Saturday, 16 May 2009

The Perils of Publishing Poetry




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The Perils of Publishing Poetry

The Perils of Publishing Poetry

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uploaded by GerCMByrne




I founded a poetry site in 2000, the Pagan Poetry Pages, to provide a space for poets whose influences and interests were non-conformist. With a loose brief of "poetry reflecting our interest in spirutal and metaphysical themes" we quickly grew to include poets who were not Pagan but deeply spiritual in their writing and Pagans who never wrote about their spirituality. In the end the PPP, as it is affectionately known, evolved into a place where good poetry was all that mattered; the need to express and the desire to share that expression was paramount.



Then recently, we decided to add another "P" to the PPP - "publications." The creation of an anthology of our poets  has been a long-cherished project; finally we found the right combination of poets and editors and it began to take shape. Simone LA Hogan, my co-editor brought invaluable skills both technical and aesthetic while the talented American poet, Kevin V. Moore, brought an eagle eye to the project considering not only the submitted poems but catching many an evil typo as he went. The result is a book we are all, justly, proud of but the journey to this point has been both instructive and challenging. For anyone hoping to self publish, there are some pitfalls and pratfalls ahead!



The first and most obvious challenge for us was to gather the poetry; we had submissions from current members but decided to include new works as well. This opened up the site to new members and encouraged a fresh input into both the proposed anthology and the members' forum. Once we had chosen poems - and made the copyright and legal position clear to each contributor - we were then faced with a formidable amount of formatting and design.



For the author publishing a novel, the formatting may not present as great an obstacle; but fitting dozens of poems into a suitable number of pages prooved too much for me! After 3 weeks of laborious "copy and pasting" Simone stepped in, and in three days had the bulk of the work done. Another couple of days and she had whipped it into a pretty shape and added illustrations. I turned my attention to the covers a job I think I managed rather well; but I now know that any future attempt on my part to publish a book will start with making someone else do the formatting!



Our next challenge was the rather boring but necessary task of proof reading. I cannot recommend highly enough that you share this task among many pairs of eyes. Even with three of us feverishly reading we still caught a few errors later on. It won't be the end of the world if one slips by - I have read many a published text with the odd mistake - but respect for the reader demands that you do your best to remove them all.



We choose to invest in ISBN numbers; the Nielsen Agency is the place to start if you are in Ireland or the UK. They come in blocks of ten and we saw it as an investment in our future projects; as it turns out it is a huge asset in promoting the book and getting it into mainstream bookshops. In the weeks since our official launch date, May 1st 2009, we have received orders from book wholesalers in the UK as well as independent retailers. ISBN are necessary if you wish to see your book take off.



We made a few mistakes as we blundered along; we underpriced our work at first and had to have the list price changed by Nielson and Amazon. When I say "we" honesty compels me to admit it was I, really. We learned that postage can be much higher than we fondly imagined. We also learned that a self published book can be hard to market.



You need to be proactive, and think creatively, when trying to promote your self published work; think of forums, websites, networks or writers, who might be interested. Try small retailers and bookstores and offer them sale or return. If publishing on Cafepress or Lulu consider buying ten at a time to have on hand, to distibute locally. Try everything - some things will work, others are more effort than reward. But you learn from every mistake.



Publishing the anthology was an amazing experience and one that has convinced me that for poets in particular, there really are not enough outlets for their work. As a result once we have recovered from Pagan Paeans  we plan on publishing Kevin V Moore's collection of poems on New England; followed by a collection of essays and a second anthology. There are few monetary incentives to do so; poetry will never make you rich. But the pleasure our first offering has given poet and reader alike may well be the best reward of all.



Words are written to be read!




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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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Friday, 15 May 2009

Bealtine Edition of the PPP



Bealtine Edition is now available....including the results of the Pagan Paeans Launch Competition!
Also register to enjoy the member's section - post poems, read, give/get feedback, join debates and enter poetry competitions

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Thursday, 14 May 2009

Don't You Dare

Prompt : Take the phrase "Don't you (blank)," fill in the blank with a word or words, and make that the title of your poem. Then, write a poem using that title.



Don’t you dare.


Don’t you dare –
I didn’t. I daren’t.
I wish I was braver.
I wish I could jump
From planes.

Don’t you dare –
I never told them
What I thought
I kept the peace
Regardless.

Don’t you dare –
I am not reckless
I am the voice of reason
I am the
cowardly lion

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Wednesday, 13 May 2009

So we decided to .....

Another from the poetry challenge: write a poem using the prompt..."So we decided to go..."


So we decided to……

So we decided to go
Despite misgivings
Like, it was free beer
And although we didn’t much like
The look of them
Well, it was free beer

They were largely harmless
Huge shaggy youths
With gangly limbs and
Awkward. We stood to one side
And laughed a bit
Just among ourselves

I danced to Morrissey
And tried to look cool
And then someone
put on a song I’ve never been able
to recall. Something
about a child.


I remember the beginning
And the end, but not
The bits in between,
And I thought at one point – wow.
That’s a song
I wish I could sing.

I knew then I was
Getting too drunk
The room spun and
Someone pulled me into the hall
To tell me
They were lonely.


We’re all lonely
I said. We’re all alone
You’re not special.
I am never that cruel when sober.
I fell over limbs
Sprawled from the stairs.

You found me then
and held out a hand.
I’m starving, you said
And this is a crap party, isn’t it?
So we decided
To go.

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Saturday, 9 May 2009

Poetic Challenge : The Problem with You

See Writer's Digest blog Poetic Aside for details of prompts for each challenge: I am not doing them properly in order at all, but picking them up as they strike me. I am a bad participant :)

This challenge was entitled "the problem with..." It resonated greatly with me for personal reasons.

The Problem with You

She has a list. I jest you not
All the things that - in her opinion
I do wrong, say wrong, think wrong
am wrong
she can list them.

I am half flattered. A lot of thought
went into this. I am fully dismayed
she has sifted, thought, compiled, arranged
and delivered
a verdict on me.

She is a friend. I must remember this
Or make her suffer; I know her buttons
too and can remove that smile. The problem
with me is
I don't back down.






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Poetic Challenge

Many thanks to poet Maureen Duffy-Boose for alerting me and getting me involved in this. It's great fun and while I won't do it everyday (I am far too lazy!) I certainly will be attempting it on a regular basis over the next month.

Writer's Digest blog Poetic Asides is challenging poets to write on a variety of themes (prompts posted by them on the blog)

Yesterday I did :

A poem on something missing

Oh
I keep finding reminders
of things I can no longer recall
I cannot even remember
what the reminder meant at all

When I find things now
I have to rack my brain
when did I lose it and
what on earth was it for, again?

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Thursday, 30 April 2009

Pagan Paeans Anthology OFFICIALLY LAUNCHED

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pagan-Paeans-First-Anthology-Poetry/dp/0956240305/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1241088504&sr=8-1

It's a silly thing probably but there really is a thrill in seeing your book on Amazon !!


Offically Launched

Pagan PaeansPublisher: PPP Publications
ISBN 978-0-9562403-0-9

The first anthology of the Pagan Poetry Pages (The PPP) is now available. Pagan Paeans is a collection of poems from the comic to the heroic, boasting some of the most interesting and provocative poets in the Pagan Poetry Movement. Poets from Ireland, USA, Uk, Europe, and Australia share their views of life and spirituality, including both established and new poets, mundane and sacred themes, satire and sincerity. All proceeds from the anthology go to maintaining The PPP, providing prize funds for poetry competitions and publishing new works.you can buy from USA & ROW UK and Ireland can also email editors@paganpoetrypages.com

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Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Pagan Paeans Anthology

Now available (only €12 plus postage) from the cafepress site
From May 1st, you can buy in Ireland or the UK (details to follow) but if you can't wait....then order from Cafepress and be the first to get your hands on a copy :)
The PPP - bringing great poetry to you!

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Thursday, 26 March 2009

Pagan Paeans Anthology and Competition

"Inspirations"
The Paganpoetrypages.com (The PPP) is proud to announce its latest poetry competition, to celebrate the launch of the first anthology of The PPP on May 1st (Bealtine) 2009.
Pagan Paeans is a wonderful collection of poetry from the satirical and comic to the deeply spiritual.

How to enter:
On www.paganpoetrypages.com in the members forum, we've posted two images as inspiration - all you have to do is look and write a poem. The best , most original take on it wins! Just go to the section marked PPP competitions and follow the instructions on how to post an entry.

The winner will recieve a great prize; a £20 gift voucher for Amazon and a free copy of Pagan Paeans, the first PPP anthology (out May 1st!)

If you are not already a member, just register, it's free and very easy to do!
www.paganpoetrypages.com.

