All posts filed under: Women Writers

“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, …

“Wending” and other Poems by Allis Hamilton

Mrs. Piper after Pied Piper of Hamelin   He came home with that wooden whistle one blustery winter’s day.   Said he found it on the snow at the crossroads of Hamelin and Coppenbrügge.   It was just lying there he said. He learned to play it fast enough,   one could well say he was a natural. But I got rather fed up with his playing here in the cave.   It bounced off the stonewalls and I could get no work done, so I sent him out.   The first time my husband returned after a day out with that whistle, it was flies that followed him.   All a-buzz in swarms like swallows on a summer’s eve. Next it was the worms slithering along behind him   like one enormous python. He used them to catch us plenty of fish.   When he brought home the rats, that was quite something.   I smoked the meat from most of them; we had a winter’s worth of food.   And I tanned their …