All posts tagged: Sarah Clancy

‘The Irish in Britain’ by Sarah Clancy

The Irish in Britain   Had I lived I would be fifteen now scrawling your name on my copy-book as some listless teacher droned, we made our own spells our own rules you and I painted circle ‘A’s on canvas bags with Tippex, and later in my bedroom I would make you sniff it so we could channel some imagined high and discuss all the things that anarchism isn’t those were the only times you ever came close to barefaced to some great reveal.   We sang Billy Bragg songs and grasped at something bigger, something we hoped we could fit in I held your hand while we marched against apartheid as if it hadn’t anything to do with us, but the sixth years called you faggot and gave you a lack-lustre kicking even their own hearts weren’t in it still and all something in you sickened and we were lost to ignorance and ecstasy and the worst you had to offer to yourself we were lost to poppers, to the summers in London you …

Veracity and Other Stories, poems by Sarah Clancy

The following two poems are by Sarah Clancy  from a forthcoming collection of prose and poetry, called Friction. Veracity and other stories   for Alice Kennelly   I’ve lived in four different decades today stepped onto three continents I took no visas no tickets no passports I wrote my own bill of passage I forged it and what of my fraud if it served us?   I inhabited flesh that wasn’t my own I scratched it kneaded stiff shoulders with hands that emerged from some other wrists some forearms some oxters then I left it   I walked from it and encountered new bones new ligaments new eyes with which I saw what I wanted I decided you were an abstraction so I tried to walk through you but couldn’t I put my palm on your chest but it met with resistance I got caught in your substance   then fuck it I lied about it said you meant nothing that your whole existence was a blip a pot-hole that no-one was fixing and I …

A Celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2012

Nuala Ní Chonchúir is a writer and poet, who has contributed poems and translations to the blog over sometime. I am linking here to her poetry collections page  La Pucelle   In the hush of my father’s house, before dusk rustles over the horizon, I take off the dress my mother made -it’s as ruby red as St Michael’s cloak- and with a stitch of linen, bind my breasts.   By the greasy light of a candle, I shear my hair to the style of a boy, in the looking glass I see my girlhood swallowed up in a tunic and pants, I lace them tightly to safeguard myself.   My soldiers call me ‘Pucelle’, maiden, they cleave the suit of armour to my body, and know when following my banner over ramparts into Orléans, that there will only ever be one like me.   When the pyre flames fly up my legs, I do not think of the Dauphin, or my trial as a heretical pretender, but see my mother, head bent low, sewing a red …

‘Phrase Books Never Equip you for the Answers’ by Sarah Clancy

Phrase Books Never Equip you for the Answers   On the morning of the fifteenth time we went through our sleep-with-your-ex routine, I had the usual optimism thing about mistakes is to not keep repeating the same ones I said disregarding the government health warning on the cigarettes I was sucking, crossing the road without stopping speaking or looking, ignoring the red man pulsing on the lights at the junction, I was wired direct and I said; I know, I’ll write you the definitive user manual for me. You said I was arrogant that we should make it up as we go, and I said; well could I do a mind map then? With here be dragons marked clearly in red, so we won’t flounder like last time end up washed up dehydrated and drained well I was, fairly wired, I said ‘in each shipwreck we’re lessened embittered, come on, let me at least try to fix it, I can write us a blueprint for the new improved version, and you laughed and said well …

An evening of women’s literature at the Irish Writer’s Centre (06/01/2012)

The Irish Writer’s Centre,  last evening  06/01/2012,  hosted along with Dublin City Council a celebration of women’s poetry, music and literature to mark Oíche Nollaig Na mBan (Women’s Christmas). The event was presented by June Considine. And what a night it was. The event was bi-partite in structure, with readings by three poets and story-tellers to begin, a brief interval filled with music was quickly followed by three more readings by three more women writers. The first half was decidedly poetic, with readings in English and Irish by Celia de Fréine, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill and Eilis Ní Dhuibhne. Celia De Fréine read In Relation to Each Other, Dearbhail , Celia Óg , and Ophelia. Dearbhail was indeed heart-breaking, the tale of the murder of Dearhbail by jealous women. Eilis Ní Dhuibhne read two tales , The Man Who Had No Story and The Blind.  Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill read from a few collections, Including from my favourite Pharaoh’s Daughter, with translations by Paul Muldoon,  Michael  Hartnett,  and Dr. Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin.  Poems read included , The Language, Dán do …