The Transfiguration of the Word
Open, the sea appeared asleep.
A nun-spot on the hot little body.
I wanted to remain an object.
This and the same happened together.
Only an omitted gesture.
And the sea will no longer be immortal.
Translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Martha Satz
You are free, said the stranger.
He closed his other eyes.
It’s not even hopeless.
Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics
The bees are tough, hard to break virgins.
Butterflies. Phallic souls.
allured me but only until
I got tired of my ego.
It wedges an obstacle between us. Neither
Is he like this by nature,
He doesn’t even suspect, that I depend on him.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
penetrate me violently, savagely.
Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics; Androgen was first published in Deep Water Literary Journal 2017 February
Isadora Duncan Dancing
Like sculpture at first. Then, as if the sun rose in her, long
She whirled and whirled,
Her dance a spell
her shawl, the half circle around her,
the dancer and the dance apart…
Transcreated by Cathy Strisik and Veronica Golos based on Katalin N. Ullrich’s translation.
I don’t know what it is but very ill-
I am rotating the city on me,
Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer?
Now my features – even with the best intentions –
is Poison. For me a real poison indeed.
But what am I to do without?
Translated by Kinga Fabó
I’m not a city
I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
You’d do anything for me; right?
The dressing remains.
Yet both are men separately.
I swallow him too.
But he doesn’t. My dearest is lunatic.
the blue is drifting.
born anew with indifference:
Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics
Don’t look at the rosemary on the fridge
Abrakedabra! and a plume of white smoke
So the editor wants to know why
First published in The Stinging Fly
Seven Sugar Cubes
On 10th April, 1901, in Massachusetts, Dr. Duncan MacDougall set out to prove that the human soul had mass and was measurable. His findings concluded that the soul weighed 21 grams. When your mother phones to tell you that your father has died ten thousand miles away, visiting your emigrant brother, in a different hemisphere, in a different season, do you wonder if your father’s soul will be forever left in summer? Do you grapple with the journey home of the body of a man you have known since you were a body in your mother’s body? Does the news melt into you and cool to the image of his remains in a Tasmanian Blackwood coffin, in the body of a crate in the body of a plane? Or do you place the telephone receiver back on its cradle, take your car keys, drive the winter miles to your father’s field, where you know his horses will run to the rattle, like dice, of seven sugar cubes. first published in The Irish Times
You Have Become the Hand Rub of an Olympian
When your ashes return in a small wooden box, a brass plaque on top, there is no cord or record of attachment to anything or anyone. Somewhere a uterus is evacuating itself – a mass of patient vessels, surrendering and collapsing bereft of implantation, their futile existence spent. If we were to walk every inch of the earth or soar to a distant planet we’d be utterly sure of one thing now – we’d find nothing of you except these ashes – not your cadaver or the bony frame of your being, not the protrusion of your dental arcs. You’ve been reduced to chalky powder like the hand rub of some Olympian preparing to bar-cling. If this box should open, one accidental sneeze might spell the resurgence of your skin cells, hair follicles, a glutinous eye or a femur bone. Rewinding, back-tracking, you’ve been redacted to the nothingness of an atmosphere. (The Pickled Body)
What did I do to deserve you?
As you sleep
Rachel Coventry’s poetry has appeared in many journals including Poetry Ireland Review, The SHop, Cyphers, The Honest Ulsterman and The Stony Thursday Book. She was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series in 2014. In 2016 she won the Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust Annual Poetry Competition and was short-listed for the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award. She is currently writing a PhD on Heidegger’s poetics at NUIG. Her debut collection is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry.
I could feel
In the still
Canal Walk Home
What is it
Three lads sit on the boardwalk
Car lights are reflected in
Edged by banking sycamore leaves
A little further on
And then to gaze down the row
The red car lights more dense
For all your talk
The splendour of the curvature of the
My soul is saddening.
Take me away. No answer.
But while geographically there were many places she could have gone to.
His flinty eyes of malice recognised this.
Only her emptiness lingered
That seething chasm of nothingness
Why, the wolves of course.
Engorged breasts of black milk
The Last Day
Consumed and other poems are Gilliam Hamill.
|Originally from the village of Eglinton in Derry, Gillian Hamill has lived in Dublin for the past 12 years (intermingled with stints in Galway, Waterford and Nice). She has a BA in English Studies from Trinity College, Dublin and a MA in Journalism from NUI Galway. She is currently the editor of trade publication, ShelfLife magazine and has acted in a number of theatre productions. Gillian started writing poetry in late 2014.
⊗ Gillian’s Website