All posts tagged: Women’s Work

‘The Whetter of the Knife’ and other poems by Judith Mok

Beethoven in New York Fur Elise This night is on me like a blank sheet I have to write Of people playing my music that Fills the subway with my submerged sounds As if I am a whale vibrating through the thick of times Communicating that my name is: Beethoven A man of music in a storm of voices A choir, an army of American instruments People playing my music, people judging me How I rode this crushing wave of emotions I wake up to chaos and constellations in my head Thinking: I will have to tell her I heard this choir supporting some statement about me Thinking: it’s one breath of mine against three of hers That’s what our rhythm seems to be I hear this couple talking Two voices modulating into one Softly speaking specters of promises I spy on her asleep Sensing a child in her with too many dreams To chose from, her jaws clenched To keep them inside till they rot While she dies slowly in her sleep. Casual chords …

A Saturday Woman Poet , Vona Groarke.

Indoors by Vona Groarke. It breaks apart as water will not do when I pull ,  hard, away from me, the corners bunched in my two hands to steer a true and regulated course. I plunge the needle through and through, dipping, tacking, coming up again. The ripple of thread that follows pins, out of its depth , a shallow hem. I smooth the waves and calm the folds. Then, to ensure an even flow, I cast a line which runs from hook to hook and pulls the net in overlapping pleats. Which brings me to the point where I am hanging a lake, by one shore, in my room, to swell and billow between the light and opaque , unruffled dark. I step in. The room closes round me and scarcely puckers when I move my limbs. I step out. The path is darkened where I walk, my shadow steaming off in all this sun.  from :  The New Irish Poets , Edited by Selina Guinness . Bloodaxe Books 2004

Eithne Strong’s ‘Regeneration’

Regeneration   Let me out. I’m rising out of death’s skull. Aha, old devil’s dower I have victoried. I leave you in the morning: it deals with every death and spring defeats the catafalque. You see I must believe in resurrection. This is it. Now. I was dead and am alive. Hello eternity. I can die no more horrific death than I have died. No hell beyond the horrors of myself that murdered every life; saw death in every pregnancy of dog and nut and man. Found death the ever death. Come bomb,come my most killing hate, life lives outside the blasting skull. Computer is not final. I cannot give you proof of course, I merely have arisen. Regeneration, from Sarah in Passing, by Eithne Strong, Dolmen Press 1974, illustrated by John Hodge. The Hare Arch by Ní Dhuibhne

Anne Brontë

Its Monday and it’s cold in Dublin, am so glad I got a new all-weather but mostly Mountain-climbing Jacket on the Mayo Sojourn (Post-flu and dental recovery). Since I am unpacked and having done the school run where the little one was welcomed back with much happiness, I thought to publish some Bronte (Brunty) poems and whilst adoring Emily’s amazing poetry , I think Anne mostly neglected. Poethead is about women writers , the whole idea of the blog was sited in the Penelopiad , the woman in exile and the community of women who are sometimes nodded to in serious writer’s chorus’, chorus-lines or indeed hymn sheets, though most of the time critique is poetry and weekend supplements tends to the male voice and academic fields. The North Wind “That wind is from the North: I know it well; No other breeze could have so wild a swell. Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell, The faintly dies, and softly sighs, And moans and murmurs mournfully. I know it’s language: thus it speaks …