for John & Fedelma Tierney
New Year’s Eve / Old Year’s Day
From Parvit of Agelast
(Verse Fantasy, to be published by Arlen House in 2016. The poems below are aspects of the ‘real’ world.)
‘Your face is ridiculous: O. . . . . leeeeee ugly 🙂 ❤ / thanks, sure i know !’ :L’ – Ciara Pugsley, ask.fm
net whn th little lite shinin frm abve doesnt n younguns mad fr luv r spected 2 b home thumbs go drum on magic pads n open windows so they travel in thr dreambots huntin souls they go weft upon th crystal warp unshuttled hookin up witout a plan 2 build a planet trances risin tru th base n snare of ask n tell wot u c is wot u feel n wot u feels rite tho snot a total giggle when th trolls r out —no1 knows th cause like with any freakin demic— bitch please u aint jesus wots wit all the posin howd u like my cock up ur ass, u cross-eyed ho som1 feelin tiny in the sprawlin fabric hauls back in2 her drum for a re-birth much 2 brite bodys blinded so her double takes it weepin 2 th woods to be an hero wit a reel hank o rope
‘…the body of Wafa became shrapnel that eliminated despair and aroused hope.’ – Adel Sadew
The Key to Paradise
You will be snatched back from the place of no landmark,
You will regain the unrivalled kingdom of your source,
Your lover will adore you under the great tree, and there
Best of all, you will be thought wise, not inessential.
Sleep is the only escape I have. When I don’t dare think, I dare to dream.’ – Jaycee Dugard
Each autumn, in Lake Tahoe, El Dorado county, CA,
that some unabused women sport as symbols of perhaps love.
Jaycee’s eleven were a tiny tint to that time spread,
That darkened in the backyard in the small shed where sleep
A pine can last a thousand years, an eye much less; Jaycee eighteen
You are alone in what they would call a new life. What they don’t know is that for you
Seeking maybe nothing, but in that mode, hiatus behind and before. It has seemed true
Entirely it might seem, but like minerals that leave a trace in water, small events make change.
Woven into your consciousness now like most of your clothes, but you wore this slinky to a
Flaunting was your wont in a sub-chador sort of way. Exclusivity was the bait, the prospect of
Back to where you sat huddled in a lone hut by a struggling fire, watching the small yellow flame
Grace was a false thing, you said, being rustic. But many thought you walked like a careless queen.
Indifferently endowed, you thought you were, and hardly cared, except for the faint sense
Showering in what was given, you might have made some plans, not waited for a suitor to tear
climacteric in the extreme
the room darkens. foetal faces draw spotlights from the dense matrix. she kneels. not a whimper but centrifugal quake and strain. ovular potentials huddle in lines for stringing crowded and frozen onto a tight choke. she hugs her shoulders, surrogate, unconsoled, and a creature leaps out, trailing chains, snarls and spits, goes surfing the tidal walls. he will not come again to her bucking bounty, her bawdy talk, her raucous primitive yells; she will not be the bright-haired goddess of the barstool, fabled and revered in ten parched villages. hail of the ripped legend falls in blades, a thing of flesh flames in the mouth of the monster and she recalls a hard prophesy told in the spring grass. lincolns rev on the melting brick informants crouch in a lonely copse and beg for mercy in the torture room the air sparks and yellows black seeps into old pictures and the girl with the lank dead hair creeps blindly from the screen. she probes her body and finds a silent blowhole. her fingers return a thousand red messages that pool and brindle in the cradle of her palms. if she screams she doesn’t know, but colours curry the weather pumpkin, desert and vulva, lunatic yellow, bum-in-the-gutter green. she crashes, glass and glint flinging themselves too, watches her eyes picked to the veined bone. girl, crook and goblet smithered on the lizard- dark floor.
(from ‘the second of april’)
I walk. Where is home except in repeated kisses of foot and ground. I am having affairs. With, for one, the bonded pavement, complicit as a slice of river. I glide on ice, step lightly on the unreflecting glass panel of a foyer floor. Nakedness is rare. I don’t tell how I used to take off my shoes and mesh my toes with sand. But even that was a skim. I slyly stepped on a rock and, recalcitrant, took off. I pause at running water and watch its inscrutable fingers take sun to rock in a work of art, then abandon it, dissatisfied. Among a tree I become a stretch of soil and burnt grass and harden. There are always tears. They seem to come from outside and wash me down until, like ivy, I am again rambling. On a tarred path my jaw is jolted by hard, inexplicable haste. My ankles wound each other. I bleed and wonder if I should spancel myself to slow. There are creatures who only pace the one field. Even a hobbled route finds knowledge. I look at my feet and don’t know them. Too long with my eyes on a misted goal has cost me my body. Happenings are always outside. Strange, when I see no walls. Where is the place of occurrence? I thought life was movement. Coming to gravel I have less ground and that brings thoughts of release. Water is too deep and I fear high places. To walk is the freest I can do and I wipe my tracks. What will pass is the breeze of a small body, non-native, a light touch on a puzzled cheek.
