All posts tagged: Breda Wall Ryan

A Celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2015

PEARLS AT BLACKFRIARS   For his Winter’s Tale, Master Shakespeare calls for a covered stage with the scent of candle-grease and orange-peel heavy on the air.   There must be torches to give movement to shadows and life to the statue; and for Hermione’s face – tincture of pearl, crushed.   With this bowl of dust we’ll lacquer her age, encase her in memory so only a movement of the mind might release her,   might absolve her husband’s transgression, as the jealous moon flings her light against Blackfriars slates.   Pearls At Blackfriars is © Jessica Traynor Jessica Traynor is from Dublin. Her first collection, Liffey Swim, was published by Dedalus Press in 2014. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry Ireland Review, The Raving Beauties Anthology (Bloodaxe), Other Countries: Contemporary Poets Rewiring History, If Ever You Go (2014 Dublin One City One Book), The Irish Times, Peloton (Templar Poetry), New Planet Cabaret (New Island Books), The Pickled Body, Burning Bush II, Southword, The SHOp, Wordlegs, The Moth, Poetry 24, The Stinging Fly, …

“Self Portrait as She Wolf” and other poems by Breda Wall Ryan

Self Portrait as She Wolf   You sheer away from the warm, many-tailed beast, spurn the communal dream.   Beyond the shelter of pine and fir you lope across open ground where cold scalds your lungs,   feel a soft-nosed bullet’s kiss, lick the salt wound clean, almost drown in a starry bog,   but break through its dark mirror, meet your reflection in a boutique window on a city street   among mannequins in ersatz furs, the last of your kind, or the first.   Only look back once, for a silhouette, a hungry scent. There is still time to re-trace your spoor,   answer the tribal howl. Your throat opens on one long, swooped syllable, almost a word.   The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife   (Katsushika Hokusai. The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife, woodcut c.1820.)   In the dark my fisherman shapes me, his girl-diver, to his wants, tastes his dream-geisha, inked teeth in her reddened moue, face nightingale-shit bright,   hair a lacquered bowl, camellia-oiled. I slip from his shingle-hard grip, …