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Poetry: Bilbao by Frances Holloway

Bilbao   Here we go merrily playing coffin games again the dead will out Have you seen the glass furnaces of Bilbao? How pretty in the sky at night those hypnotising spumes of purple green and blue but oh how putrid her river   How many times have we buried her now? and each times she acquiesces the guest of honour at a pleasant gathering The sisters always present and apparently in league inventing new party games making speeches and all the cleaning up to be done after   With those sunken Spanish eyes still-lidded she watches over her own funeral and all the grief that should accompany these occasions these goings on has been dispatched to some other place and all the love I feel for her takes a different face   Bilbao, queen of the industrial age subsided into decadence and crime El Ayuntamiento is trying but do the dead ever really walk again?   She should have been queen of a much nicer family our lives might have resolved splendidly then around …

Review: Dispersal by Frances Holloway

  Dispersal By Frances Holloway   The clouds roll up in dairy scoops the anvil and the tower blowflies die their tiny deaths and thirsty gums shed flowers the silence falls, no magpie calls and then it moves-     the whisper wind to rattling applause   Dispersal is © Frances Holloway      Pomonal Publishing, 2014 Frances Holloway is a poet storyteller whose work is wry and full to bursting with ideas. Pomonal Publishing have done well in snaring the woman and bringing her work out. Holloway’s books capture a universe, they are almost nourishing. I say this as a reader who seeks visualism and colour in her poems. I look for intensity and light in a poem, I do not care if the light is dark or jewel-like,   Bilbao   Here we go merrily playing coffin games again the dead will out Have you seen the glass furnaces of Bilbao? How pretty in the sky at night those hypnotising spumes of purple green and blue but oh how putrid her river   How many times have we …

A note from Olivia Guest at Jonathan Clowes Ltd.

Doris Lessing died a matter of days after I had received permission to carry some of the poems from her Fourteen Poems on this blog indefinitely. I had put up the following note and message and see no reason to remove it. I am happy that I have carried her work for a few years.  I wrote a brief tribute to Lessing’s writing and influence on my writing life here.   Dear Christine We’d be delighted for you to host the poems for longer especially if you’re getting such good reactions. Doris Lessing was never very keen on her poetry and didn’t think it was any good so I doubt we will see a re-issue but at least this way, they are available in an alternative form.   Many thanks and best wishes   Olivia Poems by Doris Lessing Index of Women poets Author and Poet Doris Lessing Open Salon

Poems by Doris Lessing.

Fable When I look back I seem to remember singing. Yet it was always silent in that long warm room. Impenetrable , those walls , we thought, Dark with ancient shields.  The light Shone on the head of a girl or young limbs Spread carelessly. And the low voices Rose in the silence and were lost as in water. Yet, for all it was quiet and warm as a hand, If one of us drew the curtains A threaded rain blew carelessly outside. Sometimes a wind crept, swaying the flames, And set shadows crouching on the walls, Or a wolf howled in the wide night outside, And feeling our flesh chilled we drew together. But for a while the dance went on – That is how it seems to me now: Slow forms moving calm through Pools of light like gold net on the floor. It might have gone on, dream-like, for ever. But between one year and the next – a new wind blew ? The rain rotted the walls at last ? Wolves’ …

the moth

 the moth, arts and literature magazine The moth, arts and literature magazine is linked at the end of this short introductory. I picked up my copy at the newsagent at Easons in Heuston station. It proved a very popular read on holiday and I barely got my hands on it. I wondered whether I should just link a poem or mention the art, but like all good magazines, it is how the whole is edited, rather than the plucking from it of  tidbits or tasters that makes it work as a publication. Poems are by Daragh Breen, Paul Keenan, Mairéad Donnellan ,Tishani Doshi , Evan Costigan, Bernard O Donoghue, Helena Nolan, Lorraine Mariner, Peter Fallon and Jessica Traynor.More poems are by Rebecca O Connor, Richard W. Halperin , Andrew Elliot and Niamh Boyce. The magazine is replete with limpid images by Ralph Kiggell, Bill Griffin, Nathalie Lete and Theresa Ruschan. Short fiction, Interviews, and a Shane Connaughton play also form the body of the magazine. Ember by Rebecca O Connor. The sky is the white smoke of a quenched fire, and his heart is loose, poor George. Peppa says he must stay in …