All posts tagged: A Saturday Woman Poet

“Considering Their Pale Faces” and other poems by Erin Wilson

Seed tōgarashi / omoikonasaji / mono no tane the red pepper / I do not belittle / seedlings ~ Bashō I keep a chestnut in the breast pocket of my secondhand leather jacket. When I picked it I thought of (I don’t know why) my mother. The last time my first husband and I made love I knew my womb, because of my mind, was tipped at such an angle that no seed would germinate  there. This is also a true story. Our children and I collected acorns to use for a project we had not yet imagined. They exploded into weevil larvae all over the floor.   A Letter to My Ex Concerning Houseleeks I retrieve the hens and chicks, reminiscent of farms, from my sister’s yard and press them to the dirt in the small half-circle we dig in our own yard and then leave them there to grow and separate   The Mother The last bladder is emptied, the last gleek shot into the sink, the last struggling out of and into, …

“Birth Mother” and Other Poems by Srilata Krishnan (K.Srilata)

Birth Mother We are standing in front of the mirror, my daughter and I, brushing our hair and being vain when I think of the doctor’s question: “What was her birth cry like?” I don’t know and never will. She is fine, or will be, I know. But looking in the mirror and into her almond eyes, I wonder what she is like – her birth mother – if she too, was once, afraid of words and of the fluttering of pigeons, if she has nicely formed arches on her feet and whether or not her eyebrows make a bow for good luck, if she is small and slender-waisted, if she is anything like my daughter, or was. Strange, but I don’t wonder at all about the father. I tug at her pony. “Amma, let’s go”, she urges into a mirror that is slowly swallowing her birth mother. Our eyes meet in that eye of a little god and she smiles the sort of smile that is like mine.   What Penelope Said to Ulysses …

‘Cigarettes on Grey Street’ and other poems by Julie Hogg

Mount Pleasant I’m a Sea-Drift florentine with New York smoked chocolate and gothic liquorice ice cream all falsetto euphoria on an acidic yellow slipway silence, still life, plein air, subtle watercolour fractals mid brain, black substance potent dopamine receptors and how I wish that this railing is your hand, My Friend I swear I can see our soles in the lichen and an auburn woman all flither picker hemmed with Irish broken veins on the curve of a cobb Cigarettes on Grey Street   corner seem appropriate. You’re telling me you’re a Redsmith for a contemporary gallery and some northern university or another, while assuming me up and down. I’m wearing a plastic red mac and nude heels with slack slingbacks lacking any firm ankle support but more than adept at softly killing wet pavements. Red hot tar’s spread on my soul, which you’ll never see, and my black silk scarf is strangling me with a permanent knot I just can’t get out with casual dexterity and we’re licking our tongues on mendacity, treated like …

‘The Day Of The Angel” and other poems by Clare McCotter

Goose in memory of Anna McAllister Walking evenings stretched out into a prairie of stars it seemed crimson and gold would not rise through bark and bole and the goose following celestial cues in the music of the spheres would never leave the soft bed you spun for her compassed by a newly hatched sun. Falling like the bitterest snow the moult had been hard leaving her weak till tail feathers started to bud on a harvest moon’s pink edge its strange light striking lodestones behind dull eyes sparked the fires of flight ancient watchers of southern skies had described. Navigating night’s ametrine heart she left without a word each wing flap creating uplift for those trailing after on a journey to the land of musk ox white bear arctic hare and fox drawn along earth’s magnetic course she separates milk from water feeding on pearls deep in the silvery reeds back once more in her true north. (Published in Envoi) The Soul Maker for Anne McGill Year the blue planet’s icy moons stole the …

‘Fugit Amor’ and other poems by Catherine Phil MacCarthy’

The Chamber One ear to chimney-breast, on bended knee, better to hear trapped wing-beats, he prized ajar the black ornate cast hood. Then, slid his arm inside the flue. As though one gloved limb were deeply sunk in hind-quarters of a cow, to guide the head in utero. Though here, no calf in hairy smear or bloody stink was sensed. First, soot sprinkled rolled up sleeve of shirt; his thumb and fingers gripped wiry claws and held. Down, gently, drew his haul into the room. Disheveled. Stained. Feathery mass weighed his hands. He cupped the ample beating heart and walked. The bird was fond of warmth, or slightly stunned. For seconds brooded. Then, lifted wings and hopped onto the window ledge. And flew. A freed white dove. The Chamber is published in The Irish Times. Fugit Amor At the Musee Rodin I looked for us among the lovers. We were never that fierce, a couple twinned in flight white marble bodies all delicate curve back to back lying across air. And yet. How those arms …