“Market Prayer” and other poems by Annemarie Ní Churreáin

Laundry   Here in the Indian foothills, I share a house with a man from Greece   who speaks no English perfectly, disappears for days on a motorbike,   leaves his laundry on the low make-shift line, grieving an absent sun.   Side by side they hang: his shirt, my summer dress as if they know each other well   and when he returns, smelling of engine oil, monsoon, rolled brown cigarettes,   we have no formal language, to share our separate joy.   Drip-drip on the balcony, a queer, white pool gathers below.   He holds at a sleeve, looks to sky. I open my palm for signs of rain.   Market Prayer   It is the scent of hanging fruit more than roots pulled from lines of parallel dirt that lingers after all that has happened. I touch a pyramid of lemons and everything is new again. I pick one, and close my hand around it as if to test these immutable seeds glowing in my darkness. For what, I do not know. Pomona of Orchards, please: like the finder of a planet seeing for the first time an otherness, I am afraid the life I dream exists.   Protest   One cut and the hair worn since childhood fell upon the floor dead soft.   A spear-thistle; her new, bald skull refused order.   She belonged to heather and in tail-streams cupping frogs,   delighting in the small, green pulse of life between palms,   not here: at the dark centre of reunions, separations, starved of air.   This was a protest of love, against love demanding sun, rain, wilderness.   From a finger, she slid a band placed it underfoot, pressed down   until the stone made the sound of a gold chestnut cracking open.   The Scandal   The villagers did not unite in outrage but instead, they set about their days as usual, posting letters, buying fruit, forming queues in the bank after lunchtime.   They said little but within that little lay much; little was a gated field in which something extraordinary was buried.   They held to their inner selves resilient in emergencies of projected light.   And yet, over time, there happened a slow retreat from joyousness; a packing away of the Emperor’s new clothes, for good.   Only the giant oaks would live to remember imagination.   End of Girlhood   The first time a tree called me by name, I was thirteen and only spoke a weave of ordinary tongues.   It started with a leaf and next, a mist came down from the hills, beating a lone skin drum, looking for me.   Scarlet pimpernels dropped hints that could not be ignored: no red is innocent.   Badger trails called me aside for a word. Come underground, they said, see what we are made of.   Market Prayer and other poems are © Annemarie Ni Churreáin

Annemarie Ní Churreáin is a poet and writer from Donegal, Ireland. She has been awarded literary fellowships from Akademie Schloss Solitude (Germany), Jack Kerouac House (Orlando) and Hawthornden Castle (Scotland). In 2016, Annemarie was the recipient of a Next Generation Artists Award from the Arts Council of Ireland. In Autumn 2017, Annemarie’s debut collection ‘BLOODROOT’ is being launched by Doire Press, Galway. For more information, click here. Sign up for news here

I. Am. Straight. Are you ? & other poems by Lisa Lowther.

Dedicated to the many people all over the world that cannot live liberally & authentically for reasons of culture or other. May you find a path that frees you to be true to your beautiful intrinsic self, whatever that may be.

