All posts tagged: Dedalus Press

Sample of Five Poems from ‘Transmissions’ by Elaine Cosgrove

ENDLESS   We become adult on roads, on lines, on grids, on greens, on grey spaces — you cannot zoom in. We become older with the city as seer, decibels the scale from stepping dawn to engine rattling dusk, to clinking night and walk-back light. Chiaroscuro lives in metered hope. We become in spite of what happens, and we are here, still here becoming with care, and listening ears. We become no matter the distortion that hopes to confuse our hearts, and break them. We become electric. On and off beings flowing again and again, endless in this sudden glittering world of interruptions.   SURFING AT STREEDAGH STRAND   Site of a Spanish Armada wreckage   During sea-salt of winter surf, remembrance of lineage acts like zinc on the blood that swells from a creviced nick beside my thumbnail. Streedagh Strand pulls out her linen towel and I become warm dough on the sea floor when their bodies appear blood-strewn bits on grain. Five hundred wiped-out sailors beat, robbed and stripped ashore by local savages …

“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 …

From “Parvit of Agelast” and other poems by Máighréad Medbh

  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 …

“Sin-Eater” and other poems by Jessica Traynor

An Education in Silence   for the women of the Stanhope Street Magdalene Laundry   This morning, light spilled into the courtyard as if God had opened a window. The light is quiet and can’t be herded from dormitory beds to morning mass – it shines where it wants, blushing the stained glass windows, washing the priest’s words.   My mother doesn’t write. It’s been three years. My hands crack from the heat of the sheets as we feed them through the mangle. The high windows admit one square of light, on the word repent and I am silent like the sunlight.   An Education In Silence is © Jessica Traynor   Sin-Eater   He blows on his hands to warm them; it looks like some ritual, some totem.   Between us, nothing but certainty – the death-sound in the old woman’s throat –   and uncertainty – the priest’s whereabouts. Our whispers summon only a flutter in her eyelids.   Someone had mentioned the man down the road who lives alone, who gives some …

‘Carry’ and other poems by Mary Noonan

The Card   What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland. – Samuel Beckett, First Love   I’m looking for a card, one that holds the oriole on the black pear tree – will it be brazen or sweet, junebug or whippoorwill, Tupelo or Baton Rouge? I drape myself in maps, drift in colours and signs, sleep on my seven books of owls, frogs, alligators.   I want a card that quickens codes, spills the secrets of words, sends letters flying. We used to name things, now we travel the lines past ghost-shack and scrub, sun-bothered lizards skittering under creosote and cocotillo.   This card must distil the frenzy of the firefly as it waltzes with its own blazing corpse.   The Card is © Mary Noonan Carry   To clear my head of talk, I walked the beach and found a pebble, a cuckoo’s egg, held it and saw it was a map.   An oval stone striated with slate-grey markings, one side bore tracings …