All posts filed under: Women Writers

The Light Dancing” and “Lizzie” by Catherine Conlon

The Light Dancing When I close the door my father’s coat slow-dances against the dark wood. It is old, this coat, marked by many winters, labours of a lifetime done. I imagine him in the front yard screening sand for the new extension, coat collar upturned against the breeze, a cigarette ashing towards his lip. There’s a light in his eyes when I stop during play to prattle and hear him say “you’re the best woman in the house” Now coming from the Big Field, the day’s farming done, his great hands in deep pockets. Dark shoulders that bear a darkness coming, the last of the light dancing on his wet boots. (first published in Ropes 2015. Issue 23) Lizzie I had a child’s view of her, black stockinged legs without shape of calf or ankle at my grandmother’s hearth, the fire shining in her laced-up shoes. Balls of wool from an old shopping bag, and her tongue like the clappers as she looped and purled. Her needles took up the light, flew like red …

“Iago’s Curse” and other poems by Liza McAlister Williams

September Tenth, 2001   Outside the store, at the sidewalk sale, the breeze lifts each dress again as the shop girl tries to smoothen them: musses the chic brown challis pleats, ruffles the flamestitch voile whose turquoise and chartreuse V’s seem borrowed from another day. Sun, when it shines on this scene, is playful, peeping between steely clouds whose sky business does not admit playfulness. The baking, lazy summer’s over – the long summer when the towers that are about to fall amidst us in ruins have so far felt and withstood only the earliest tremors of their collapse.   Serenade (after Kevin Young) Rain popping on the air conditioner like hail on a tin roof like a handful of pebbles against a window like the pinging of a car engine cooling off – you can make a story to explain being alone again on a drenching night: a hobo curled in the hay of another anonymous barn a virgin with cold feet ignoring the signal to elope a travelling salesman out of gas in …

Alexander Cigale’s translation of Anna Akhmatova’s “Requiem”on Project Muse

  Alexander Cigale has retranslated Anna Akhmatova’s “Requiem” for Project Muse. I have been following the translation process for a while and I thought to add links here for readers of Akhmatova, including Cigale’s translations of Anna Akhmatova’s Minatures and a link to “Epilogue” from Requiem, Via Moving Poems EDIT: Alex Cigale has shared a link to his entire translation of Anna Akhmatova’s “Requiem” (Hopkins Review) for those readers who do not have a subscription to Project Muse. From The Prologue (Requiem) This isn’t me, someone else suffers. I couldn’t survive that. And what happened, May it be covered in coarse black cloth, Let them carry away the streetlights … Night. from Prologue (Requiem) by Anna Akhmatova translated by Alexander Cigale   Anna Andreyevna Gorenko better known by the pen name Anna Akhmatova was a Russian modernist poet, one of the most acclaimed writers in the Russian canon.   Akhmatova’s work ranges from short lyric poems to intricately structured cycles, such as Requiem (1935–40), her tragic masterpiece about the Stalinist terror. Her style, characterised by …

“Nurture” and other poems by Liz Quirke

Nurture   In the nine months I didn’t nourish you, I made notes, I studied the seasons for ingredients to encourage your growth. Scraps of paper, post-its hidden in case anyone would view my thoughts, pity my trivia of leaves and berries.   A mom yet not a mother, a woman yet not a woman. My preparation took place in private, not in maternity wards or hospital corridors, but in the hallways of my mind where I could put up pictures, time lines, fill cork boards with plans.   As the folic acid built your brain stem I collated ideas to stimulate it further, mapped journeys for us, paths we could walk together, a staggered relay to start when your other mother passed your tiny form to me.   And I could see myself holding your hand, using my limbs to scaffold the structure your mother put so beautifully in place. I am your mom without the biology of mothering. All I have for you is my heart, my brain, my lists of things, all …

“While girls my age were toddling in heels” and other poems by Ruth Elwood

There’s no place like…   In the life God never bestowed my home would be more than a crate residing on the side of the road it’s with you and her puppy, running for treats not you judging me alone on the concrete.   An age has passed; left broken by your mum you look at me now, drunken scum never knowing I could have been your father.   Your first hero taught you to read, write push you on the swing   but she didn’t want me or the ring.   While girls my age were toddling in heels   My mind drifting elsewhere – like on saving for my own set of wheels scanning milk and jam by day, it was the nights that sent cash my way. promo and waitress for “Al’s Betting Joint” “Come to Al’s bring your pals” or “ Would you like some ice?” “interested in rolling the dice?”   Shop money simple stable, Al ‘s nightly, radical all under the table.   A moral battle in my mind, …