All posts filed under: Women Poets

“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 …

There will always be singing; an appreciation of 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. Fable is © Doris Lessing (1919-2013) Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing (1919-2013) was  a novelist, poet, and sci-fi writer. This appreciation of Doris Lessing was first published on the Women Writers, Women’s Books Site  in 2013 with thanks to Anora McGaha, and to Barbara Bos who live edited the piece at the time of writing. Thanks to Olivia Guest at Jonathan Clowes Ltd who has allowed me carry Poems by Doris Lessing here at Poethead. When a person of great age dies, there are many responses about the richness of their life and how we have been blessed by their presence for so long in our world. Yet for me there was and is profound sorrow at the loss to us of …

‘The Corner House’ and other poems by Victoria Kennefick

(I don’t know how to spell) Meningioma   I float down icy corridors. My face slips, blurs on skirting boards. Plastic tiles suck my shoes.   In the GA Ward, the flickering mouth of television hisses at blankness.   An igloo of brains, snow blocks on pillows; my eyes cast out to look for you. The German lady asks me for water.   She’s never seen you here, she says. She’s got a tumour, a hail stone in her head, frozen on an x-ray in the hall.   In the waiting room, sweat sneaks out my armpits, from behind bare knees, freezes like a smile. Sun flaunts its limbs along the wall –   my body perves to lie with it, the mad yellow. You do not come; I go out double-doors – anti-bacterial soap melts in my hands.   Sun gropes my body back to skin in the hospital garden. You are not here but you are warm.   My hands are yours, palms up. The bulbs, the bulbs are polyps too, they have …