An Education in Silence
Letters from Mount Fuji
Pearls at Blackfriars
No Direction Home
i.m. Gregory O’Donoghue 1951-2005
No Direction Home is © Mary Noonan
|Mary Noonan lives in Cork. Her poems have been published in The Dark Horse, The North, Poetry Review, Poetry London, The Threepenny Review, Cyphers, The Stinging Fly, Wasafiri and Best of Irish Poetry 2010. She won the Listowel Poetry Collection Prize in 2010. Her first collection – The Fado House (Dedalus Press, 2012) – was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize for a First Collection (2013) and the Strong/Shine Award (2013).|
Socrates in The Garden
In his world he moves,
January light fooling
this place into beauty –
broken glass glittering
on the flats’ side lane,
white graffitti translucent
on the school wall;
Pushers out!…Egg head…
Fuck off…Wanker Meehan.
Old shoes, their laces tied,
dangle over electricity wires,
beside pulled-apart phones
flung there, high above
burnt mattresses, gutted cars
and rusting bikes –
used needles jabbing the way
the children go to school.
their calls like cigarette ash
in front of their washing
hung from shabby balconies,
the grandmothers busy below
with Moore Street prams piled
with fruit, football hats, lighters
fireworks and wrapping paper –
all the stolen seasons trundling
their way to the market
down roads Matt Talbot roamed
with drink, then manic prayer,
his chains the size of a horse’s trace
wrapped around his body
one hot June day,
where he fell on Granby lane.
And in this world,
Margaret goes to get married
in a horse- drawn carriage
around Stephen’s Green.
All skin and bone,
her final days,
her name will become a ribbon
and light, on the Christmas tree,
an embroidered square
on a patch-work quilt
hung in a vast, cold place,
where the young priest
talks only to old women,
the wind outside blowing litter –
caged pigeons set free from rooftops,
rising up oblivious as Liffey gulls.
In his world he moves,
his head slanted
his cheeks bruised
with the cut of a city night.
Hearing the cathedral chime
hourly, cheeky, melodic –
Three Blind Mice…
In Dublin’s fair city,
he queues at the soup kitchen’s door
over the bell-ringer’s charm.
His hunger slouching
in second-hand clothes
against the city wall,
is so acute it sends
early morning nightmares –
How the stained glass
in Nicholas of Myra cracks,
how Major Sirr rises from his grave
pulling St Weburgh’s apart,
strutting down Thomas Street to watch
Emmet’s delirium beheaded!
And sometimes into his world
you move, cooling his fever,
wetting his mouth
with fresh basil leaves
of hope, lifting his thoughts,
so that far away,
over the copper domes, lifting his thoughts,
so that far away, over the copper domes,
the shut-up, run-down flats,
he can see in the garden
His toes cracked, his robe
thrown across shoulders
chipped with neglect,
part of his nose fallen lost
among polite glass-houses,
and Victorian signs.
But his stare is deep-eyed
and his thoughts are river sounds
original like rain
on this bright day.
He is finding a space for you both
in the otherwise wild
of your mid-lives, letting
your hard city fall way
with each push of the gate
inwards to his green heaven.
Run to his shape
the willow trees whisper,
Pull our leaves,
like hair from his face –
find his eyes staring,
from Socrates in the Garden, Dedalus Press, 1998.
Enda Wyley is poet and children’s author. She was born in Dún Laoghaire, Co Dublin 1966 and currently lives in Dublin. She has published five collections of poetry: Eating Baby Jesus (1993), Socrates in the Garden (1998), Poems for Breakfast ( 2004), To Wake to This (2009), and Borrowed Space, New and Selected Poems (2014).
Her poetry has been widely broadcast, translated and anthologised including in, The Harvard Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry, USA (2010), The Wake Forest Book of Irish Women Poets, USA (2011), Femmes d’Irlande en Poésie, 1973-2013, ed Clíona Ní Ríordáin, Lines of Vision, The National Gallery of Ireland, 2014.
She holds a B.Ed with a distinction in English Literature, was the recipient of an M.A in Creative Writing from Lancaster University, was the inaugural winner of the Vincent Buckley Poetry Prize and has received many Arts Council Literature Bursaries for her writing. In 2014 she was the recipient of a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship for her poetry. In recent years she has been Poet- at -Work in the Coombe Maternity Hospital, Dublin and Writer in Residence at The Marino Institute of Education, Dublin.
Enda Wyley’s books for children from O’Brien Press are Boo and Bear and The Silver Notebook. Her book I Won’t Go to China ! was awarded a Reading Association of Ireland Special Merit Award 2011. Enda Wyley was elected to Aosdána in March 2015.
Enda Wyley Reviews
‘New and Selected’ seems the perfectly suited appellation for the work on offer here. Ms. Wyley’s poems are perpetually fresh, utterly scrutinized, marked by vigor and virtuosity, arriving on the page as accomplished things, like settled law, fit for the long haul language calls us to.’Thomas Lynch, Poet, 2014.
‘Enda Wyley’s poems are remarkable for the way they communicate warm feeling through their lightness of touch and clarity of colour.’
The trustees of the Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship, 2014.
‘Enda Wyley is a true poet. To Wake To This articulates a subtle, dreamy apprehension through a diction and an imagery all the writer’s own.’
Fiona Sampson, The Irish Times.
‘Her imagery, honesty and insight make this a first rate work.’
Poetry Ireland Review.
Published with the kind permission of Dedalus Press , Dublin http://www.dedaluspress.com/poets/wyley.html