Closet Ivory Solid Wooden Door – unbreakable Shining Gold Handle protected by two one on either side admittance – speaks quietly the other will decide as you attempt to open not just anyone is welcome White Backless Gowns on shining skin Chiffon, Encrusted Diamonds heels that can match any Elegant Masquerade Masks green eyes of foreign waters pearls, bright & round as the moon reflected only to the celebrant By Invitation – The Other Vintage Lace some roses too For Your Entrance – not an exit of mine, this time do close the door on leaving the two shall rest awhile A little like my own Even I did not feel invited into this poem I. Am. Straight. Are you ? Contemplation of what life once was & could have been momentarily fills my heart with sadness I could have chosen that path the superficial comfort of what society states is my success I now would be dead a funeral that I alone would have attended privately & inside of me a society that conditioned the belief amongst many that my ‘type’ would only have a marriage to a ‘He’ that very poison choking the core beauty of some other ‘females’ Thankfully, that wasn’t me I too could have taken that pride…. in a husband a free ticket to shield my secret My. Secret. To bury – present us both as a society success but Girlfriend, Fiance & Wife I understand you Without a judgmental nor a critical weight for you & I are both the same We are straight ‘Ssh’traight A path interrupted by authentic desire many a beautiful night sharing a wild & deep embrace of soft satin skin & bright white lace between the sheets with a natural beauty to wake with the sun filling a room illuminating the exquisite reality for the torture of acceptance to cut the presence of it, her & the sun as easy as a knife would cut a single green blade of grass & that torture ? for simply being ‘Ssh’traight ‘Ssh’ traight ‘Ssh’traight ‘Straight’! – Presumed by many always followed by “Who is the lucky man?” to scream inside but I am in the sun with ‘her’ where I am alive & feel more like me not dead to ‘Him’ or worst again Dead to me Dead to me Dead to me! The morning passes with the fading sun let go of my grasp look deep in her eyes share a warm kiss this always suggested our departure ‘Ssh’traight reflection in the mirror take a breath rouge lipstick I paint mascara to darken my lashes on opening that door remember to lift my head clicking my heels into the engulfment of society again until the next time I am straight Are you? Here So you’ve left ? sorrowful mess alone in mind of how & what weeping heart no matter what full – yet void of why So you’ve left & my heart to love again – impossible to what it was & IS is rare is rare So you’ve left maybe, once again for I knew you, before we met ‘a first uniting?,’ the lady asked to reply ‘No’ simply Our eyes had met with a familiar gaze time stood I’m sure moved by smiles to the beauty of ‘Hello’ again softly. So you’ve left from that hello & in between – the love the years & everything to this goodbye? Good bye?! So you’ve left well, so you say! – I see you smiling in the hallway to catch a moment of me smiling back & realise it’s just So you’ve left to hear your song I tilt my head to hear some more to recognise myself with company – a  sudden silence So you’ve left to see you sitting in the sun & reach toward you with falling tears an empty chair So you’ve left while your arms hold me an intersilient cold air no words spoken just traffic passing by So you’ve left. then tell me how I hear you call my name? pause & listen to hear just the night So you’ve left then why visit when I’m sleeping & rise to see you smile in bed to turn to nothingness, again So you’ve left yet, I see you look deep in my eyes With much light & feel your hand mind mine So you’ve left ? why is it You’re still here still here here. (LL 2011) The Wake Ticking clock between the silence  the intermittent noise TicK – TocK – TicK – TocK cracked ceiling splitting view of complete darkness 1 hundred beautiful memories visit Moonlit windows white sheets of warmth TicK -TocK – TicK – TocK Remembrance of patchouli a beautiful haunting Still Vacant presence to a time of us TicK – TocK – TicK – TocK now dead without attending buried by us both separately – An empty wake TicK – TocK – TicK- TocK All the while Awake I. Am. Straight. Are you ? & other poems are © Lisa Lowther

Lisa Lowther lives in Cork City. She is a mother to one daughter. She has written poetry intermittently and increasingly over the years, previously not submitting any of her work. She has a passion for reciting poetry as well as reading. She holds a Business qualification & has previously worked in the University College of Cork for a number of years as well as other companies within the Business sector. She subsequently trained in sexual health and was involved in the promoting of sex education on various topics including sexuality awareness. This is Lisa’s first published work. She is presently dedicating time to her love of writing poetry and she is working on her first collection.

“Eavan Boland: Inside History” Edited by Nessa O’Mahony and Siobhan Campbell

EAVAN BOLAND INSIDE HISTORY (Arlen House, 2016)