If you have any queries please email ppp @ anfianna.com.

Pagan Paeans is published by PPP publications and will be available through Cafepress.com or for Irish members details of purchasing directly from the PPP will be posted on site


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Pagan Paeans

"Inspirations"

The Paganpoetrypages.com is proud to announce its latest poetry competition.

We've posted two images as inspiration - all you have to do is look and write a poem. The best , most original take on it wins!

Launching the Pagan Paeans Anthology

The winner will recieve a great prize; a £20 gift voucher for Amazon.co.uk/Amazon.com and a free copy of [b]Pagan Paeans, the first PPP anthology (out May 1st!)

Please post your entries in the PPP site, in the section "PPP competitions". If you are not already a member, just register, it's free and very easy to do! www.paganpoetrypages.com
If you have any queries please email ppp @ anfianna.com

Pagan Paeans will be available from Cafepress.com May 1st 2009

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Saturday, 21 March 2009

I dwell in your heart (i)

The Psalms of Living

I. I dwell in your heart

I dwell in your heart, child
the old woman told me,
I have no other home.
There are places I have laid my head
but they were not home.

I live in the way you laugh
in the things that make you cry
in the days you have not yet lived,
in the nights still to come;
I inhabit these places, waiting.

In your dreams I reach out
in your hopes I find strength
in your memory I am fed, sweetly
You hear me in your own voice
and are comforted.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Saturday, 7 March 2009

Inside Track

Inside Track



He said: Seeing you again
was strange; in a way
I was not sure you existed without me.

Tthat you have a life, a home, friends
that you breathe and speak and think
without my observing, I find odd.

I often think of that now; that space
between intimacy and loss. I have
lost friends and that abyss hurts.

I wonder if they too assume
knowledge, privilege of being current;
or if they feel absence.

I hoard memories and replay
them. They fade despite constant
retouching until only outlines remain.

When I am old, if I make old bones
I will no longer be sure who said
what and whose feat that was.

You cannot leave stories half way
it's too hard to be a main character
without remaining in the plot.

He said he thought I stopped
frozen by his inattention; I did not.
I thrived and grew and moved

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Saturday, 24 January 2009

Simple

Simple

It was simple:
-once upon a time,
-it'll all be okay,
-what doesn't kill you.
Mundanities.
ClichƩs.
No hostages, taken or given
no price not worth paying
freedom defined by lack of,
responsibilities
ties or attachments
plans.
Complex how time
defers payment
cashes the cheque at the last moment
reaching into pockets
taking the ounce of flesh and to hell
with blood.
Not so easy now.
Not so simple, not
so clearcut . Time falling
like snowdrops, moments melting
away before you can touch them.
Simple
how easily it all becomes the past.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Wednesday, 21 January 2009

The Wedding Gift

For all those women whose approach to weddings is not to mount a military operation, who don't want to stress, who want to remember the day and the marriage not worry if the napkins match the colour of the bridesmaid's knickers. And maybe as a reminder to those who are acting as if they're about to invade Poland next - there's more to the day than style.

This is the best wedding gift I can give you....



If I could give you one thing
a wedding gift that will last
it would be the memory -
not of a glittering table,
lanterns and rose petals
favours and toiletries, or
chair covers in dusky pink-
but of the time you share
the choosing and the plans
the mother's face, the father's pride
the squeeze of hand, the
slight smile, the excited face
the neighbours gathered,
children pointing, guests
milling, laughter rippling like
a spring - stately walk, solemn vow.

I would give you the gift
of slowing time, savouring
each and every second,
noticing the important details
- not the trimming on a veil
or pewends tied with ribbon
drapes, capes, canapes,
colours, cut or clothe -
but the whispered love
the tearful eye, joyful
glance, awaited entrance,
first dance, speech and
speechless moments, grace
and bumbling fumbling, funny
sad and lovely, moments
strung like pearls on
the edge of a wedding veil.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Saturday, 17 January 2009

Mud and Bones

Up in the west of ireland on some hillside a few years back bad stormy weather caused a landslide that revealed bones of neolithic settlers, hidden for years. There's a storm almost as bad brewing outside and it reminded me of a poem I wrote ...so I thought I would share...


Mud and Bones

I lie in the dark mud of Connaught
in the cruel rocky earth of the West
where the sun sets low in the evening
and HyBrazil lies just beyond sight
and I am part of your land and your lives,
though you see only the mound of my grave
and the grass growing high above my head
I am the bones of your country, its roots
the anchor of life as you know it
your seed, breed and long generation -
And I lie in the dark mud of Connaught.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Friday, 9 January 2009

Reality, for Tommie

A poem about friendship: I have a friend, whom I have never met face to face, but whose friendship is real. It is real, because it has endured - differences of opinion, changes in our lives, deep loss, happiness. We sometimes talk daily, sometimes sadly, once a month or even less. Sometimes we chat on the phone, more often online. Sometimes I have confided in her things I could tell no one else, and vice verse. Sometimes we just talk about nothing. This is her poem.




For Tommie; A poem about friendship

Shattered conversations, broken words,
glimpses of each other’s life. My words
rushed on a keyboard in work;
yours in a house with kids and dog.
Thousands of miles apart, heart to heart
across a continent, and over seas
through the ether, on the wire –
friendship spanning time and space.
Face to face, we’ve never been –
impossible to believe! I have held
your hand, felt your presence, seen
through your eyes…you have walked
city streets with me, sat at table, celebrated
family. How can it not be real?
We must redefine physics; ignore these
hard men who would say,
your friendship is virtual. Mutual
trust is real, laughter is real,
time shared is real. The only illusion
is theirs. We know, we know – Our words
are real.

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Tuesday, 2 December 2008

Making links

Decide now

1.

When Margaret called
I had my hands in washing up
up to the elbows
hair falling in drips
face hot and sweaty

2.

Is it oak or
something lighter?
what lining?
I am winning the war
on grease and remains
I do not wish to be thrown
back into the heated debate
Let someone else decide.

I am paralysed
in the face of brisk
efficiency;
left swimming a bubble
prone to explosion
ready to pierce myself
and be consumed again
by the whole.

There were several
points raised that could
be good or bad, depending.
And some chit chat.
I got off the phone lightly.



Make up your mind


1. So when I saw it
was introduced to it like
I wasn't terribly impressed
but what could I say?
I wasn't listening, it was not I

It was solid,
much more there than I
had imagined
much more final
more respectable

Although - if I am honest
it was obscene. That it was, was
offensive.

Or am I just
panicked?


Let it go

1. It remains to be seen

For some reason that sounds
fanciful and fun
Like,
we can decide it all later
It doesn't really matter
It's not all that important

Whereas I know
it can't be postponed.
I can see, how it would be
awkward
become a point of contention
if we were too
laissez faire.

I compose myself.
Literally I make myself up.
I invent stanzas, so that when
I am asked
I may answer.
This is interminable. Hard benched,
hard pressed. I wait.

I suppose in the face of this;
it all really is
academic.

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Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Normal Service...

...will be resumed after I finish Nanowrimo; so far I'm on scedule (day 18, 30101 words and counting) and as usual the plot has dived off the rails, the characters have lost the run of themselves and I'm having a laugh.
Highly recommended :)

nanowrimo.org - it's probably too late now but go for it next year - or read around and if you enjoy reading peoples novels donate to the very worthy Nanowrimo Cause!!

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Wednesday, 5 November 2008

Nanowrimo

I'm doing Nanowrimo again this year.
Nanowrimo is an excellent event, a mad manic "write a novel in a month" event. It literally is a chance to write a novel in one month, 50000 words is the goal. The point is to fling words at a page and enjoy the esperience of writing, rather than editing and rewriting and obsessing over what you write, though some participants manage to achieve both quantity and quality.

I am a weak novelist :) poetry is definitely my genre. But I have to say I enjoy Nanowrimo immensely. I always go for the humour and it amuses me if nothing else !
If you participate it's also nice to donate (from $10, not much a months entertainment) It keeps the site going, and then additionally raises money for teachers and mentors and books and writing programs for areas that otherwise would recieve no such help.

My nanowrimo

Come have a read, and if you're participating please friend me!

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Wednesday, 22 October 2008

From the Secret Diary of a Capitalist

From roughly the same "voice" as "Overheard in Dublin": this is a voice that is elitist, but honestly so, caustic and somewhat misanthropic. I thought posting another from the same vein of poetry might help to put "Overheard" in context...not as a literal expression of contempt or dislike but as an imagined and imaginative moment in life.
Never read poetry as purely surface emotion (unless it's in the centre of a Hallmark card :) )



From the Secret Diary of a Capitalist


The girl on the bus
looked normal
’til she fixed her eyes on mine
and solemnly assured me
that the end was nigh. So
with a sigh and a
muttered excuse
I once again changed seats.

