#bookreview The Reaper of Justice, Anne Frehill - #irishfiction #ireland #irishwarofindependence #revolutionaryIreland

"Reapers of Justice" Anne Frehill

Set during one of my favourite periods of Irish history, the revolutionary years between the Rising and Independence, Reapers of Justice is the story of a young schoolteacher, Sarah Murphy, in love with a freedom fighter, Sean . 

Through the story of their tumultuous love, we see the friction, upheaval and danger of those years juxtaposed against the strict social and moral conventions of the era. As events unfold Sarah must confront dark secrets of her own family past while navigating the danger around her.

Sarah is a sympathetic main character, who finds herself increasingly trapped because of her marriage to Sean. The era is well researched, with real events and characters woven into the narrative. The social details are especially well drawn. A very engaging story, well told - definitely recommend to lovers of historical fiction, romance, Irish themes

Available on BuyTheBook or AMAZON 

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Gods and Radicals "A Beautiful Resistance:Fire" Edition is out now #poetry #poems #writing #literature #feminism

Delighted to see that Gods and Radicals Journal "A Beautiful Resistance: Fire" is out now; and very excited to be included in this excellent body of work with my poem "Eriu Addresses the False Kings" a rosc in the druidic tradition against the (failed) proposed demonstration by a notorious misogynist, rape-advocating, group. 
Please support this excellent publication, at the website below:

https://godsandradicals.org/a-beautiful-resistance-2/

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Grand Canal Square In March #poetry #irishpoetry #Dublin #ireland

Grand Canal Square in March

Only in Dublin
would two swans
crossing the docks
greet you in March

Light reflecting
refracting the image
of urban life
and city living

hazy sun and
smokey stacks
 a tall ship mast
and two wild swans

Welcome to my city
cosmopolitan
21st century
metropolis

Welcome to my city
Viking terrority
mystical land
mysterious port.

(Photo taken March 2007 GCS Dublin, on the way from my husband's ( then fiancé) apartment to work.)

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The Problem with Women #poetry #feminism #4thwavefeminism #irishpoetry #ireland

The problem with women


I post about issues, many feminist in tone
Abuse of the female, inside the home
or out on the streets in full view of all
Or insidious lessons that make us feel small 
And I say every time not all men do this
A line in my stories some men seem to miss
And I say that the male is vulnerable too
I say men are mainly good, and it's  true.
But then the replies start derailing the thread
As some men read things I never actually  said
Answer accusations I didn't actually  make
Argue the point for argument's  sake
I can talk about women broken and battered
I can post about young girls whose dream have been shattered
Without needing instruction from men who feel slighted
You're not like that? Good. I'm fucking delighted.
Stop telling me that and read what I wrote
Open your hearts and start to take note
Because some of your kind are doing these acts
Don't be defensive just be aware of these facts
Give your opinion without the lecture. I'll  listen
And I'll happily learn if there's something  I'm  missing
But in return when I point out your own oversight 
Don't call me a feminazi for daring to be right.
shrugging off debate with an injured defence
"Oh! The trouble with women is they take such offence ."

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Love letters of a busy life

To my husband Mark, who is currently trying not to nod off in work, having minded our poor sick baby all night in one room while I minded the poor sick toddler in another. And then we swopped. Some day my love, we'll sleep in the same bed, have a lie in, have breakfast in bed, have time to chat. Probably after the boys turn thirty. 

Hi, it's me

I'm sorry that I haven't been in touch

I see you every day, morning and night

so why write? well, our time is short

I seem to say hello, goodbye and sometimes

in between, a hurried I love you

but oh! it's not enough, my dear.

Here in my head we talk all the time

like we did when we were leisure rich.

I itch to tell you all the details of my day

and every way in which you touched them,

lightened them, help me carry the load.

Is there room

for love letters of the old type, the ones

that fill the spaces in a busy life? Recount

the dreams and hopes and fears of every day

renew the links that bind us to our life

and say, I would not live any other story

walk any other path, fight for any other cause

but you? You are my star, my stone, my roots 

and all there is to praise in heaven or on earth.

You may not know this but it's written there,

in shopping lists and texts about dinner -

whenever you read between the lines, it's there. 

