A Saturday Woman Poet, Glenda Cimino.

Cicada

For David Carson

How beautiful the cicadas’ song
How holy the insect voices
Rise to heaven.

How homely and comforting
The steady trill of their choir
In the dark night.

Yet some say each cicada
Is the restless, reborn soul
Of a dead Poet -

A spendthrift who did not respect
The gift of his muse
But squandered his inspiration.

Till the poems died, nameless,
While waiting to be born
And the silence grew deafening.

How with cicada’s wings
He now fervently delivers
His unuttered poems.

He can never again be silent
Even if no human understands
His heart’s outpouring.

How beautiful the cicada’s song
How purely the insect voices
Rise to heaven. 

by Glenda Cimino

Haiku

wind in the long grass
whispers of forgotten lovers
under the trees.

Glenda Cimino

Both poems are © Glenda Cimino, with thanks, C.

‘My Heart and I’ By EBB (for Aoife)

RIP Aoife O Brien ( June 23rd 1970-May 1st 2010)

I.

“Enough! we’re tired my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that the name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the Mason’s knife,
As heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s
life,
with which we are tired, my heart and I.

II.

You see we’re tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the
pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune’s
end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we’re tired, my heart and I.

III.

How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men’s eye’s indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will
let
You sleep; our tears are only wet:
What do we do here, my heart and I ?

IV.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sate with me ‘neath the
lime
To watch the sun set from the sky.
‘dear love you are looking tired’, he
said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head:
‘Tis now we’re tired, my heart and I.

V.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
Though now none takes me on his arm
to fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
of happy langour. Now alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

VI.

Tired out we are my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

VII.

Yet who complains ? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by.
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used- well
enough,
I think, we’ve fared, my heart and I. “

E.B.B


Aoife O Brien, June 23rd 1970- May 1st 2010

Faoi Chabáistí is Ríonacha, le Celia de Fréine

I try and obtain poetry books at book festivals, mostly because a lot of shops would tend to shove them to the back of the shelves and bustle the brightly coloured airport novels and chicklit to the front!

Last weeks Dublin Book festival was no exception to the rule, good books all over the place .I bought a Celia de Freine book of pomes, which when I returned home, revealed a hidden CD in the back cover .

I am excerpting one wee poem from Faoi Chabaistí is Ríonacha today:

Anamchairde

(1)

An Bhean Chaointe

Taim ag caoineadh anois chomh fada
agus is chumhin liom
ce gur dócha go raibh me óg trath-
seans fiú amháin gp mbinn ag súgradh.
Ni cuimhin liom an t-am sin
ná an ghruaim a chinn an ghairm seo dom.

Ni cuimhin liom ach oiread
éinne den dream
atá caointe agam-
ní dhearna mé taighde ar a saol
ná nior léigh mé cur síos orthu
i gcolún na marbh.

Ach is maith is eol dom
gach uair a sheas mé
taobh le huaigh bhealschoilte,
gur chomóir me gach saol
go huile is go hiomlán,
gur laoidh mé éachtaí

na nua-mharbh
is gur eachtaigh mé
lorg a sinsear.
Tigím anois
go bhfuil na caointe seo
tar éis dul in bhfedhim orm.

Dá mbeadh jab eile agam
ba bhreá liom bheith im scealaí-
sui le hais na tine is scéalta a insint.
D’éistfeá liom- tharraingeodh
d’Eddifon asam iad
á n-alpadh sa treo is go slanofaí mé.

Le Celia de Freine.

Faoi Chabáistí is Ríonacha, Clo Iar-Chonnachta, indreabhán, 2001.

Celia de Freine

PEN International Women Writers; new blog at the Portugal PEN Centre.

The new chair of the Portuguese International PEN Women Writer’s Committee , Teresa Salema, has announced a new blog set-up Via Blogger for members of PEN to contribute, follow and join in the conversation. I sent  this morning my congrats.

Following this short introductory, I have added in the links to both Terra Incognita and the  PIWWC  main page.

Welcome to Kadija George who is new Chair of PIWWC and Thanks to Judith Buckrich.

EDIT: PIWWC operates a diversity blog and a Facebook group, called Our Voice, for those of us interested in women’s literary endeavours. Please read VIDA, Women in the Literary Arts to see how invisible women writers are become in an age where equality is worn upon torn sleeves like an old motto- but actually means less than nothing in the market-place that writing has become.

PIWWC
‘Terra Incognita’
PEN Portugal Club.

Terra Incognita Blog graphic.

Lorca, Le Brocquy and Madden.

I thought to do something on the failed attempt to find the grave of Federico Garcia Lorca this morning; but I find that do not have my wee paper copy of Gypsy Ballads to hand. I  believe that there are other images related to both Madden, Lorca and Le Brocquy on PH anyway, I used Le B’s scathing criticism of successive Irish governments’ approach to the arts in an IELA item and an image of a Le Brocquy head in this poem :

Megalith 14, 1971 by Ann Madden