All posts tagged: Bradshaw Books

‘The Talking Cure’ and other poems by Angela Carr

The Tiger’s Tail   City, a howl of chemical laughter; menace fingers the air, seeking purchase in the drunken smoulder of narrow streets. Young girls toss ironed curtains of ebony hair — shared tribal head-dress. Tiger sucklings, knock-kneed, moon-eyed calves, they perch on the heights of borrowed triumph: Prada, Miu Miu, Louboutin. Fierce children, almost feral, wresting frenzied joy from the teeth of new calamity: night yawns deep, and they do not know it. Car headlamps sweep the junction, horns blare; ground shifting beneath them again, the girls totter into the bloom of darkness, each on milky limbs, pale and slender as a birch.   Occupied 28 October 2011   White slab on the doormat, postmark, a familiar china blue — the forfeit of dignity in monthly increments — and I’m sick to my stomach, again; on TV, Occupy Wall Street, as though greed were a discovery, injustice, a shiny toy or the new black.   I’ve been in my foxhole for three years now, dug in behind enemy lines: terraced walls, the polite exterior …

‘Knitting a Father from Nettles’ and other poems by Annette Skade

Medici Girl   Beauty adorns virtue, my Father says. To save the family, and me, from the shame of my disfigurement, he orders a corridor to stretch from here to Santa Annunziata. I beg forgiveness from the Holy Mother at a hidden chink beside the altar. Her perfect face is turned from me, I am to reflect upon her piety.   My bedchamber floor maps out the world. Every day I pace its length and breadth, dip toes in oceans, trace the course of rivers, trample the towers of the powerful, reach the very edge, the land of monsters, half-made things, strange and magical. I slide down the wall, squat in this place, feel light from the high window on my face.   The Garden of the Fugitives   These castings from the space where flesh and bone used to be, the moment fixed in gypsum. Head tilts back, eyes roll, mouth loosens. The mould presses replay of the same death throe, sends one to London, another to New York. No grave goods, no funeral. …

‘Red Hen’ and other poems by Shirley McClure

Maternity   I want to have poems by Caesarean section wearing my Infallible lip gloss   and counting on my designer obstetrician. I will keep my bump discreet,   drink litres of San Pellegrino, strive to avoid striae gravidarum, laser them later if it comes to it.   I want to live a normal life despite the media, and when it’s time,   my lines will glide out raring to open their lungs and wail as true as any natural birth.   Published in Clifden Anthology 35, 2013   Red Hen   We know nothing about hens, yet find ourselves in charge of half a dozen.   The odd girl out – you call her Mrs.One – loses her footing in the mud.   You carry her into the hen-house with piano player hands.   Still there the next day, she has turned her blunt red beak to the wall.   We talk to neighbours about red mites, infections, wonder if she’s egg-bound.   We fill her bowl with cabbage-leaves, stroke her tight wings.   …

Notes on the half-hidden: “Thimblerig” by Annette Skade

Thimblerig by Annette Skade Bradshaw Books 2013 63 pages Notes on the half-hidden Annette Skade’s debut collection Thimblerig was published by Bradshaw Books in 2013. Thimblerig is a collection of some 53 poems on themes of family, familial history, and on the poetic striving for voice. Skade’s sub-thematic flow, her buried themes, are brought out using the symbolism of light,  and of the natural world that surrounds her. Skade is at her best as a writer and recorder of history and tale, her preoccupations are carried through the text as light-maps. She uses the symbols of the caul, the moth, and the cord (as rope, umbilicus, even as muscle ). Her symbols often denote boundary both in the  physical and in the emotional sense.   Women play an important role in Skade’s familial tracery, her bloodline. Thimblerig is dedicated to Skade’s mother and to her daughter. In Thimblerig Skade’s grandmother forms the apex of the matrilineal pyramid, appearing in The Caul The Caul She was born with a caul on her face. The mid-wife said it was good …