   Beware of the Hey Man, he’s lurking in the street. That hipster-hatted Hey Man, the coolest guy you’ll meet. He’s sipping on his coffee, a pained artistic soul. The only thing that this guy’s drawing is the dole. His conversation sparkles as he bums a cigarette. He’s working on a book you know, it’s just not finished yet. Beware of the Hey Man, he’s drifting through the crowd. If you keep drifting every day man, the world won’t wait around. The screenplay never written, the painting never hung. You’ve wasted years and missed the boat but hey man, it was fun. Sharon   She scurries through life like a squirrel on cocaine. Her manner is harried, her banter inane. Give her one problem, she’ll come back with twenty. Don’t ask for ideas, you know she’s got plenty.   She’s sorted the inventory nobody needed. If she stays the latest it means she’s succeeded. She feels so hard done by, why all the complaints? Will anyone tell her she belongs …

‘Delta’ and other poems by Stephanie Conn

Wie is de vrouw on de overkant?   Who is the woman on the other side? It was the only phrase that stuck in months of pre-trip conversation class.   As I struggled with the syntax, it became clear you were a natural, spending hours in the lab perfecting your grasp.   You couldn’t wait to track down a local to ask how to say I love you? Ik hou van you, you said, content with your acquisition.   You led me in the appropriate response, encouraged me to practise daily. Ik hou ook van you; all it took to keep you happy.   The towns we visited belonged to you, their guttural place names all tongue and throat; Groningen, Maastricht, Utrecht.   You strode through their stone streets listing the features of gothic churches, as I fumbled with a bi-lingual map.   (first published in the Yellow Nib)   Delta   The dilapidated hut at the sand’s edge is a trick of the light, and shadows lift to reveal a delicate arrangement of driftwood, …

Looking at how the media presented the Oxford Professor of Poetry Election for VIDA !

There is an interest for women poets in how media presents electoral processes like the recent Oxford Professor of Poetry appointment. Just as there is an interest in how media views poetry generally. “I would like to see something different at the next election. I would like to see the media discussing women poets and the benefits that they can bring to the chair, and how their role can influence emerging women poets. I feel that this can be achieved by speaking to women candidates with intelligence and not utilising them as filler material in your ossified view of what poetry is.” (VIDA)   I started Poethead as a platform that could create visibility for women poets and their translators. Poetry is primarily a process of creation, however, media often engages with poetry at the point where it has become a product, often within the published book. This convergence of media and poetry was always going to be problematic. That a lifetime of creative effort goes into a finished book or books is not recognised by …