This is why I drive. The
much maligned isolation
the experts beg us all to overcome -
within my jaundiced heart I find it a
sweet boon and comfort.
Why throw myself upon the mercy
of the world
or seek comfort in the kindness of
strangeness?

Yes, strangeness. It’s odd to want to climb across
the seats,
reach out clammy hands to touch the
hearts
of others. Daytime pundits of a warped
charity, back off, you living dead.
Armed with every half baked theory of Armageddon
and the reason why
Aliens want sex with earth women.
News flash, kids, I don’t care.

I want my car back. I want
to sink into cushioned seats
and listen to my radio
and change gears with reckless
glee – and pass these sad people
at bus stops on rainy days-
oh, and guzzle petrol and emit
fumes,
and generally be me.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Thursday, 16 October 2008

The Last Rose Blooms


For Emer


The last rose blooms
in rare weather; it takes
rain and sunshine,
good times deferred
bad days and first frost
and luck; good soil,
good stock.

The fading glory appeals
to older eyes; wiser tastes
applaud and accept
its rich fragility,
the final beauty adorning
our autumn days
with grace.

It weathered spring storms
and summer torrents
the sun's relentless beating
and the shade
until it put forth one perfect
bloom; a memory of days
now past

Other plants wither, decay
give in early to the cold
lose heart at the first blasts
of autumn winds -
Some draw on roots that run
deep into good earth -
and bloom.

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Thursday, 25 September 2008

Overheard in Dublin

Overheard


'I gave her my old phone, she was stone delighted, '
the Navan man said:
while his Cork culchie brethren
blew hot and cold into the headpiece
all bluetooth and shiny smile
schmoozing on the street.
'He said he didn't but what do you think? '
a brunette pushes past me angrily
'That little huir, I hope she's happy now-'
she moves too far away
I am tempted to follow, I want to know
what did he do? and if it's likely, his guilt,
and who is the rival woman?
'I can't, ' the teenager wails,
chewing the fingernails of one hand
a bovine testament to the need
for population control.
'Wha'? ' she stares blankly into middle space
her mothers voice shrill and tinny
spelling out the name of a washing powder brand.
'...if you move that account around, it should be
all right, ' He moves in and out
of earshot, a worried shadow
with quick panicked steps.
So many voices, overheard
I wonder, how few heard over
the din?

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Wednesday, 24 September 2008

Recessive Gene

Ah the Recession: I'm not saying its a good thing - god knows it wasn;t a good thing in the 80s, when there were no jobs and no hope. But I confess to a certain amount of fascinated interest watching the kids who grew up in the boom come to terms - slowly - with the sudden loss of instant gratification. Here's hoping it lasts long enough to teach a few lessons and ends soon enough to spare them the worst lessons of the last recession.


We're going back in time
back to the 80s,
back to the time
when pennies counted and money
pinched us
from payday to payday
and we spent our time hounded by
bills, chased
from one crises of money
management
to another.

The Celtic Tiger died
or at least, is ailing beyond
vetinary aid.
I remember the days
when credit cards were all that stood
between the electricity company
and candlelight cold suppers.
We used to count it a blessing
when there was extra.
Not extra in particular
just any margin between us
and the cold.

What will they do?
little cubs, mewling blind,
like headless chickens still running
from Venu to Brown Thomas
not yet aware that they're out of fuel
- Ah is it schadenfreude? but I confess
I want to see them, creditless
in the city. I want to see them walk,
think twice before wasting;
realize in a disposable society
they are disposed of most easily of all.

If we are lucky,
lack of money, lack of choice
fear and the opening of chasms
giddy depths visible for once
beneath well shod feet,
might breed
compassion; might shake
loose our comfortable
bigotry,
might feed something
unnourished by wealth.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Friday, 19 September 2008

New Poetry Anthology Seeks Submissions



The Pagan Poetry Pages is seeking submissions from new and past members for their first Anthology due out at Yule; the submissions deadline is November 10th and poetry can be submitted along with a bio to ppp@anfianna.com. Poems should reflect the spirutal nature of the poet and/or a theme of nature, seasons, festivals and celebrations of spirituality. However all good poetry will be considered. Submissions must be accompanied by a short BIO and submitted in the name under which they should be published.

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Wednesday, 17 September 2008

And the Leaves begin to turn...






Down by Ben Bulben, the leaves are turning
the russets are emerging
triumphant over green, gold
running riot, copper beeches
glowing. Orange the wayside flowers
and paler blue the sky -
September is arrived.

Down by Ben Bulben
As the road slopes to Leitrim
the Glencar lakeside boasts
colours fit to clothe a king. The crows
startle black against
the spread of the year's last finery
as the sun crowns the day
and the leaves begin to turn.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Saturday, 30 August 2008

Beauty at Dusk





Beauty at Dusk





The room is stilled
dimmed by evening light through
shuttered blinds
A perfect evening, summer spring
treees laced with early leaves
bright fields, sunlight on windowglass
an empty room
and silence


the brightness of the dusk is
blinding - more glaring than noon in dust
and the silence splinters with shrill throated birds
and distant laughter
til the laughter and the song seem silent too
part of the peace that oppresses this room

the beauty is too perfect
too real for me

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Sunday, 24 August 2008

Pomegranate

A little poem I wrote a while back about words, and their richness; incidentally I recently met online a user of a forum whose moniker was "pomegranate" and who turned out to be lovely. It's confirmed this word as one of my favourites :)





I collect words;
Collate and catalogue them
in some library of the mind, to which
I get sporadic access, as the muse decrees.

I hope if I store enough words, there will always be one
no matter how scarce the favours scattered:
that paucity of concept will yield
before the wealth amassed in syllable and dipthong.

I hold some words in high regard
I once spent a day musing on the sound of 'leech'
and make alliterative lists of favourite mots
Whistling, Wonder, Weird, Wildflower.

But of all the troves and chests and caverns
overflowing with jewelled noise, bedecked with meanings and
subtle shades of burnished thought, lies
one word, elegant in its simplicity, its economy of meaning:

yet extravagent in form, reigning
Supremely succulent in tone
a taste of desire and wealth, one word -
Pomegranate.

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Saturday, 23 August 2008

I Love your Blog Award


WOW thanks to AncestralCelt for a lovely shout out on her blog awards :)
the rules of the award are....

1. The winner can put the logo on their blog
2. Link the person you received the award from
3. Nominate at least 7 other blogs
4. Put links of those blogs on yours
5. Leave a message on the blogs nominated

I got two from the lovely AC, one for Scenesofireland and the other for Dreams of Reality, this poetry blog, so i'm only going to do one pass on or I'll be here all day :) so this can do for both lol.
I would have to list Ancestral Celt's blog as one of my favourites, I don't know if you're allowed to do that as part of the list so I'll do 7 others anyway :)

1. McaWilliams Photo Blog
2. InPhotos.org
3. Darren Greene

The above are my inspiration in photography, three incredible photographers with wonderful "eyes" for a shot!

4. Island Blogging by Hermit Life:
incandescent writing, wonderful stories, glimpses of a different way of living, a different way of being.

5. Notes from the Plot

A wonderful blog that induces jealousy every time I look at it; a friend Gina writes about her wonderful adventures in gardening and her lovely produce. I've long been a major fan of her cardmaking and crafts (she made our wedding invitations) but I would love to spend a day on her plot, watching her at work!

6. Nicole Crawford A superb personal blog entitled "A Woman Undeniable"
7. Nick Here and Now Another excellent read, both political and personal, I look forward to all his entries

That's my best choices, although especially where the photography is concerned there are a LOT of fabulous ones out there. Now off to annoy people with an award :)
also an honourable mention to
Irish Photographers a stunning collection of the best Irish photography blogs from the rank amatuer (me) to the professional and talented (above)

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Saturday, 21 June 2008

Mary Bakes Bread by the Fire

Mary bakes bread by the fire, stout hands kneading fleshy fingers tightening and rolling amid folds of white dough. The flames flicker higher on her forearms match the red sweat of her face, fan the flicker of hate in her eyes. Mary is not pretty; Mary is not slender; Mary is not elegant; Mary bakes sweet dainties for sweet dainty ladies who are everything Mary is not.

Fire rises, fire warms, fire destroys, fire consumes. Mary is the light reflected in polished copper, bronze fireplace ornaments, pokers and tongs. Hammers and Tongs, she goes at it, the dirty wench. Mary blinks thoughts from her mind that she wishes were not there; but there they lurk, constant. Mary is not happy to be - Mary.

