All posts filed under: Single Poems

A celebration of women’s poetry for International Women’s Day 2017

Featured image from “The Infinite Body Of Sensation” by Salma Caller   Salma Ahmad Caller is an artist and a hybrid of cultures and faiths. She is drawn to hybrid and ornamental forms, and to how the body expresses itself in the mind to create an embodied ‘image’. UK based, she was born in Iraq to an Egyptian father and a British mother and grew up in Nigeria and Saudi Arabia. With a background in art history and theory, medicine and pharmacology, and several years teaching cross-cultural ways of seeing via non-Western artefacts at Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, she now works as an independent artist and teacher. salma caller artists statement [PDF] “In the Glass Coffin” by Kim Myeong-sun Today, I withstood agony again, Because my life is still lingering, Trapped in scarcely visible sorrow. If my body is trapped Like the life of a dinky, dinky thing, What is with all this sorrow, this pain? Like the bygone prince, Who had loved the forbidden woman, I believed I would live if I danced in the …

“Iago’s Curse” and other poems by Liza McAlister Williams

September Tenth, 2001   Outside the store, at the sidewalk sale, the breeze lifts each dress again as the shop girl tries to smoothen them: musses the chic brown challis pleats, ruffles the flamestitch voile whose turquoise and chartreuse V’s seem borrowed from another day. Sun, when it shines on this scene, is playful, peeping between steely clouds whose sky business does not admit playfulness. The baking, lazy summer’s over – the long summer when the towers that are about to fall amidst us in ruins have so far felt and withstood only the earliest tremors of their collapse.   Serenade (after Kevin Young) Rain popping on the air conditioner like hail on a tin roof like a handful of pebbles against a window like the pinging of a car engine cooling off – you can make a story to explain being alone again on a drenching night: a hobo curled in the hay of another anonymous barn a virgin with cold feet ignoring the signal to elope a travelling salesman out of gas in …

“Killruddery” by Helen Harrison

Beneath the elders Where bumble bees Lose themselves In flowering thyme; I lie down in dew-soaked ease. And dog-rose is the scent That makes my spirits rise In the kingdom of the low – Flying bird. I take comfort on the mossy soil; Last years leaves sweet; Damp In the wing-tipped breeze, To ease my mind and soothe My brow; In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight… And the worm-seeking thrushes Make a rustling sound Where life goes on Underground – Beneath the earthy mound. Killruddery is © Helen Harrison Helen Harrison was raised on the Wirral, seven miles from Liverpool, by Irish parents, and has lived most of her adult life in Co Monaghan, Ireland, where she is married with a grown-up daughter. She has had poems published in A New Ulster, North West Words, Mad Swirl, The Galway Review, The Bray Journal, and the Poethead blog. Her first collection of poetry The Last Fire was published during 2015 by Lapwing. Helen has been guest reader read at venues in Ireland including O’Bheal Poetry …

“Treatise on Uselessness” by Kevin Higgins

Treatise on Uselessness after Rosita Boland Throughout my truly enormous life, I’ve never found a use for gypsies. When one decides to spend the night searching online for a worse deal on one’s house insurance, there’s never a gypsy about to help. Or when one advertises a vacancy for Associate Professor of English at Trinity there’s hardly ever a gypsy around to fill it. Or when the wedding of an Eritrean goatherd and his beloved is in crying need of a cruise missile, there’s never a gypsy available to press the required buttons and later tell the inquiry it was all a terrible misunderstanding. Despite millions ingested by social programmes, we’ve mostly failed to submerge gypsies in the internationally agreed system of an indecent day’s pay for a decent week’s work. Yet the state insists on making gypsies compulsory for those who’d rather never have to speak to one. What practical purpose does it serve for us to continue to try to absorb gypsies into what my late Popsicle -a one time Viceroy of Upper …

“Bow Down” at York Literary Review

Bow Down   A harrowed tree nest-ruined tangled leaf.   Its bough down, bow down   A-flowering-tree  (still it flowers)   Submarine blue is where dawn occurs  (South/South-east of here)   Dawn’s light box runs from north blue to south warm   The point between is lit-not-lit, (nor) seamed   a bas-relief.   Bow Down is from A Hierarchy of Halls and was first published in York Literary Review, Issue #1 2016   York Literary Review