All posts tagged: New Poetry From Ireland

“Children of Agent Orange” and other poems by Asma Zulfiqar

Mythical Night Oh Night, Oh Calm and Mythical Night, Have you not seen the moon? How bright! ‘Tis not the sun but the twilight, To the earth holding tight. How soothing! Cool and warm in winter’s night, Calling it the noon, ‘‘tis all right’’ See the stars twinkling at height, A moth gently flying around a streetlight. The trees singing in a soft breeze, And their shadows dancing in sweet harmony, Tomorrow night all trees shall freeze, But tonight listen to the crickets humming their lullaby in melody.   Monster in Your House Hold on to the curtains tight, Pull down the bruised red blind, Here it comes in the night, You say it is not right. But someone has got the blight, Blue unseeing eyes that turn white, Let enter nor shine no light. Smiling, stuck in oblivion in fright. Will it all end in demise, Or will you finally escape tonight, You and your child? Stranded on an island Stranded on an island -all alone I was, Lonely I seemed -brief would’ve been …

‘If I Weren’t Afraid’ and other poems by Ella Bowler

I Don’t Talk, I Let You Talk All The Time You sit opposite me, on a broken stool, smiling with your teeth. Rain drips from the ceiling, seeps into table cracks, running onto jeans. You speak in trauma, in childhood, in breathy laughs, in old love. I show my teeth. You take up more space than me. Your voice eats me, drinks me, you put your hand on my knee and kiss me. I don’t talk, I let you talk all the time. I stand in the kitchen, staring at the window. It has swelling eyes and tangled hair and clothes from yesterday. The colour drains from my cheeks. Washes down the sink. Your voice appears behind me. It’s bigger, bigger than me. Screams over dishes at the bottom of the sink. I show my teeth. You drink me with a straw, eat me raw fill my mouth, hands and stories. I don’t talk, I let you talk all the time. I sit on your bed in the black. The moon shines in from the …

“Morning Yearning” and other poems by Alanna D. Merriman

Morning Yearning The time it takes to know one’s ticks Is a short, round the clock to Twenty-four To love them takes only one With blindfold eyes in bedroom Morning, empty coffee cups Dusty shakes of mindless thoughts Importance comes too late When idle happiness warms Their train seat home Why does time excuse endless Troupes of productivity Deemed impossible to achieve When achieving it? You find that useless, mindless thoughts Bring only an abundance more. Where are childhood ticks in Tin-cans and Orange juice cartons Empty by the kitchen sink? Rooftops and dreamlike Catch-up conversations Take me to bed through the Gapped stone walls Where my body rests on adrenaline buds Minding them for morning.   Landmark’s Difference Come in off the street Out of the cold Into the dense air Of bustling business; Bright eyed The same faces knocking From pillar to post Protecting their silent Protests Yearning for the openness Of country caravans And wood cabin comfort; There’s no solace In the city Only endless shafts shifting Culture to crude creation Ugly …

“Words Like Stars” and other poems by Roisin Ní Neachtain

Janus His Janus head looks both ways, Double-jointed at the neck. The honey juice of the persimmon Bursts from their mouths, Babbling tales in frothy tones. A river parts his muscles. The knot in his guts is split. Inimical flesh in the dour night, Unborn in blackness, You seek, four-eyed, for memories that the oil burned bright.   The Moon of Pride The skies are thrown in a vernal frenzy. We are strangers again And tremble in rounded movements. We dance through the open of a new obscurity. Our voices imagine the salt of shame, Still insisting between lines for honesty. Pale as the moon of pride, He plays our hands And knits fingers into spirits. Ashes ingrain the shadow of his feet And blunder through each sorrow of my mind.   Words Like Stars How they flow unformed Then fix themselves like the stars Shivering and held up Worshipped And I And they Staggering and squawking Sweating and squabbling Night and day Wobbling words Singing Dust Dust Dust Corrosive mantles Wrought to a stain …

“Way-Tamer” and other poems by Kathryn Keane

Driving Lesson All I have in this breath is This brain in this tin shell In this endless second My grip choking the wheel – This brain in this tin shell Rattles and stutters and jerks My grip choking the wheel So letting go is the only thing That rattles and stutters and jerks Will let past the steering wheel. So letting go is the only thing Left now I’ve learned to fly: Past the steering wheel My wringing out of skill has Left now I’ve learned to fly Like a cloth uncurling Like a fishing line unspooling – This tin shell flies, and flies, and flies.   bones at eight i saw it. the smell of earth thick and foreboding in the air; unearthed by accident, its sickly white a shock against the dark. i teetered on my toes and held its hands; powdery, dust-dry, like old cheese, its fingers were brittle. its grip was strong. and i welcomed it, when the vertebrae floated in my glass of milk, when the ribs curved up …