Fat Mary, Big Mary, Slow Mary. Hail Mary. Priest would not approve, Preacher would disavow. Wise woman says, make bread by the fire.

Mary bakes bread by the fire, sweltering in heat, heart rate raised, flushed and warm and moist, smelling her own body with each movement, enjoying now the sway of buttocks, the roll of fat, the swell and ebb of the heavy mix.
Mary is not alone, eyes watch transfixed, eyes follow buttock, hip and arm, eyes and mouth and nose concur, hands open door, feet cross floor.
Wise woman warns Mary. You don’t know what may happen. Mary doesn’t care. Mary is strong; Mary is brave; Mary is capable; Mary bakes bread for women whoa re everything Mary is not. She is tired of being only the names they choose to call her. She wants new names. Mother, Lover, Woman. The fire is still rising, she will not bank it down.

Someone moves closer, someone who should know better, old enough to know better, better educated, better born. Someone called better than Mary, bends over her, whispers to her, sweet words, soft words.
Fingers intertwined, breath mingling, hearts beating, arms still kneading, twisting, hands exploring soft, yielding - flesh or dough? Mary no longer knows. All she can think is yes, all she can reason is that this is hers, for her, about her. She is the one, the dancer in the centre of the hall, the masked lady performing for the court, she is the centre and the cause. Still the fire rises, eyes meet finally, surprise and intrigue leap between. Mary wonders, but she does not pause. Some things you wait for too long.
Priest would cluck, Goodwives sniff, Wise Woman merely smiled and winked – lascivious old woman enjoying the faint heat from another, faraway Hearth. Wise Woman gave oils, to be rubbed into the folds at the bosom, at the belly, in the soft crevices where leg meets sex, on the pulse; unguents that unfurl in the heat of the fire, mingled with the smell of baking, working their way into the sweat and tears and kisses. Wise Woman did not turn away, did not preach abstinence, did not despise the woman who yearned. Wise Woman merely smiled and winked.
Mary returns to herself, to the moment, to the heat. Spent and panting, bemused and wondering. Strong arms surround her, throaty chuckles into her neck, affection on a face that she thought had never noticed her. Strange words in her ear, words that caress and tease. She is not despised nor discarded. She has been noticed and wanted. She is not invisible in this place, perhaps never has been – dark eyes are troubled by her silence. Dark eyes smile into hers and ask questions men ask only of women whose hearts are not overlooked. Mary is warmed by more than fire. Heat rises from more than flame and coal. Mary feels cool flagstone tile under bare skin, and is suddenly afraid.


to be continued.......

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Thursday, 19 June 2008

Brighid's Runes Anthology


In Aid of the Green Belt Movement Rachel Mica McCann has produced and edited a lovely collection of women's poetry entitled Bridhid's Runes . Rachel describes the book as

"'Brighid's Runes' is a collection of around 40 poems by over twenty women from various parts of Scotland, Wales, England and Ireland. The poems celebrate the sacred in every day life and our relationship with the earth. They are funny, poignant, eloquent and passionate! Some of the poets are well published, others are new to print. The money raised from the sale of the book will go towards supporting Women's and Earth healing projects, especially the Green Belt Movement in Kenya established by nobel prize winner Wangari Maatthai which has empowered women through planting trees and community development."
It's a lovely collection and I'm delighted to be involved. Ms McCann has worked very hard to produce something that is worth reading, and for the Greenbelt Movement's sake, well worth buying!
Available directly from Rachel, e-mail: rmicamc@yahoo.co.uk.
£5.50 inc P&P

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Thursday, 29 May 2008

Asian Geographic Magazine

Asian Geographic Magazine asked last month is they could use an extract from my poem Where Once Stood Tribes


Where once stood tribes
who rose and fell
on the bounty of a living land
soul and soil intertwined
One blood, one heart,
of one mind,
muscle and sinew
rock and tree

Three copies of the magazine arrived today; and I have to say I am proud of my involvement with it. It's as visually beautiful as you'd expect from Asian Geographic but the entire issue is devoted to the vanishing tribes and tribal way of life of Asia, a wonderful tour through amazing and timeless cultures.

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Thursday, 22 May 2008

Glowing Heart of Spirit



It surprised me to see
Spirit imprisoned.
We stood in the great space
the sacred place of Rome
watching the awe on the faces
of tourists and pilgrims;
and I looked up at Spirit
and wondered, what did she think
of it all?

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Saturday, 22 March 2008

Tara Appreciation Society Mourn Loss of Tara

Irish Times, 17 March 2008Tara protesters parade in SydneyJohn Ingram, an Aboriginal man with Irish heritage, led the paradedressed as St Patrick in Sydney, writes PƔdraig Collins .A GROUP opposed to the construction of a motorway near the Hill of Tarain Co Meath paraded past the Minister for Transport Noel Dempsey atyesterday's St Patrick's Day parade in Sydney.The Tara Appreciation Society's parade entry featured about 10 peoplebehind a banner saying "Tara - 7,000 years of Irish History"."It's great, wonderful democracy. I was delighted to see Tara promoted,"Mr Dempsey told The Irish Times.In contrast to the rest of the marchers, who were mostly wearing green,the Tara Appreciation Society members stood out by mostly wearing black.The group's website said their lack of numbers in the parade was "due toapproaches to the [St Patrick's Day parade] committee". "While we wantedthis to be a festive community effort allowing families, etc, to join usin celebrating Tara's unique history . . . we have now restricted whocan join us in the parade."The protest has not led to a change of heart though. "There areprocedures that are decided upon," Mr Dempsey said.This year's parade, which was watched by a crowd of about 10,000, wasled by John Ingram, an Aboriginal man with Irish heritage, who wasdressed as St Patrick. All 32 counties were represented in the parade,as were Irish cultural organisations, Sydney GAA clubs and local pipe bands."This year was as good as it has ever been," said Tommy McAdam from CoMonaghan, who has lived in Sydney since 1956. "There were more floatsthan I've seen before and there's a great crowd watching too."Also enjoying the parade was Sister Christina O'Connor of the Sisters ofSt Joseph, whose mother was from Wexford and father from Clare. "ThePatrician Brothers and World Youth Day sections were very good," said SrChristina.The Catholic Church's World Youth Day, which is held every three years,is being held in Sydney in July.Swiss man Racheed Ahmed was wearing a Kerry jersey while watching theparade. "One of the Irish girls I work with gave it to me," he said."We are the only west Europeans where I work. I've been to every StPatrick's Day parade in Sydney since 1996.

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Thursday, 28 February 2008

Are women Human? and Other great books....

By Jeremy Lovell
LONDON (Reuters) - They may not leap off the shelves into the best-seller category, but the books shortlisted for the oddest book title prize certainly grab the attention.
"I was Tortured by the Pygmy Love Queen" recounts the tale of a fictional U.S. World War Two fighter pilot who is captured by jungle pygmies led by a sadistic woman.
Its sequel, which is not on the shortlist released by trade publication The Bookseller (www.thebookseller.com) Friday, needs no explanation: "Go Ahead, Woman, Do Your Worst."
"How to Write a How to Write Book" and "Cheese Problems Solved" are likewise self-explanatory as is the equally eclectic niche tome "People who Mattered in Southend and Beyond: From King Canute to Dr. Feelgood" that strives to put the English east coast resort on the map.
While none of the above may challenge the sensibilities too much, others are likely to prove more divisive. Try "If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs" or "Are Women Human? And other International Dialogues."
"I confess: I have been anxious that as publishing becomes ever more corporate, the trade's quirky charms are being squeezed out," said Horace Bent, The Bookseller diarist and custodian of the prize.
"But happily my fears have been proved unfounded: oddity lives on. Drawing up the six-strong shortlist was a fraught and wildly controversial process."
Bent paid tribute to those books that failed to make the list, including titles such as "Drawing and Painting the Undead" and "Glory Remembered: Wooden Headgear of Alaska Sea Hunters," wishing them better luck next yea
Literary enthusiasts wishing to cast a vote can visit the Web site. The winner will be announced on March 28.

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Thursday, 14 February 2008

Your Touch

Your Touch


The warm smell of
sleep and heat
surrounds me with your
quilt, your bed;
my hair spread like down
across your pillow
and drowsy senses,
reaching.



Happy Valentine's Day

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Friday, 8 February 2008

The Gypsy came, riding.

The Gypsy came,
riding! With thunder hooves
his horse played herald
to his royal approach
and I, a Lady, turned my head
and hurried

I burned like Lot's wife
and glanced - my undoing -
his eyes met mine
a gypsy like a ghost
from the romances
my mother read
a gypsy king
a vagabound

He hung around
and the Gentlemen began
to talk of him
a fine fellow
a rare on for the dogs
and games played with badgers
on moonfull nights
and rare one for the ladies
and other nocturnal sports

He stared and me
til I lost countenance
and lowered my eyes
and he began
to woo me, like Desdemona
had been courted -
with stories.