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Between Moments. new #poem #poetry

Between Moments

Colgate and shower gel
The scramble for clean clothes
Inhalers and toast-ready brek-stodge
And a glass of milk; where are the car keys?
Where are - shoes socks bags
Bottles nappies coats
(No not that coat that's not my good coat
I want my fireman sam coat)

Somewhere between milk and bags
You touch my arm
You smile or kiss or squeeze
You wink - we're in this together, love
We're a team; I don't know
Where I put his jumper/what I'd do
Without you. Between moments
Is where true love resides.

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Leaf in Autumn

Leaf in Autumn

The gutters turned to streams,
torrents raging through the streets
as grey rain beat down on us
as the wind whipped us
as the sky turned dark.
As I clutched my mother's hand
I saw a leaf charge the rapids,
white water of the drains,
to spend one moment suspended
in the eye of the storm.
And I followed it as it journeyed
through the streets
out of sight but never out of mind.
I follow it still, when the rain howls
and the wind catches my fancy
blowing it where it will
Somewhere out there, it wanders still.

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The Games are Over

As Russia prepares to host the Olympic Games, many observers are aware of the hideous treatment of the LGBT community there - including recent laws outlawing homosexuality, talking about or discussing homosexuality, imprisonment of LGBT people, outlawing any LGBT activism - laws reminiscent of Hitler's attacks on the Jewish Community on the eve of the notorious Berlin Olympics. The Olympic committee and the various countries participating in the Olympics seem content to ignore these blatant human rights violations even as most Western countries move forward into an era of equality.


The Games are Over


I sat on Mount Olympus
under a weary sun
and waited til He came
His glory undiminished, the Beautiful One
I greeted him and we talked
of old times and days
of all the strange and wondrous things
since we last parted ways.

And then He asked me sadly
Is it true? Will they
sully the games anew, and hold them ransom
for some coins -
is this the truth?
The games I gloried in, in my youth,
the honour, the pride, like prayers and incense
pain and defeat, victory and joy, offered on my Altar?
Are these things naught?


I told him, yes.
For convenience, cash and an easy life
they'll hold the games where they like.
they will ignore the cries of the oppressed
they'll see them beaten in the streets
and close their eyes, it's for the best -
they'll stride out under a thousand flags
but none will be Rainbows.

I told Him this
and He, manly, wept
He held my hand and talked
of His past loves, of golden limbs
and kisses sweet
They have outlawed me, He cried
I am the one they beat.
I am the one imprisoned
I am the one despised -
Anger hardened His lovely face -
The games they hold offend this sacred place
I curse them and their modern play
Olympus turns its back today.

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Pomegranate: A poem in honour of the launch of the Pomegranate Charity tonight

Today is National Infertility Day and it coincides with the launch of the wonderful charity Pomegranate . Pomegranate raises funds for those who cannot afford expensive infertility treatment but who yearn for a child; and it also raises awareness of the issues surrounding infertility.
Without SIMS Clinic we would not have been able to have our beloved son. The idea that others are denied the services of such clinics, because of the expense, is tragic. We were extremely fortunate. If you do nothing else today read the Pomegranate website, and donate - no matter how small an amount, you will be helping end the pain of infertility for some future parent. (I have no connection with Pomegranate other than thinking they're a great cause.)

Pomegranate's launch is tonight at 7pm in the Russell Court Hotel (Dicey Reilly’s) on Harcourt Street, Dublin 2. Guest speakers will be Conor Pope of the Irish Times and Steve McGettigan of the Sims clinic.

Pomegranate

When they talk of it

It is assumed, only the fecund know

Where the heart lies

When it comes to babies,

When it comes to birth,

When it comes to dreams

Of sticky hands and kisses.

Oh no, no, we the Barren,

We too understand these joys.

We yearn for them in ways

Only we can understand

We are steeped in the mysteries of pain.

Oh but your words can sting us

Anything stirring? No news for us?

Sure would you not relax?

My sister’s neighbour’s cousin’s friend

Got pregnant using the scapula of some saint

 you probably should have tried when you were younger –

I’d never go to those lengths

Ah we know the heart of it all right

We hold their little hands and kiss their brows

A thousand times in our dreams

And the sweet drug of hope

Lulls us into the arms of sleep

Dark night, after night.

