All posts tagged: New Poetry

‘Moving Like Anemones’ and other poems by Lorna Shaugnessy

Crystal   The blower adds breath to heat, turns and blows within the mould until he finds precise form. Molten glass vibrates. It takes ten years to learn how deep you can cut before the glass shatters, how deep you have to go to catch the light. Mistakes pile up waiting for the furnace, a second chance, instability anchored by the weight of lead.   Río Tinto   We cannot enter the Roman graveyard. The gates are padlocked and chained so we press our faces to the wire, squint at the skewed angles of mossed stones, the departed minions of enterprise and empire. Behind us the mines, where pulleys and sidings punctuate strata of centuries-old endeavour. Rock and mineral are bared in russets and ochres too raw for peopled places. Their cratered wounds fill with water so deep you could drown there. Today is Sunday. In the high, hushed absence of trucks to rumble up the hill we try to hear beneath the wind, listen for the sound of stone, touch the injured past, its …

‘Chasing Tails’ and other poems by Layla Hehir

Beware of the Hey Man   Beware of the Hey Man, he’s lurking in the street. That hipster-hatted Hey Man, the coolest guy you’ll meet. He’s sipping on his coffee, a pained artistic soul. The only thing that this guy’s drawing is the dole. His conversation sparkles as he bums a cigarette. He’s working on a book you know, it’s just not finished yet. Beware of the Hey Man, he’s drifting through the crowd. If you keep drifting every day man, the world won’t wait around. The screenplay never written, the painting never hung. You’ve wasted years and missed the boat but hey man, it was fun. Sharon   She scurries through life like a squirrel on cocaine. Her manner is harried, her banter inane. Give her one problem, she’ll come back with twenty. Don’t ask for ideas, you know she’s got plenty.   She’s sorted the inventory nobody needed. If she stays the latest it means she’s succeeded. She feels so hard done by, why all the complaints? Will anyone tell her she belongs …

‘Pillars’ and other poems by Alice Kinsella

Sea walk.   A grey day Bitter winter Biting wind And there was us   We got our shoes Wet and our toes Wrinkled In our socks   The sand clumped Our fingers curled And I tasted salt Coating your lips   Goose bumps rose On our arms And the hairs stood stiff Like tiny white flags   The air licked wet We bundled coats tighter And your fingertips put Bruises on my skin   You said we’d come back When the weather Turned And Wade barefoot.   The weather turned all right. But we never did, Did we?   Tea Leaves   Amongst the ghosts Of coffee dates Gone by Two old friends met to share a brew and some moments. They sat on rickety chairs out of doors in sticky rain. Shredded tobacco with shaking hands Into thin bent rollies And tugged on them to fill their mouths with anything but words. Coffee for her and a green tea for him A long repeated order a rehearsal of a memory And do you …

‘blurring’ and other poems by Kerrie O’ Brien

Bamboo Grove, Kyoto   everything seemed familiar and so we kept walking the light, hushed with green no path looked different we didn’t speak – a bright rain left the earth fragrant we found a temple hidden, waiting and paper fortunes only you could read your tears – gold rivers felt like stars falling on my hands   Aftermath   you know pride is a terrible thing and we’ll be a long time dead what does any of it matter now when it’s all stripped back it will hit you one morning crying making eggs crying trying to eat them the love won’t go away worse than the fear or the hate stubborn around you red ball and chain the days don’t make a difference I’ve tried to stamp it out like I’m constantly on fire when we meet now there’s a sadness like we’re talking from the dead like we’re both being unfaithful but also the odd beauty of how the love can still live even if we’re not in it we still talk …

‘Nadelah’ and other poems by Geraldine O’Kane

Hitting to Hurt (after ‘The Leaping Lamb’)   Everybody saw us as the bull and the lamb, that is how I hid for so long.   He was a chunk of a man; I sliced him to bits with my words, buried him with shame.   I am sorry for using such callous language, I’ll try to rein myself in; let’s start again.   The first time my hands rose, it felt like they belonged to someone else; afterwards I wished so hard that they did.   It’s not like it happened everyday but the second and third time I knew the fists were mine and I kept on using them.   He stood there as I threatened to leave him if he didn’t fight back or if he did I’d go anyway; soon I was saving all my energy and hitting to hurt.   Once I drew blood and no longer saw him as either bull, husband or human being; it was then I knew I needed help.   Commissioned by Artist Brian Kielt …