All posts filed under: Poetry Journals

“Bookmarking The Oasis” and other poems by K. Srilata

Things I didn’t know I loved (after Nazim Hikmet) I didn’t know I loved windows so much but I do – enough to wrestle someone to the ground over them, so light can, once again, flood my eyes. I didn’t know I loved bare feet so much, or walking away on them to wherever point, my heart slung over my shoulder like a sheep-skin bag. I didn’t know I loved small islands of quiet in the middle of the day, but I do – they feel like old friends. I didn’t know I loved the idea of night descending like a tired bird or birds flying in and out of rooms and poems but I do. I didn’t know I loved so many things. Only now that I have read Hikmet, am I setting them free, one by one. from Bookmarking the Oasis(Poetrywala, 2015) Looking for Light, Sunbirds I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being. (Hafiz of Shiraz) Looking for light, sunbirds …

“Blackjack” a bilingual volume of twenty contemporary Irish poets published by Singur Publishing

Blackjack; A Contemporary Volume of Irish Poetry (Singur Publishing, 2016) Cover painted by Sorin Anca Coordinated by Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu The twenty Irish poets translated into Romanian for this volume are: Afric McGlinchey, Billy Ramsell, Breda Wall Ryan, Christine Murray, Damian Smyth, David Butler, Dean Browne, Edward O’Dwyer, Eileen Sheehan, Eleanor Hooker, Eugene O’Connell, John W. Sexton, Leeanne Quinn, Maeve O’Sullivan, Mary O’Donnell, Nessa O’Mahony, Noel Duffy, Paul Casey, and Roisin Kelly.   The Blackjack translators are: Dr. Isabel Lazãr, Maria Liana Chibacu, Margento, Elena Daniela Radu, Mãdãlina Dãncus, Mihaela Ionitã, and Oana Lungu. I would like to thank Dorina Șișu and Viorel Ploeșteanu for including my poems, Delicate, Pretty Useless Things and Descent From Croagh Patrick in this edition. Thank you for a lovely launch evening, and I would like to expand the Index at Poethead to include more Romanian poets. The online edition of Blackjack. Revisita – Itaca  

“Cuween Chambered Cairn” and other poems by Tim Miller

Cuween Chambered Cairn   I should go on my hands and knees to you, you farmers from five thousand years ago. Even though your skulls are no longer here or the small skulls of your two dozen dogs, in retrospect I realize how wise I was, dipping in and out of your dark —the familiar main chamber and three rooms— to never pause in all my picture-taking to never stop and extinguish the light to have found you at the end of the day, so that we were tired and a bit rushed. Something like the terror at what went on here would have overwhelmed me in the moment, the seriousness of generations which I only became aware of later: like an ancient fireplace still smudged with smoke, our shoulders were soiled from the gloom on your hands.   Horses on Orkney   Horses curled in the flaming spiral of sleep, the huge immensity of their bodies   belied by the blankets they wear, or the tight scroll they twist themselves into on the ground, …

Poems from “Barefoot Souls” by Maram al-Masri

Sara Daughter of Sana Age 9   Why does my father beat my mother ?   She does not know how to iron his shirts properly.   Me, when I am grown up I will iron the shirts very well.   FAÂdi Son of Sonia Age: 7   You know, Mother if the giant comes during the night to beat you, You can come sleep in my bed.   I ate up all my soup and all my spinach so that I can grow up quickly and protect you.   Salma Son of Leila Age: 12   Why don’t you go to the doctor and have him give back your smile, Mother, your lovely smile?   Samir Son of Magda Age: 13   I do not remember her face, I was very small when my father carried me off to my grandmother’s house far, far away.   My grandmother did not like the one who had brought me into the world, with every prayer she would demand that God would punish her.   She would …

“Water Memory” and other poems by Jackie Gorman

Water Memory   The bottom untouched by sunlight, heart shrinking down as though the future isn’t real. Nothing to hold on to. Musty smell of the lake, fish and forgotten hooks. Boats on the horizon. Just the water before thought. My hook snagged in the want of this world. A silent urge to be like water, flowing yet strong enough to hold a ship. I draw a fish in my notebook.   The Hare   Barney stopped the mower and looked down. Full-grown, it was twitching in its soft fur. I twitched when he mumbled “kinder to kill it.”   With a mossy stone, he crushed it. Its liquid eyes and long ears stayed with me for weeks.   I dreamt of it dancing in the callow, when the moon was out. Threading the faint light between dusk and dawn, thresholds of transition.   Barney limped, next time I saw him climb out of the tractor.   The Hedgehog   My father lifted him up on a spade and put him down in the back …