 .

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Bród, a poem.... #bródclub #Irish

RTE have a great initiative going at the moment thanks to Bernard Dunne


http://www.rte.ie/brodclub/


The idea is to get 100,00 Irish people who like me, have some Irish but rarely use it, to start using it again. Dig it out, root through your memory and sprinkle a cúpla focail through your conversations and texts and facebook status updates throughout the day.


I can read Irish fairly well but my spoken Irish is horribly rusty and my grammar was non existent (thanks, school!) til I did a Gael Linn course a few years ago. I still have terrible grammar but thanks to the excellent course I now know what I should be doing to re-learn the rotten Irish we were taught in school and make it better. I kept telling myself that all I need is the time, but you know what? I'll never have the time. So I am taking up the Bród challenge, not putting it off any longer and trying to reawaken then Irish I have and hopefully make it better as I go.

This inspired the poem below. My readers know that many of the forms and structures of my poems come from the Irish, from poems and poetry half remembered, and poetic forms that intrigued me far more than their English counterparts. So I owe a debt of gratitude to my langauge.





Bród



I searched through the foclóir of my life
Looking for my roots, mo Teach, mo Tuath is mo Tir
And found some little treasures I’d forgotten
Little seoda
buried here and there.
I found my bród hidden under layers
Of fear, of criticism and of failure.
I found mo grá in sound and form that flowed.
And in the words of poets long departed,
Found mo teanga náisiúnta
– still great and open-hearted.

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September 2010

September unfurls with quiet charm
The first palette of colours
to paint the year's end, tell the tale
of descent into Winter's cold arms.

...Protesting Autumn, calling out
- Joy and warmth and ripeness
still abide! Dance with me one
more time, before the leaves fall.

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The Murder of Cliona

The Murder of Cliona

Cliona sits by the shore
Singing songs of love and loss
Like any underdressed lady of the sea;
passing as one of them, the myths and nymphs
Brushing hair with comb and bone
While all the time, counting waves.

The Ninth one is still hers. She yet
rides the horses of the surf
And Mannanán calls her from the west;
It would be best to return
not wait and hide and hope
for cornucopias of adoration

But she clings on still, a languid
survivor on a rock.
Connla calls by, Sinnan at his side;
they have long ago given up on us,
our ways beyond the
comprehension of mere gods.

They beg her, leave. Come with us
Into the glittering sunsets, into the
Land of Promises. Leave behind
the heartbreak of rejection. Sing with us
once more, don’t let them
poison you here, where you sit.

It’s true her hair is dull
her eyes are swollen and her lips
chaffed. O! mortals, you are killing
Her, killing Cliona of the Ninth Wave.
And yet she sits and waits,
Refusing to drown her hope.

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I Make Myself Up

Another for the November Pad Challenge :
Todays prompt is "Invention"

I make myself up

I make myself up every morning;
It's all just invention and lies.
I draw in a smile on my face
and then I shade in my eyes.

I invent who I am every day
A new face for each dawn, anew.
My mood is reflected in changes;
stamped, in colours and hue.

I am a tissue of fictions,
a collection of fables and dreams;
I create a new world every minute,
no matter how real this one seems.

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If Only She's Listened to Granny

Day 12 of the November Pad Challenge - write a poem with the titled "if only"

If Only She'd Listened to Granny

"That wolf is a nuisance,"
Granny often said,
hanging around like a tame dog.

Don't pat him, don't feed him,
don't let him sleep on your bed.


Granny is old and has seen things
she knows how the wild things are;
she won't let them into the house -
she won't sweep the hearth after midnight -
she throws salt on the back step.

Red is young and foolish.
There's some status is having
a Wolf by her side, teeth bared.
She likes to go walking in moonlight.

"That wolf is dangerous,"
Granny's last words,
spit through bloodied lips.

Red is sorry now.

