All posts tagged: A Saturday Woman Poet

“Satellite” and other poems by Roisin Kelly

To a Writer   You write of raspberries and snow of the mimosa flower’s scent of how it makes you feel to put on lipstick and heels. Of how it feels to wander home   below the stars, drunk but not too drunk how you always like to show a little cleavage though you never undo more than the top two buttons of your shirt.   But there’s so much else I’d give to you like the full pale weight of your breasts bared to the world and wild. During menstruation, don’t stay in   breaking chocolate before a laptop screen: dip your fingers between your legs and stain your face with red. Write down all of last night’s dream   not just the parts with crystal seas but the parts you’d rather not think about. Drink whiskey until you vomit. Stand on a beach in your bare feet   and cry about the guy who betrayed you but comfort yourself also with thoughts of his drowned body his groin now a home for nibbling …

“Mulcair” and other poems by Amanda Bell

The beauty of the game   is lost on me when I watch you play. I see the curve of your cheek, the rounded base of your skull – once a custom-fit for my palm – and feel again the warm weight of your incipience.   No more walnut-snug in my armour your head now bobs around the pitch and air shrieks with the thwack of plastic against wood, against bone.   (first published by The Ofi Press)   Dark Days   i.m. Savita Halappanavar   Suspended at the end of Krishna Paksha, the moon is a sickle freeze-framed in the night sky.   The fireworks have been cancelled, replaced by candles and a vision of you dancing on the cusp.   These are dark days between Diwali and Advent, waiting   for the moon to wax. (first published by the Burning Bush 2)   Troglodytes   On visiting Lascaux cave for the 70th anniversary of its discovery   Inland, the road torcs into forest. Among walnut trees, the house vibrates with life: bees, hummingbird …

‘Blackbird’ and other poems by Imogen Forster

Testudo   A bone-hard carapace, a shell cast on a hot shore, emptied by the labour of leaving the nurturing sea, scraping broad ribbons up the sand’s glassy slope .   Gasping, digging a damp hole, she lays round, sticky eggs, a hundred leathery balls. Then spent, noon-dried, she dies, picked clean by quick scavengers.   Her hatchlings flail and scuttle towards the sea, led by the gazing moon, their plates small patterned purses, hardened in the rich sea-soup into a vaulted chamber built to the blueprints of this old architecture.   Published in Visual Verse   Blackbird   The blackbird sits, a smudge in the prickly hedge, stooped, wings and tail all downward.   I want to touch him, to feel the quick, warm shape in a cage of bare branches.   What does a bird fluffed against the cold see in his crouched stillness?   If I could grasp him by his ashy back, hold his whole breathing body in my hand   what would the soft bones tell me, the barbed primaries …

“The Mission” by Rita Ann Higgins

The Mission I think of the last time we met on the prom in Galway. A sunny day in May you looked cool in those shades. You looked taller somehow. We talked for ages. You told me about plans for your mother’s sixtieth. I felt lucky to have such a nephew. Shades or no shades. You hid your distress well, John. None of it was evident that sunny day. The day of good nephews. A month later you went to Beachy Head. WTF John. I think of you leaving your bundle on top of Beachy Head. Your belt coiled around your watch your wallet with a photo of your daughter your fire fighter’s ID card your blood donor card your bus ticket from Brighton. Losers weepers. Margaret, your Irish twin, was on a holiday she didn’t want to go on. She had been worried sick, she had us all demented saying you were going to do it. Twins know things, Irish twins know more. I was at a wedding in June when some friends of …

‘Cleaving a Puzzle-Tree’ and other poems by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Cleaving a Puzzle-Tree   1.   I didn’t see my grandmother’s tree in Chile, araucaria araucana, though they grow tall there and are many. I must have walked under them every day, tripped over their seeds, but I didn’t think of her, oceans away, standing in a square of green, raking leaves around her monkey puzzle tree.   2.   For over a hundred years, that tree stood between pruned rosebush and clipped hedge, a long shadow moving over wet fields and stone walls. As a girl, I clung to the trunk when we played hide and seek, rough bark printing maps on my palms.   3.   In April gales, the tree sways. From the window, my grandmother watches a chainsaw blade spin the tree into a flight of splinters, until only logs and sawdust are left. In each neat wheel of wood, an eye opens, ringed by lines of the past. The logs are split, stacked, the tree turned into armfuls of firewood which will rise as smoke to the sky, a puzzle …