All posts tagged: poetry

‘Acceptance’ and other poems by Deirdre Gallagher

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Words The crisp dew of words, that sing in spring Jubilant is their ring. The soft gentle breeze of words which appease, please Leave tickles of tease. The blazing heat of words which incite, ignite, Defiant in their fight. The strong gale of words that wail, prevail, Woeful is their tale. The cold depth of words which pound, astound, Deadening in their sound. Acceptance Throat itches and scratches, raspiness of an other- worldly quality. Lips miming the words, their echoes silent. From deep within, the surges pulsating, desperately attempting to blast into the atmosphere. A concerted effort, both messenger and vessel willing, wishing, wanting the ripples to meet the surface. Flows and ebbs of lapping dialogue, sparkling glistening leaps of innocent, complicit laughter, lulls of serenity and quiet contemplation all in a blink of the mind’s eye. Each page turning as if courtesy of a fast-forward button. Slipping, falling, fading, thugs of resistance futile. The stark realisation, this is coldness, this is acceptance. Your resting place The glistening Shannon, a magnificent twinkling curtain rolled out …

“The Wind of the World” & other poems by Müesser Yeniay

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The Wind of the World For my grandmother you are under the earth I am on the earth with your body that is tired of carrying the wind of this world -a stone in the middle of my heart has been rolling without stop- I don’t know where you have gone the only thing which is clear is that you are not here The Phenomenology of Writing Now you are an empty page inviting writing –maybe- because of lust just not ready -your call is on my mind for quite a while- call me call me the flow of ink is a remedy for my wounds Illness You hit me like you were punching the wall woman isn’t your cave in which whenever you like you can lie down you can’t climb over her like a squirrel. not of his nectar but of his pee he lets inside he loves like he shakes a tree manhood is a serious illness Rajm Outside is night inside is separation this must be the last day of the …

Poems from “Off Duty” by Katie Donovan

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Wedding   “Hasty,” the judge mocked until he read the letter from the consultant, his jaded face changing to pity. We got the green light then, to marry in a hurry.   We turned up in our jeans and limped through the ceremony – upsetting the officiating lady, determined to make this a special occasion.   Outside the registry office we inked a shadow on the next couple: the bride, glowing in her plumage, her robust young groom, their flower girls fidgeting.   My brother and his wife had used their lunch hour to be our witnesses. They went back to work, and my new spouse rode off on his bike: the big triumph that, with six months to live, he could still cycle.   I had to collect our children – the paltry nuptials would have been disappointing – no frocks, no fun – just this boring signing thing, and so I kept it secret, left them with Gran.   I sloped off to the train. It was bright, a May day, and I …

‘Cleaving a Puzzle-Tree’ and other poems by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

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Cleaving a Puzzle-Tree   1.   I didn’t see my grandmother’s tree in Chile, araucaria araucana, though they grow tall there and are many. I must have walked under them every day, tripped over their seeds, but I didn’t think of her, oceans away, standing in a square of green, raking leaves around her monkey puzzle tree.   2.   For over a hundred years, that tree stood between pruned rosebush and clipped hedge, a long shadow moving over wet fields and stone walls. As a girl, I clung to the trunk when we played hide and seek, rough bark printing maps on my palms.   3.   In April gales, the tree sways. From the window, my grandmother watches a chainsaw blade spin the tree into a flight of splinters, until only logs and sawdust are left. In each neat wheel of wood, an eye opens, ringed by lines of the past. The logs are split, stacked, the tree turned into armfuls of firewood which will rise as smoke to the sky, a puzzle …

‘Fable’ and ‘Oh Cherry Trees You are Too White For My Heart’ by Doris Lessing

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Originally posted on Poethead:
Fable When I look back I seem to remember singing. Yet it was always silent in that long warm room. Impenetrable, those walls, we thought, Dark with ancient shields.The light Shone on the head of a girl or young limbs Spread carelessly. And the low voices Rose in the silence and were lost as in water. Yet, for all it was quiet and warm as a hand, If one of us drew the curtains A threaded rain blew carelessly outside. Sometimes a wind crept, swaying the flames, And set shadows crouching on the walls, Or a wolf howled in the wide night outside, And feeling our flesh chilled we drew together. But for a while the dance went on – That is how it seems to me now: Slow forms moving calm through Pools of light like gold net on the floor. It might have gone on, dream-like, for ever. But between one year and the next – a new wind blew ? The rain rotted the walls at last ?…