And I became the
the Gypsy's lady
favoured of all his patrons
Until he left, my GYpsy
not fled but moved
amid flurry and laughter.
I would not plead.

Next Summer I watched
the roads
in dust and cool
at twilight, at dawn, at
all those times the poets love
and women hate with reason.

I heard last year
there was amerchant's son wed
a flightly lad given to sport
a darkhaired, wideeyed man
who used to spend each summer
wandering.

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Wednesday, 23 January 2008








Crossings

Some roads
lead to highlands, mountains
grand vistas
and some from one side of mystery
to another.
Some show you continents
but many
simply the choice between
open field and safe
dark
forest.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Friday, 7 December 2007

Heritage

Written in 1989 Published in 1992, this is one of my favourites from that period - a genuine sense of gratitude to voices that came before me. It is also a genuine snapshot of the arrogance of youth, comparing oneself without guile or self consciousness. The older, humbler poet is amused.
It's also a reaction to the insistence of tutors that all creativity is inevitably limited by
culture and place - I argued for the transcendence of verse, rooted in cultural context.


Heritage

I am the Child of
Plath and Ogawa
but only by adoption

My life is the result
of my struggle
and I have no cultural parents

Alta my mentor
sings my digust to
the stars

I am the child, but
I am learning to sing
for myself

Thank you mothers
but forgive me
If I never use one word you have taught me.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Saturday, 10 November 2007

Promotion

A flicker of amusement
lights the pallid face
of the young man
in the grey suit
with sandy hair; subject of
a nondescript description.
He finds it slightly cheerful that
his boss, who is
a tyrant among slaves
and rabbits
is older/vaguer/paler
than he.
In this, this decay of a man
resides his fondest hopes
and sweet desires.
Such noble cause, such noble man.

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Friday, 9 November 2007

Pat

I think that perhaps that far distant year has come; I know I can think of this old friend only with affection and withotu regret, only wishing well, and remembering the best. I hope somewhere he can do the same.


For Pat.


Concealment
half conscious and half true
has become like breath to me
I cannot even know myself
and you,
you are like a new found land
stranger than my dreams.
Holding you
I know that I am safe;
but only for seconds.
You escape me and I do not know
if this is chance or just
the way we are.
Your voice I listen for
amid the babble and the crush
in which we live
and when I think or when you
give, some proof
of caring
I quickly find some sign
our lives weren't meant for
sharing or for love.
Yet still I know that
you are somehow mine;
I think in some far distant year
you will think of me
and I of you
with knowledge
If we do I hope that fear is fone
and all that will remain
is memories of laughters
wild nights and stories sadly told
and heard
between two trusting friends.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Thursday, 8 November 2007

Strangers

A poem from my party days; when we would drink til midnight, attend the Gaiety Jazz club til 3 am and crawl to Kaffe Moka's for tuna melts. As I worked Saturdays Friday nights out had a strange and disturbing effect on Saturday workdays.....


Strangers

hurriedly dressed and tousled
stale eyes, stale inside
caught in the clammy sweat
and churning stomach
of a hangover
in a state of vague paranoia
everyone I meet
is a familiar stranger.
My mother's voice
a recurring distraction
to the all-important task
of staying vertical,
praying for deliverance.
The day outside
a glowering stifling blur
too loud, too fast.
I wander through the place
lost in self inflicted misery
with pitying glances from passers-by


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Tuesday, 6 November 2007

At Harold's Cross

This is a poem from the "Dublinia" cycle; and I can tell you the exact date it was written - 23/6/92. In some rare moment of organization I actually dated the piece of paper I scribbled it on.
The cottages are still there, at Harold's Cross, all but uninhabited and awaiting the fell blow of the developer's fist. It seems fitting to post this now, before they disappear forever.




At Harold's Cross


There is
in Harold's Cross,
quaintly decaying in a set,
four cottages of antiquity and
mildewed gloom;
two-roomed, tiny
infested by cats and old people
shadowing beside the damp park
and public toilet; a florist where
brightly bunched carnations hustle
with the hearts and diamonds of the funeral
wreaths and spill across the street on Sundays;
a Church of Ireland church
grey and gothic spired,
with a cemetary beside
and a gatelodge for the graveyard -
all crevices, and sepulchred doom.
I often pass , staring down from the
window of a bus,
wondering.

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Friday, 26 October 2007

"Vive le Roi" in spanish!

http://www.bublegum.net/perebesso/13210/DOS+REVERSIONES+DE+GERARDINA.html

How lovely!
Two beautiful languages, and intriguing for a poet to read words she wrote, in a language she cannot speak, but can recognise the rythm, feel the sense behind the words....

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Thursday, 25 October 2007

At work, My Grandfather

This is the eulogy for my grandfather I wrote many years ago; strictly speaking I don't consider it Juevenilia but it comes chronilogically around this time so I've included it. The first four lines are the Epithet writeen for him by Fr Herman Nolan CP and are inscribed on his gravestone.

At Work, My Grandfather.

Scent of Incense, Glue and Varnish Cease;
Perfect O Lord, thye instrument of Peace.
Fr Herman Nolan CP


I saw my Grandfather at work,
bent. He was old by then
and whitehaired, my father
dark and upright.

I watched the old man
handle wood like it was
his lover; all his tenderness
and poetry in the making

of a single rib - to
play Eve, I suppose
to some Violin.
He had Pianist's hands

like a lady's at the tips
but hard and calloused
at the palm. He used to
work, in the fields at

Summer and at Autumn
and he had cleared land
himself and stood shirtless
in the sun

And worked through the rain.


ii

Now he was where he had belonged
in his own father's place;
his craft he plied, to my child's
eyes, with consumate grace.

I smelt the incense
and he told me the glue
was jelly - that was the story
I have always remembered.

The image of him frail
in gone from my mind;
of his time with us in sickness
i remember only that

mammy and I once cleaned his room
and I sat on the stairs
and cried, when they said
he had gone, and meant "died."

But I remember
I saw my grandfather at work
in a room, surrounded by
shavings, and the smell of wood and glue.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Thursday, 18 October 2007

Vive le Roi

Oh dear, oh dear oh dear..............



Vive le Roi

Four stone walls of thought
and one lock
without a key
that's all it takes to imprison me
and my own thoughts a host of
which reside, like kings
inside my head
and the all white cheerleaders
jump jump high
vive le roi
the enlightenment is dead.

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Tuesday, 16 October 2007

Beauty at Dusk

The room is stilled
dimmed by evening light through
shuttered blinds
A perfect evening, summer spring
treees laced with early leaves
bright fields, sunlight on windowglass
an empty room
and silence


the brightness of the dusk is
blinding - more glaring than noon in dust
and the silence splinters with shrill throated birds
and distant laughter
til the laughter and the song seem silent too
part of the peace that oppresses this room

the beauty is too perfect
too real for me
it has too much force
a coat of light and long shadows
Exotic; it intrudes.

geraldine moorkens byrne

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Saturday, 13 October 2007

Cow

This was written about a friend in college who went from being pleasantly spikey in first year to bitter and hard in third. By the time I signed up for my postgrad, she was a loose canon creating havoc with people's emotions. Too young at the time to fully understand her behaviour or the insecurities that fuelled it, I realized reading this that I had nevertheless understood somewhat. I often wonder what became of her, I suspect she subsided from dangerous to petty as time wore on though I hope she got some happiness out of life. The title wasn't an insult by the way!


Cow

She's tired of reminders that life
could be worse
She's sick
of well intentioned pushes
of being propelled, unwilling
t'ward the grassy verges


Her dumbness
mutes her cries of pain
(because I cannot hear I do not care)
Screaming inside her head, she stubbornly
wanders
down the gravel raods
she shudders at the lengths ahead
I hear
they die sometimes of starvation

I wonder how far she got
nursing angry standards
bitter ideals
I wonder did she ever find her past.

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Friday, 12 October 2007

Stolen

Lately he has thought of past moments
of childhood's stolen hours
of sneaking past the guardians of his age and sex
and holding to the innocence he felt once
was worth the loss

But if his heart should wander
where will it go?
What is there for its sweet enduring hurt?
What went before, is gone, was never reached and is no
more
and all paths returning stand in silence-
unpassed.

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Thursday, 11 October 2007

The Trouble with Clouds

I acutally remember writing this one. In the "new" library at UCD, 1987, studying for exams. I even know what I was thinking about when I wrote it! Of all the ones I found this is one I quite like...feedback welcome though!


