All posts filed under: Alpha sites for women poets

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“The Wind of the World” & other poems by Müesser Yeniay

The Wind of the World For my grandmother you are under the earth I am on the earth with your body that is tired of carrying the wind of this world -a stone in the middle of my heart has been rolling without stop- I don’t know where you have gone the only thing which is clear is that you are not here The Phenomenology of Writing Now you are an empty page inviting writing –maybe- because of lust just not ready -your call is on my mind for quite a while- call me call me the flow of ink is a remedy for my wounds Illness You hit me like you were punching the wall woman isn’t your cave in which whenever you like you can lie down you can’t climb over her like a squirrel. not of his nectar but of his pee he lets inside he loves like he shakes a tree manhood is a serious illness Rajm Outside is night inside is separation this must be the last day of the …

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SCA/OPES – by Nicole Peyrafitte

SCA/OPES   Tidepools Westwing Lake Palourde           Tide Pools Encinitas, California, October 2013   Re-visiting Encinitas California & measuring the past:  “how to measure such distances how to count such measures” sz PJ   in step with Pacific ocean memories’ ebb & flow tide-pools of hardy organisms cast reflection but what measure measures the past? remains? newbies? Anthopleura elegantissima? I too stretch & clone myself wear a shrapnel shell camouflage practice both sexual & asexual reproduction temporarily attached to immersed objects Pollicipes polymerus? our peduncle is plump short edible attached to a rock beaten by the waves coping with flux & reflux anemones, goose barnacles pelagic witnesses symbiotic walk on provisory bottom where onlookers mirror life of constant changes shared illusion with sardines & mackerel the alternate rhythmic condition back & fro movement decline & renewal  a mighty fear a sounded fear a good fear in a rare intertidal zone mussels prey on barnacle larvae Revoir Encinitas, Californie  & mesurer le passé: “comment mesurer de telles distances  comment compter de telles mesures” …

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 …

‘I wanted to tell you, but there was no time’ and other poems by Csilla Toldy

Kitchen   With hot chilli in my eyes I read between the lines, a coded message of noises: A child’s scream sheathed in wind blasts,   gashes through the cracks. The mandalay porcelain clock, riveting, ticks between my shoulder blades. I carry my life like a snail.   The fridge sighs, a boiler roars into motion, it broils the oil of the seas and heats – my place, the kitchen at dawn.   Clouds scrub the stratosphere with desert sand; a mad dog, stuck in fear, just shrills. The river at the bottom of our glen, shushing its song, cushions our senses.   In my body’s kitchen the heart spins unrelenting. Organs send impulses talking to each other. “Thanks for the parcel, we enjoyed the food.”   The universe of enzymes awakens, matter is transformed, vibrations vocalise. My body is gauze, from Gaza, letting through the particles of light – staunch at covering the wounds, so absorbent.   Beyond its wonders I remember last night’s cosmic dance at this table, our conversation about intelligence and …

“Fintona” and other poems by Aine MacAodha

Windowless church   My church has no windows in fact it has no doors either and to be fair no altar it has no ordained minister or priest or gospels. Its in my heart, in the starry sky the moon shining over the land its the planets in our solar system the sun when it shines or not its the foods god/creator left us, berries, leaves, nuts my church has winter winds that cut to the bone and to enlighten I have the sweet smell of roses as I follow the seasons. It is bog cotton waving on an early Autumn evening as the sun bids farewell. On nights like these dark and Irish wintery the familiar trees and hills become ancient septs ready for battle with the ether. Fields caped in winter fog appear as crafted cities of the dead souls roam among the rushes in search of utopia or a home. Trees scan the darkened horizon the wind calls out names too and winter hangs around like a threat. This is my church. …