All posts tagged: Contemporary Irish Women Poets

“The Devil, Oblique Angles and Polka Dots” by Sue Cosgrave

The Devil, Oblique Angles and Polka Dots For Grandmother Your host shimmers beyond the margin of this page as my fingers tap-tap you from the dead.   It takes you a while to snap into focus.   You remind me of a day when I was eight,                       or ten, at most,   the day I got lost in the woods. How I blubbered and wailed for you!   When you finally found me— a snot and hiccup spewing fountain – not pretty.   “What took you so long?”   It was strange how you appeared, seemingly out of nowhere; haloed in spring beyond the green fog of young birches, your sudden presence, not reassuring – not at first – “why did you leave me?” I cried   all the while, you, unruffled, reproached me: “Shame on you. A big girl crying like a baby. And for no reason at all. Don’t you know that God is watching over you, Detushka?’   Aha! This is …

“Alice and her Stilettoes” and other poems by Lorraine Carey

Alice and her Stilettoes We always walked faster past her little house on the brae. Every so often she’d scuttle out and snare us, clutching a plastic bag with the highest heels, scuffed and peeling, ready for the cobbler’s vice. Her elfin face powdered, her fuchsia mouth pursed, the stain snaked onto her snaggled teeth, crept over her lips. She lay in wait, behind net curtains that twitched. Her ears hitched to the sound of the school bus, stalling, as we stepped off at Charlie Brown’s, stinking of fags. Once John got three pairs of spine benders, for repair, so she had a choice, for Mass on Sunday. Dressing Up I crept the three steps to your room, which smelt of musty aged breath and butterfly panic. Sandwiched between the glass and a chink in the net curtains, a Red Admiral, whose fluttering mirrored my tiptoed approach. I stumbled over slippers to your jewellery box. Fishing out pearls and the ruby ring, that swam off my finger and dropped back home into knotty chains and …

“Alethiometer” and other poems by Eleanor Hooker

Alethiometer for John & Fedelma Tierney   I have one marble only, glass-curled greens and blue. It’s kept inside a golden globe with turquoise studs, I swing it from a chain: my dowsing stone, my truth-seer. Once it knocked against an ancient head, cracked it so its walnut core Leaked sepia images of a being lived inside another time, another age, Before the image replaced the real and the real was more than shadow.   Outside the cave I glassed the play of light and shadow, And when my only marble fell from its golden globe onto a blue Tiled ocean floor, I swam after. The ancient head, wise with age, Told me he had too lost his, recalled the studs Inside the coloured orb, their curled blues, their seedy core His own two eyes: Learian days that left him sightless and a seer.   My ancient friend dismissed the lies of a mummer seer Whose falsest claim is that to love someone is to dispossess him of his shadow, To wipe out every trace …

“Sunflower” by Susan Millar DuMars

Sunflower In Memory of the 796 infants and children who died at the Tuam Mother and Baby Home.   I dream a face as rounded as a girl’s and then the petals bright like sunlit hair – I dream a sunflower unafraid to touch my shadowed skin, the nourishment of air.   Bury all the children underground far from harm, sheltered by the dirt. Stunted seeds, tucked in muck-dark beds. Safe from you, safe from me, safe from hurt.   © Susan Millar DuMars Susan Millar DuMars has published three poetry collections with Salmon Poetry, the most recent of which, Bone Fire, appeared in April, 2016. She also published a book of short stories, Lights in the Distance, with Doire Press in 2010. Her work has appeared in publications in the US and Europe and in several anthologies, including The Best of Irish Poetry 2010. She has read from her work in the US, Europe and Australia. Born in Philadelphia, Susan lives in Galway, Ireland, where she and her husband Kevin Higgins have coordinated the Over …

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí   I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana   ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas, líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn   lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh   tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu. Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am   caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht   ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil, ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,   gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim   agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn, mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,   ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne. Níl éinne ann.   Rainforest   In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster on finding …