The Trouble with Clouds

If flat clouds, like airships, hover broad
in the air,
should fall
and touch the earth,
which would melt?

Would I care?
do you?

It seems to me more pertinent han the budget
more necessary near than May and
all it brings
to know which clouds the angels sit on.
Upon.
If I look away from the trees, will they stop
growing and will their leaves wither?
are they fodder for my brain or am I
manure for their souls?
Both. (I think)

Ah Lear! Come in out of the rain.
If every word is wrung from a poet's head
does that make them true?
Accuracy is next to godliness. I thought
you knew.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 1987

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Tuesday, 9 October 2007

Juvenilia, As Promised

Juvenilia
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Learn more about using Wikipedia for research
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This article is about the literary term. For other uses, see Juvenilia (disambiguation).
Not to be confused with
Juvenalia.
Juvenilia is a term applied to literary or artistic works produced by an author during his or her youth.
The term was first recorded in 1622 in
George Wither's poetry collection Ivvenilia. Later, other notable poets, such as John Dryden and Alfred Lord Tennyson came to use the term for collections of their early poetry.


As promised the beginning of the Juvenilia collection

Your Touch

The warm smell of
sleep and heat
surrounds me with your
quilt, your bed
my hair spread like down
across your pillow
and drowsy senses
reaching



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Friday, 21 September 2007

Temple in the Park


San Francisco, one evening in June....................
Posted by Picasa

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Thursday, 20 September 2007

Five Senses: Smell

I open the press under the stairs and it hits me. I turn the pages of a book or open an old handbag; sift through letters or reach into the furthest Narnian reaches of the wardrobes and it assails me; the rising smell of must.

This is my life packaged away, hidden in dark corners. I have consigned entire years to the dark, in yellowing paper and scraps. I have seasons of clothes too small, too large, belonging to a different woman – shadowy and incomplete. There are chapters of books, unwritten and notes never posted, all the roads not taken I have carried with me through the years and hidden until they are stale and fetid, unaired.

Emptying this room is like an examination of conscience; there is grave discomfort in these old things. Last year’s birthday cards are fun to see; those from age thirty are pinpricks of regret; from twenty five, screams of loss and rage at wasted years and lost opportunities. If I try on clothes too small I wish away a thousand meals. If they are out of date and shapeless, I feel guilty at the waste. Even half used tubes of makeup accuse me. I sit in a sea of loss.

Every item has to pass or fail a simple test: is it needed? No more room for old dead things. Papers burn or are shredded. Even in destruction they fill the air with the smell of decay. Clothes in plastic sacks, shiny black coffins holding uniforms of work and play. The atmosphere lightens with each section cleared, the air freshens as the hours pass and the open windows blow away the dust. I lessen the load I carry through life, the bags bulging with redundancies; a skip waits in the driveway to mercifully enclose these things, hide them from sight and consign them to earth. But here and there I hesitate, hand hovering and my mind seeking excuses. That is the letter from Australia, can I not keep it? Those are the shoes I always meant to wear, so glamourous, can I not find a space for them? I could leave that rug outside and kill that musty aroma; maybe someday I could find a place for it?

I think of my destination- two double bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen – and you. I cannot find room on this journey for these items. Ours is a little house, fresh and clean and newly painted. I will not risk bringing it with me, the lingering hint of the past, in folds and shards. I know enough to know that no matter how careful one is, that cloying stench will out. I won’t risk the smell of flowers and coffee, of a smoke-free zone and dry cleaned cushions, for a half page of scribbled words or a tee-shirt last worn in ninety-two. The is room there, but for the things we need, or like to share; for the useful and living and brisk. Not for the poor broken lost things, the one sock and the dried up pen, or the almost empty lighters.

So I breathe deeply and remind myself, they are gone already. Now it’s time to bury them and leave them.

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Tuesday, 11 September 2007

Irish poetry Blog

http://irishpoetry.blogspot.com/

Check it out, an excelent and poetic blog on the fight to save tara among other things.

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Saturday, 1 September 2007

Moving on...

Currently in the throes of moving house and therefore clearing out a small mountain of papers; I have found so many different old papers and have scribbled poems and writings and the start of about five different stories.
I am going to gather them together and print them up here, not because they are any good, but becasue they are different. I was amazed at the different voice that came through in these poems, a much younger voice, in some ways more imaginative but in many ways more limited and pretentious. There were elements I really liked and elements I absolutely hated and there were some truely cringeworthy moments as well!

So I'll start posting them up from next week; as ever any and all feedback and criticism is invited. And a virtual pint for anyone who can guess what age I was when writing any given piece :)

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Wednesday, 15 August 2007

Some poems published online...

http://www.scriobh.com/

http://www.poetrylifeandtimes.com/current.html

A pleasant surprise this month, both Scriobh,com and the excellent PLT ezine have published my poetry under featured poets.

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Saturday, 4 August 2007

Editing poetry....

Every four weeks or so I have the (enviable? dreaded?) task of reading and choosing from other people's work (for an online publication). This can lead to a bizarre clash of perosnal sensibilities over objective discrimination; but in the end all choice is subjective, never more so than where poetry or art is concerned. I find myself relying on instinct a lot of the time; although experience has taught me to recognise poems that while I may not find them terribly exciting, will interest or move others.

Mostly though one needs to go with intuition, with a subconscious recognition of an indefinable "something" in the work. I beleive that poetry should (whether it is narrative driven or image based) interact witht eh reader on a level that evokes response, emotes, creates ambiance, conjures pictures and feeligns. Some of the best examples bypass the rational mind completely and hit the soft spot in the brain that makes us react to beauty.

I love and dread reading other people's poetry, when the choice is to publish or not. Equally I dread people reading mine with the same objective in mind. I am humbled and bewildered when people accept a submission - when they actually solicit a poem I love them, instantly and unconditionally.

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Friday, 3 August 2007

Poetry Life and Times August

Poetry Life and Times
Great new edition for August! *


Edited by Robin Ouzman Hislop

This months edition concentrates on the theme of Climate Chaos and Earth’s Revenge.

*(and I'm not just saying that cos I am in it lol)

I have three poems viewable there: Territory, The Murder of Cliona and Angry Rivers

There is also an interview with a poet I admire, Ian Thorpe and other great poetry.

Check it out!
It's a great Ezine and really deserving of support so get over there and read. It also has a new interactive section including news, blogs, polls etc.

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Wednesday, 1 August 2007

At Table





At Table.

I sat with you
at table. Among friends
we broke bread
and your hand reached for mine.

Sup wine from my cup,
steal sweets from my plate;
All good things I have
I offer to you, serve them up.

Are your cheeks flushed?
or is it candlelight and fireside -
the heat of the hall?
or is it my touch, cooler than air...

I sit beside you
at table. We are blessed
in each other and friends
and joined by merry words.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
(I am building a selection of "love poems" some simply poems of love others poetry about love and the condition we call love. This is one of the former, a simple and truthful poem.)

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Tuesday, 31 July 2007

Lugh Among the People


Lughnasadh
Lugh among the people.
i.
Deliberate, in measured steps,
approaching the great circle
leading the people to pray, with the sound of brass trumpets;
Priest or Poet, calling us each to his own, filling our hearts
with the beat of a bodhrƔn and the sound of the pipes made of thorn
I am the dancer, lost in the rhythm of nature, dancing on the edge
of the world, swinging out over chasms of infinity
lit only by the icecold stars.
Singing a song I heard somewhere
mourning the loss of a woman
of infinite love. I am the Creator of words.
I am the Fiddler. I am the moment when Summer ends,
yet still the sun beats down and the Earth yields.
I am the paradox, of Autumn beginning.

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Ingmar Bergman Obituary

Obituary: Ingmar Bergman

Ingmar Bergman's films tackled profound questionsIngmar Bergman, who has died aged 89, was known as "the poet of the cinema....Full Story Here

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Tuesday, 24 July 2007

Emotions...false starts....

One thing that bugs me - when i write passionate, genuine emotion "in the moment" it reads back to my ears at least as trite, over sentimental, false etc. whereas the poems readers respond to the most seem to be the ones that are filtered through some distance, written at a slight remove or expressing emotion "sideways" through metaphor etc they're the ones that people feel a more emotional response to. Not that I'm not grateful lol for any positive response from readers! but one of these days, though, I'll crack it :) I'll write a searing piece in the very moment of passionate emotion and it'll work :D!

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Thursday, 19 July 2007

Gerard Manly Hopkins Festival,

The best Literary Festival in Ireland.