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Lower me Not

A poem I wrote some years ago; it was included in the anthology Where The Hazel Falls (Electric Publications) ; it was inspired by several traditional burial practices including Tibetan Sky Burial http://www.zmescience.com/other/the-sky-burial/

-----


Lower me not,
into a crimson mouthed coffin
under mahogony covers
a secret tucked away
Lower me not
into damp clay
weighted down
by marble grey

Set me ablaze
set me free
set me flying
like a dying comet.
Across the sky>
fling me, swing me,
let the wind kiss me
set me spiralling in flaming arcs.

float me away
a petalled offering
on a river of spices
through red dusty land
or rip me, espose me
the bare bones of me
speadeagled on a table rock
part of the raven, or the wolf

Lower me not,
leave me not
forget me not
let me leave you
let me depart
let me be freedom
and new life
and new dawns.

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One word at a time...

My "constuction" poem for the November Poetic Challenge


One word at a time

I built a bridge once.
It crossed a river, where water crashed white
on rocks and jagged edges.

I built it with words.
the first word fell on muddy land and sank
- it was hello, just hello.

I threw another word.
It took so many, one balancing on the other
until some settled on top.

Then I used bigger words.
Words that formed sentences, arching across
- sentences entwined.

Then I used poetic words.
that became ornate pillars and hanging baskets
that brightened our bridge.

The bridge still stands;
the river does not run so fast or violent now
but the bridge still stands.

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Lugh

In honour of the day - Happy Lughnasadh


Lugh
sitting in golden splendour
belly full and mead sweetened
Look down on these my friends,
my clan, my people
my tuatha and my Tir
Lugh, let sweet mellow days
be their fill, and all the ripe
beauty of your season
leaven the approach of winter
with cider-apple and harvest
and plenty
and love.

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Twitter Fragments

I'm doing a thing on twitter where we post a small poem (under 140 characters) Some people do haiku, but I tend towards fragmentary three line verse
twitter @gercelt

also check out @twitlaureate, or search #poetry for more on poetry on twitter

Twitter Fragments


i
Silent house, paused between sleep and wake
and I the ghost, that passes in that space
part guardian, part spectre at the feast.


ii
Cold morning grey competes with duvet warmth
sounds of stirring city siren-calling me to work
summer, in the town beside the sea

iii
Dublin is back in the bosom of winter,
grey skies reflected in slick pavement puddles,
grimly chilled by driving rain

iv
Dead weight of afternoon, pressing down,
keeping me at my desk
oh for the freedom that came with summers past!

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Yule at the Court of Maeve

I just found one of my poems was posted on a certain wellknown neo-nazi website - posted by a member as if it was one of their own, no accreditation to the author, and no permission to post it. Not only a breach of copyright but theft. Although part of me is grateful that the nasty little moronic bigots didn't put my name on their filthy site.
Just so we're clear, nothing would ever induce me to prostitute my work by connecting it in any way with the mindless, one-brain-cell-between-them cretins that espouse neo-nazism. I hereby reclaim my poem, one of my favourites to add insult to injury and bad cess to the bigots - they are incapable of understanding the heritage of honour and integrity it evokes.



Yule at the court of Maeve



I left the city
and traveled through the plains
and found the forest
of Warriors, among the forts of the
kings.

The Warrior Queen, Maeve of the Sidhe
beloved of the Hunter and
favourite, blessed daughter of the Morrigan
greeted me.
I vowed never to return to
the corruption of the free.

I fished on the shores of the Atlantic;
I have prayed on the Mountain of
saints.
Late autumn now finds me dwelling
deep in the forest, with those
who escaped, like me.
I have no suits and no favours.
I walk in bare feet with the deer.

In the winter, I will pack my pelts
and furs, make me a gurney and load it.
I will pull it to the Court of the Tribes of the West.
I will unload it at the feet of Maeve
and beg her receive her daughter, and
I already know the pleasure I will see, in my mothers’ eyes.

I will pass Yule there and stay until
Imbolc.
No more will I measure time by the glossy calendar of man. I will await
the spring with a glad heart,
and then ,
when the mountains shed their covers
and the green rushes re-appear,
I will gather my bow and my dagger
and once more, to the Hunt again.

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Spring

The Prompt is to write a poem on a Spring theme


Signs

Slight touch of green life
the first blush of bud

the seedlings sprout
before the ides of March

the rain falls in fat tears
the sky clears to egg blue

the air smells of earth
the light changes daily

the season rushes forward
the sap rises high

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