Eavan Boland: Inside History, a new volume of essays and poems in response to the work of the internationally-renowned Irish poet, will be published by Arlen House on 1 December 2016. Edited by poets Siobhan Campbell and Nessa O’Mahony, Eavan Boland: Inside History is a reappraisal of Boland’s influence as a poet and critic in the 21st century and is the first major commissioned collection of essays to be published on Boland. The volume includes critical essays on, and creative responses to, her work by leading writers, thinkers and scholars in Ireland, the UK, Europe and the US and reappraises Boland’s influence as a poet and critic for the 21st century. The fresh and diverse approaches provide a new frame for a critical engagement which crosses continental and aesthetic boundaries. The book therefore repositions Boland scholarship with a focus on the most important aspect: the poems themselves. Contributions include a foreword by Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland, as well as essays by Jody Allen Randolph, Patricia Boyle Haberstroh, Siobhan Campbell, Lucy Collins, Gerald Dawe, Péter Dolmányos, Thomas McCarthy, Nigel McLoughlin, Christine Murray, Nessa O’Mahony, Gerard Smyth, Colm Tóibín and Eamonn Wall. There are also poems from Dermot Bolger, Moya Cannon, Katie Donovan, Thomas Kinsella, Michael Longley, Paula Meehan, John Montague, Sinead Morrissey, Paul Muldoon, Eileán Ní Chuilleanáin, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, Jean O’Brien and Nessa O’Mahony. The volume concludes with A Poet’s Dublin, a reissuing of the conversation that took place between Eavan Boland and Paula Meehan on the occasion of her 70th birthday in 2014. “Eavan Boland worked as an editor with Arlen House in the 1970s and 1980s and did extraordinary work in developing new Irish writing and broadening the boundaries of Irish literature. We are pleased to publish this collection on her work,” said publisher Alan Hayes. “As editors, we’ve been delighted to be part of the conversation that this volume has begun,” said Siobhan Campbell. “It’s been a privilege and an honour to work on this collection particularly as both Nessa and I feel poetically in Eavan Boland’s debt, as do so many of our contemporaries.” Eavan Boland: Inside History is published on 1 December 2016. It will be launched at Poetry Ireland, 11 Parnell Square, Dublin 1, on Thursday 15 December 2016 at 6.30 with special guests Eavan Boland and Mary Robinson. 978–1–85132–140–7, 368 pages, paperback, €25 978–1–85132–150–6, limited edition numbered and signed hardback, €55 ARLEN HOUSE LTD, 42 Grange Abbey Road, Baldoyle, Dublin 13. Phone: 086 8360236: Email: arlenhouse@gmail.com US & International Distribution: Syracuse University Press www.syracuseuniversitypress.syr.edu The Book Depository: http://www.bookdepository.com/Eavan-Boland-Inside-History-Siobhan-Campbell/9781851321407?ref=grid-view

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 spokes in the garment cradling her lap. She measured me in the breadth of her childless arms and grew me a shawl the colour of flame. Its touch to kindle her memory to set old fires dancing. (first published in Skylight 47. Issue 5 ) The Light Dancing” and “Lizzie” are © Catherine Conlon

Catherine Conlon lives in Celbridge, Co. Kildare. She has been shortlisted for the RTE P.J. O’Connor Radio Drama Awards and has had two stage plays performed. Her short stories have been published in Stories for the Ear and Boyne Berries. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, The Irish Times, Books Ireland, The Cuirt Journal, Ropes, Skylight 47 and in various anthologies and newspapers.

“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 Barstow CA – the story makes no difference when the ending is the same.  Hit and Run   A brown curled leaf that clings to the winter oak long past its season’s close is a lingering sign of the cycle’s natural end. But when she phoned, her voice ragged with tears, and choked through sobs the name of her young friend, the hand of panic laid its icy finger on my neck. This seasonless attack on order’s wrecked the borders we’ve protected: it’s a force unforeseen – death seeps between the seams of the earth, its garden smell of mulch and mould, one inconsistent note mixed with the old: of twig and leaf in newly sundered green. Déjà Vu Something shifting low in my gut tonight, an air bubble from the lentil soup, made me suddenly think of you, how we’d lie together curled in sleep and, turning, you knocked your elbow or knee peremptorily against the inside of me. Now that I’ve known you for twenty years I smile to think of your string-bean limbs and your purposeful disposition even then, the two recently married and trying to get along in the tight quarters of my womb, and you and I too, not yet having formally met.   Iago’s Curse   I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane, If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit.                                                                           Othello I iii lines 384-6 They met together after a long time and, as from separate dreams, awoke from their ideal worlds of Art and Rhyme to see around them loss, decay and crime. “There will always be another test,” one thought, and nearly spoke, as she lightly, secretly caressed the absence of the aching, missing breast. The other knew a different way to lose: a child, in thrall to greed; broke; drowning his qualms in power and booze, hate, for ‘sport and profit,’ as his muse. They heard, somewhere around them, out of sight, the heavy sounds – from chestnut, and from oak, from the great elms with their hopeless blight – of limbs falling, falling in the night. Iago’s Curse and other poems are © Liza McAlister Williams

Liza McAlister Williams has taught writing and literature at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York, for many years, finding that poetry is a bridge-builder to the artistic process of art and design students. She and her husband have raised two daughters amidst the pleasures and challenges of old-house-living and urban gardening. She writes creative non-fiction, poetry and children’s poems. Her work has appeared in a number of journals, including Measure, Blue Unicorn, New Hopkins Review, and Light, and she was a runner-up several years ago in the Howard Nemerov sonnet competition.