The 20th International Hopkins Festival promises to be the best yet.
Internationally, it will offer its widest range of visitors with 24 countries represented from Japan to Slovenia, Russia to Sardinia.
Best also in its range of activities:
Our Art Exhibitions are a special feature and this year will include works by Brian Bourke, John Behan, Edward Navone (USA), and others.
The Classical Music Concert will take place in Moore Abbey and feature the piano of John McCormack.
The Traditional Irish Evening this year will feature a group led by exciting new talent, Malachy Bourke.
We are the only Summer School to offer a specially tailored Youth Programme geared to students. Some scholarships are still available. Apply immediately.
A special feature of the Hopkins Festival is its emphasis on Workshops in the area of Creative Writing, Writing Songs and Music and Translation. Each activity is led by noted experts in the field. Early application advised.
Lectures by internationally acclaimed speakers including Ian Ker (Oxford), Aleksandra Kedzierska (Poland), Lucas Carpenter (USA) etc.
Poetry Readings include noted writers from around Europe and some leading Irish namessâ?
There will be Field Trips to Newbridge, Dublin and Maynooth University.
One of the highlights will be the presentation of the O’Connor Literary Award to Japanese scholar, Hikaru Kitabayashi. This will take place at a special celebratory Banquet hosted by Newbridge Silverware.
Add to all the above the Festival Club every evening with performances, plenty of singing and the opportunity to get to know other participants over a convivial drink or two.
The Gerard Manley Hopkins International Festival is unique both for the quality of its participants over a wide range of activities – and for its special atmospherein the context of the beautiful small Irish town which the great English poet, Hopkins (1844 – 1849) described as "one of the props and struts of my existence".
Download our 2007 Newsletter at http://www.gerardmanleyhopkins.org/newsletter.pdf
Here, you can also check out latest updates to our Advance Programme.

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Saturday, 30 June 2007

This of Small Virtues

This of Small Virtues.



There are things that endear you to me,
strange items that hang in a wardrobe or
lurk on shelves, shyly advertising you.
The books on weight loss, gathering dust
beside fantasy and sci-fi, testements to your
all too human frailty; the books on
love and self, incongruous in a male library
besides the Cosmos and Relataive physics.
The way you embrace science and all
the oddest facts of our tenuous existance on
this planet; where you maintain mankind are
monkeys in jumpers, but you are openhearted
towards magic and the unexplained.
These are the unresolved equations of your nature
secrets that ambush me as I tidy away, or unpack bags
riddles to the sweet core of your nature
open only to me, only here, in our home.

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Wednesday, 27 June 2007

The Swan




All angular beauty
and ruffled lines
curious in approach
white breasted downy apparition

Closer to your beauty
than before; allowed approach
a temple of wonder
your unique glory

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Thursday, 14 June 2007

Green Party On

In a week that saw the Greens enter power for the first time in their history;


Green Party On

I walked Tara as a child
on ramparts ancient paused,
while parents stared at vistas far beyond
our youthful minds.

They were from a generation
far different from our own;
not for them the instant or the undeserved,
unearned reward.

Now matrons move their children
to the sticks, to mix with others
in surburban bliss, sans roads and schools
and infrastructure.

The chattering classes sit on
their ass and talk about recycling;
while sympathizing with those who would
bulldoze Tara.

The Green voter pledged to Save
Tara, til they smelt power and
in that moment turned to establishment
and economics.

Converted to Mamon
and to Progress, our most devoutly
prasied god in modern Ireland, sans Heritage
or pride.

Party On Green Men. Pary
while they destroy six thousand
years of dreams and literature and history
and sanctity.

Move to Meath, with your SUVs
and flood the rural scene with stress,
you'll be unmolested by men of conscience, not
in Ireland.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Tuesday, 5 June 2007

Pooka in the Summer Sun










A pooka grazes peacefully
where the river
meets the sea
In the ruins of a castle,
watched by me.
A moment of enchantment
where the city meets the green
and I enjoy the magic
as I watch, unseen.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Wednesday, 23 May 2007

Politician in Private Society

One of my favourites, this is a light hearted piece inspired by a chance encounter at a private party with a man then at the height of his power in the country; I was fascinated beyond words by the effect he had on the would-be urbane and aspiringly sophisticated! I doubt the salons of Victorian or Edwardian london could have boasted a better Lion than he prooved to be...so for day that's in it tomorrow......


Urbane he stands, a figure
shaded among gay and vibrant souls
"Dear Sir," his hostess flutters,
murmurs her thanks at his august presence.

He is a figure aloof,
wreathed in smiles and honour
impenetrable fortress of power
graciously unbending to the public eye


It is all we can do to speak
his eye holds us all in thrall
hypnotising with its knowledge
Each uninitiate to the halls of government.

He knows we fight
to keep from staring, touching,
pressing against him as a talisman
a living totem of the forces of opinion

Tomorrow we will casually
lightly boast, disdainful of him
remarking on his public image
delightfully dismissive of his private face

But for now, here and now
in this moment, we are all
swooning at his word and faint
for signs of his good opinion, gracious favour

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Tuesday, 15 May 2007

Sunday at the Temple, Music

To Joe and Mark:


I went to worship
at a Temple of Music
(a sub branch on Dame street
Catering to the Urbanite congregation
and our nostalgic pounds)

Molly Ringwald smiled at me
from a giant screen
while Andy McClusky sang.
Touch me once, Touch me twice;
I was transported.

Joan of Arc took up arms
before the pain of Enola Gay.
Ah! Sunday night standing, swaying
praying, to the gods of time and space -
More, More, More.

Joe and I discuss the
merits of tranquiliser guns
Giants stand before us,
on white powder; slipping. While
My love sings to himself, nineteen again.

I worshipped at the temple of music
I danced through 18 years in a drumbeat.
We laughed as we sang as we cried
as the gods on stage thanked us,
transformed us, blessed us.


OMD Olympia Theatre; May 13th 2007

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Friday, 11 May 2007

John Cooper Clarke

We went to see John Cooper Clarke in Whelan's on Wednesday night; hard to beat. It was excellent in spite of or perhaps because of the unrelenting stream of appalling old jokes

He gave a trip through memory lane with classics like Beasley Street and the updated new version Beasley Boulevard. An engaging and thoroughly affable performer, Clarke is an object lesson to all those poets who feel poetry readings should be serious affairs, with every word enunciated in droning, affected tones. New material was excellent and the crowd when offered a choice began to call for more of it; Clarke seemed mildly pleased that his newer poetry was as well received as the classics. Still there were no shortage of requests for Chickentown or Twat although the repeated calls of "twat twat!" from behind us made a few of the uninitiated a little antsy. Oh okay, it was me, i didn't know it was actually a title of one of his poems I just thought an unusually harsh critic was in the joint!

A great Poet, a great night, a great gig - do yourselves a favour and get to see him, travel if necessary, but see the man.

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Thursday, 3 May 2007

The Power of Poetry

Poetry can seem like the hobby of dillitantes - what use is it, if not simply that of adornment? Yet poetry can express, move, protest and motivate. It can also comfort and help.

Kevin V Moore, and american poet writting under the name of Merlinbeag worte this poem for a young girl, Rhiannon, who is not well. This is poetry at its purest in my view - universal and personal, intimate and yet a testement to our commitment to strangers; our link to those we do not know and may never meet.

Rhiannon is undergoign treatment tomorrow; people will be joining together to pray for her today. Light a candle in honour of Saturn at 41.19pm 9.38pm and 2.57am. Or pray in your own way. Light a candle online at

http://www.oracula.org/es-0705032081080



For Rhiannon

The Dragon has attacked you.
We all have dragons,
in differing degrees of reality.
This time it’s real.
So much so, that you
wonder who it is that
they talk about
in hushed voices.

The first and the worst
thought, is to believe
that you are alone.
Like the cinematic vassal,
when the message comes,
I will drop my axe, or hoe,
and come to you,
along with my tribe.

Because we believe
in goodness.
And those I know
to be good,
have told me that
you too, are good.
And that’s good enough.

Marching with the rest
of my rustic electronic
village, we will
come to you
in your time
of need.
And that is how Dragons
are slain.

Merlinbeag
©2007

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Tuesday, 1 May 2007

Prarie Poetry Ezine

Prairie Poetry Ezine is one of my favourite poetry sites. Its remit is narrow enough, prairie poetry not sounding exactly universal, however the range they publish each month manages to be surprising and innovative. A classic example of transcending the rules, producing something that speaks to oursiders as well as the initiated.

I love each new edition, and it's well worth looking at! The May edition is up now....my favourites by far are Arrogant Bones by Larry Schug and Jacob Is by Brwyn Harris.

