All posts filed under: Women Poets

Poems from “Strange Country” by Kimberly Campanello

These poems were first published by Tears in The Fence and are © Kimberly Campanello Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana. She now lives in Dublin and London. She was the featured poet in the Summer 2010 issue of The Stinging Fly, and her pamphlet Spinning Cities was published by Wurm Press in 2011 . Her poems have appeared in magazines in the US, UK, and Ireland, including  nthposition , Burning Bush II, Abridged , and The Irish Left Review . Her books are Consent published by Doire Press, and Strange Country Published by Penny Dreadful (2015) ZimZalla will publish MOTHERBABYHOME, a book of conceptual poetry in 2016.   Strange Country can be bought from Penny Dreadful Publications Sanctus by Kimberly Campanello We Protect The Weak by Kimberly Campanello

‘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 …

“Phoenix” and other poems by Müesser Yeniay

The House of God   We landed from the house of God to the island of heart we came into being we are at the house of earth bodies are celestial   Phoenix Poeta pirata est I should be a phoenix to the peaks of my imagination I should see the tips of my horizon and introduce myself to it never I wish anything remains hidden from me since I came here to see the front and behind both of dreams and reality Woman The wind is blowing that sweeps the sand around words Everybody is calling God! I am taking myself from inside and putting it out with my hands. I am the place where human-being is less God is more. Phoenix and other poems are © Müesser Yeniay MÜESSER YENİAY was born in İzmir, 1984; she graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language and Literature. She took her M.A on Turkish Literature at Bilkent University. She has won several prizes in Turkey including Yunus Emre (2006), Homeros Attila İlhan (2007), …

A Celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2015

PEARLS AT BLACKFRIARS   For his Winter’s Tale, Master Shakespeare calls for a covered stage with the scent of candle-grease and orange-peel heavy on the air.   There must be torches to give movement to shadows and life to the statue; and for Hermione’s face – tincture of pearl, crushed.   With this bowl of dust we’ll lacquer her age, encase her in memory so only a movement of the mind might release her,   might absolve her husband’s transgression, as the jealous moon flings her light against Blackfriars slates.   Pearls At Blackfriars is © Jessica Traynor Jessica Traynor is from Dublin. Her first collection, Liffey Swim, was published by Dedalus Press in 2014. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry Ireland Review, The Raving Beauties Anthology (Bloodaxe), Other Countries: Contemporary Poets Rewiring History, If Ever You Go (2014 Dublin One City One Book), The Irish Times, Peloton (Templar Poetry), New Planet Cabaret (New Island Books), The Pickled Body, Burning Bush II, Southword, The SHOp, Wordlegs, The Moth, Poetry 24, The Stinging Fly, …

Poems from ‘Her Father’s Daughter’ by Nessa O’Mahony

Waiting Room   The rules for survival: don’t catch an eye on the first day, look away if their blank grief grazes over you.   If still here the next, permit a faint smile, a nod to a fellow traveller. But keep your space, don’t approach unless invited and only then with care.   Avoid those with a story to tell, a need to eat you alive as they rave about hands squeezed, the twitch of a closed eye.   You can’t spare a shred, a prayer; it’s dog eat dog here. The odds are too high, if somebody has to die, let the noose swing elsewhere.   Deserted Village, Achill Island   in memory of my father   A gap between showers, blue filtering half-light, so we take our chances on the slopes of Slievemore.   Those who’d called it home knew about impermanence, the reach of bog, the gaping sockets of roofs.   Hap-hazarding lazy beds, slip-slides of water pouring down the side of the mountain, we settle for the track, the safety …