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Saturday, 28 April 2007

Yield

Yield you say,
to me, yield soul
and intellect and thought.
I cannot. Generations
bid me stand, withhold
remain aloof and intact.

You want me to
sink into the mire of belief
unthinking, quiescent,
flacid of mind
laid out at your pleasure
revelling in surrender.

I demand consort, equality
divine responsiblity
sporting and sparing
a hunt for reality among
the illusions and lies
that is my heaven.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Vigil


The fire burned low, so that it was only embers in the hearth, and still we sat side by side. It was our wedding night: outside our new home, neighbours still whooped and hollered; games were played, the men were rough on PoitĆ­n and the women flushed with envy and desire. And still we sat, like wax dolls in our finery, my dress like a shroud around my feet, tripping me up if I walked, pulling me down to earth so that my whole body felt filled with mortality. If I glanced at you – not often in my shyness – your hand was always at your collar, strangling you into respectability.

The time drifted by and still we sat. Limbs trembled from exhaustion and anticipation while eyes sought refuge in the sinking flame. You coughed nervously. I thought with relief you were about to break the awful silence with some ready jest, the kind of smiling tease that had made me first look at you. Instead you shifted in your seat and sank back into taciturn reproof.

Where was my Jamie, where was my man? When we walked in lanes in summer, you picked dog roses and put them in my hair. Let others sneer at our lover’s clichĆ©s – I pressed them that night and tried not to hope that your handsome laughing face meant more than to turn my head, that your words, so quick so witty, meant more than fools gold. Where was my laughing boy, who carried me over a stream in winter, strong arms around my waist, swinging me over mud and laughing at me fright? Had he run away, frightened by this stern man with shuttered eyes and hands that were so still, resting on his knees as if in church? My Jamie would not sit in silence.

I stared into the fire and remembered; long hot summer days, your hand in mine, dry skin rough calloused by work; your voice rising in excitement. How many fields, how soon and for how long, the cow from O’Ryans, the money your father left you. I let the words wash over me, only dimly aware of their meaning, these words in this place, spoken between man and woman. Your home, your mother's plans, your prospects - oh! You laid them out before me like a cloth of gold, like rippling fields of corn in August. My heart took flight when I realised the grave nature of your talk, that I was divine in your eyes and beloved.

Now we sat like mourners, in the night: bound by enchantment and rooted to the cold flagstones. Did you look at me and marvel, at the cold composed line of mouth and the pallor of my cheek? What did you think, then, of the girl you called your little bird? Did I look like matron of the parish, impossible to imagine in mirth or in anything but disapproval?

The fire stirred and the crumbling coals settled. Far out in the night an owl called and the wind sighed gently through the eaves. The candle guttered and you stared at it - you turned your head and tilted it towards the shuttered windows, as if you were listening for some sign, some token that would reconcile us to ourselves. Whatever the object, it worked - you turned to me with a face suddenly relaxed in the dying light the first glimmer of a smile creasing the corners of your eyes. Without warning the blood rushed to my cheeks, and tears to my eyes. You reached across and softly touched your finger to my lips. I caught your hand and clung to it. The dark fell at last as without a word, the silence of our vigil was broken.

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Friday, 27 April 2007

Library Thing - New site

Check out this wonderful and addictive site

http://www.librarything.com

my own list is
http://www.librarything.com/catalog/gercmbyrne It's going to take a loooong time to catalogue my books but hey it's a new hobby....

One can also feed to a blog, see below.

Thoroughly enjoyable!

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Tuesday, 24 April 2007

The Contest

Part of a series on friendship, this poem may seem oblique in its refernces but it has a very simple premise, that moment of triumph over someone who traditionally has played the dominant role. Sometimes this can be innocent, often less so - we have mixed feelings towards those friends we allow into our lives but with whom we have fraught or resentful relationships.
That soft underbelly of friendship, the slightly unhealthy range of emotions in particualr in long term relationships with others, who hald keys to parts of ourselves and remember us at times we might prefer to forget....that is the unifying theme of the Frienship poems.

The Contest


At last I have won;
My wits against yours
my worth weighed,
yours found wanting.

Over dramatic? yes
but oh so sweet -
a victory plucked
from your defeat.

Old friend, forgive
me my gloating tone.
Remember I have tasted
ashes for you, alone.

I have waited eons
to rise once above you
to be the sole voice
soaring, sounding true.

I am petty, I know
but old friend, you often
broke my heart
time without end.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Saturday, 21 April 2007

Presents of Mind

This is a poem I wrote for my niece and nephews; it was inspired by the reaction of these canny little people when Aunty managed to give them presents not entirely approved of by Mammy. Yes, they got the sensible clothes presents but they also could rely on at least one "bold" present, something they wanted that was flashy, plastic and a complete waste of money. Except of course that it was money very well spent, when I saw their faces....

Presents of Minds


I bought wrapping paper from the street sellers,
the best stuff, cheap and bright;
for I remember Christmas mornings,
peering in the early half-dark-
the light reflecting off the tinseled wrap;
so that right away I knew the provenance of the gift,
that someone young and lively, with no parental claims
(who could care less if the gift were educational
who would rather die than buy functional)
had bought that garish glitzy useless precious
plastic packaged piece of commercial tat
my mother wouldn’t buy on principle and
my heart would swell with joy and I would bless her name
as, now my sister has become the mother,
her children breath prayers of thanks
whenever wrapping paper holds its sway,
For Aunts and all they stand for.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Thursday, 19 April 2007

Sentinel


Sentinel.

Standing stones, standing like stone
carved in stone,
Waiting.
You are patience, endless endurance
hard as granite,
Unyielding.
I have stood in your shadow and cursed
you are silent,
Resistant.
I have blessed you for your dark shade
you are nuetral,
Indifferent.
I wonder what it is awaits you,
as the years pass,
Unremarkable.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Wednesday, 18 April 2007

Ducks...


duck6a
Originally uploaded by charlesbyrnemusic.
Lovely plump friendly ducks....strolling around grand canal square this morning. I managed to take a series of photos, this one being the closest they'd let me get. It's s sight that makes me happy of a morning! between the ducks and the swans I'm going to miss that area later in the year when we move....

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Friday, 13 April 2007

Sweet, I kiss your lips

Sweet, I kiss your lips;
it is a way to say those words
the words we say so often
but cannot say enough.

Sweet I kiss your lips
to transfer from my heart to yours
the feeling that you bring
of joy and love.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Wednesday, 11 April 2007

Sunshine in April...

Is there anything more encouraging than sunshine in April? It's just late enough in the year to make us all think we'll have a lovely summer and early enough not to panic about spare tyres and wobbly bits.
One of the many sources of inspiration I have, and one of the most important is our heritage and history. Another, on a personal and less cerebral note, are my friends and family and last Easter Sunday I managed to combine both. Three of us made a trip to the Rock of Dunamaise near Portlaoise:




Beautiful place, seen at its best on such a lovely afternoon. We sat on some rocks and discussed the 1916 Rising, Countess Markievich and what we'd do if we won the lottery. Two people extremely dear to me, and a sublime afternoon - days like that are lucky and blessed.

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Tuesday, 10 April 2007

Yellow


flower2
Originally uploaded by charlesbyrnemusic.
Yellow













Glorious morning! when sunlight
illuminates and informs, the rebirth
of bloom and leaf.

Like fire, this yellow warms my soul
gladdens my heart while quickening the blood -
Spring rising fast.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Thursday, 5 April 2007

Poetry News...New Widget and New Flickr Group

I've added a widget to the sidebar, as featured on Blogger buzz: it'll show up to date poetry and writing news from around the world! check out today's stories....
I've found a great group on Flickr Poetry and Pictures International : it's dedicated to something i have been experimenting with this year, image poetry or as one of the discussions on the group has it "phoetry" or "poem -photos" or "poem pictures" - excellent stuff!
There are some incredible images and some wonderful poems and both are well worth exploring, inspiration awaits you. It did take me about four attempts to figure out how to use the group properly but they rather nicely forgave my bungling and pointed me in the right direction.
If nothing else, I find writing poetry to images sparks the imagination, and makes exercises in poetry writing a lot more enjoyable.

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Wednesday, 4 April 2007

Encounter

Encounter

Light and dark at play
across the dappled water
I hear the frost break
underfoot, like glass.

Horned and hooved, pawing
at the frozen ground, antlered.
Lowering crown, challenging,
playfully I think. A forest Pan.

Breath suspended in tendrils on
icy air; we stare transfixed.

Reluctantly, you turn from me
relinquish me, to the gathering dusk.
Darkened skies pass across the plains
and rain turns to snow in the forests.

All trace gone except in my minds eye
and the grand look of your own.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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