Tomorrow is the closing date for entries to the John Murray Poetry Competition on RTE radion one in association with Listowel Writers' Week.
The theme is Ireland 2011 and the poem must be 20 lines or less. There are three categories, two for school goers and one for adults. Read the submission guidelines at the link above.
Just heard of the death of a friend; she hadn't been around in the last few years but I have very fond memories of her charm and elegance. This is for her.
Ladies' day
August in Dublin
For her was hats
Shoes and other
Sartorial excesses
But mainly hats
Ladies day at the RDS
Sore shoes on inexperienced feet
I complained but she laughed
Suffer for fashion, ladies
The rituals of ladyship
She took seriously
Played by the rules.
Once she made
a lime green hat
She was Hitchcock cool
With a passionate eye
I remember most
How she enjoyed it all
Just a reminder that there are still a few days left in which to enter the inaugural John Murray Show Poetry Competition.
Full details here at http://writersweek.ie/uncategorized/rte-john-murray-show-poetry-competition
The theme is Ireland 2011 and it is held in conjunction with Listowel Writers Week.
How do you see me? he asked
I paused. At nineteen how do you answer that?
How do you say, I cannot describe you?
He was, we were,
wild beauty rocks and mountains and waterfalls
or we were urban decay wasteland and wire fence
I remember those days through a haze of nostalgia
the least of them pulsates like a beating heart
lifeblood of experience
I was unknown. You were unspoken
He was unformed. She was unbroken.
We were untitled landscapes.
I stood with you on the edge of rain
Deep In a forest in a foreign land
We danced between two states of mind
Sun to storm, hand in hand
Leaves made dappled patterns on the path
Rivers formed beneath our glancing feet
We circled stately like twin stars
Cheek to cheek, the twain did meet
She dances like a wave
Undulations leaving ridges
In the sands of time
She dances like long grass
Sighing before the wind
Bending low to kiss the earth
She dances to the song
Of larks on the wing
Wheeling free against the sun
She dances
And the world stands still
Invisible hands
Move branches
Lift fallen leaves
Throw handfuls
against my window
Counterpoint
To rain hitting glass
Hitting slate
Dancing on metal
Wind howls
Wild joyful screams
Low moans of pain
Finding hidden passages
Creeping through gaps
To place cold fingers
On your cheek
You stir
You sigh
You shiver
Safe indoors
For obvious reasons I have had no time to write in the last 4 months; but there's one piece of rhyme I have composed ! This is what I sing to my 4 month old baby boy. I doubt it'll stand as my greatest poetic work but he seems to like it.
I have the best baby in the whole wide world
his name is darabean
he's the best baby
that you've ever seen
I love my baby
and my baby, he loves me
We both love Daddy
that's a family of three!
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.
A man on an escalator, did something silly; and reminded me that underneath the suit can be an innocent heart
Underneath
He's suited and booted;
shined shoes
Sharp dresser
serious man.
On the down escalator
busy eyes
balding head
being in charge.
Reaches out one hand
tips the metal
makes it sing
smiles a little smile.
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
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.
Well It's a bit later than promised but I think you'll agree, well worth the wait!
Thanks to almost epic levels of incompetence on behalf of Ireland's leading phone and internet provider, I've been without proper BB access for weeks now, and it's been a struggle to get even the basics done.
However the power of poetry and creativity triumphed in the end aided by a very high level of excellent submissions this time!
We have a collection of poems from Sunil P Narayan that we are confident you will enjoy; along with a debut poem from Peter Lukey entitled "Boudicca". Sara Curran returns with the comic "BBQ Blues" and Gina Bass with the tragic "No Cards" giving us a taste of light and dark. Maureen Duffy-Booze gives us two lovely offerings "I cry out to the Rock" and "The Sphinx" while Joker returns with "Midsummer."
"The Garden of the Wild Wild Rose" by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne is in memory of her baby niece; while "Solstice" represents the experiences of solstice morning at Tara. SparrowGael's haunting "Dark Lover" and ElainePurplePagan's evocative poem "Stepping from the Shadows" exhorts us to leave nothing unsaid..a very fitting motto for poets.
We hope you read and enjoy...and be inspired!
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Spread the word!
On stony ground, You fall like rain
When I walk the hard path
and stray, distracted by storm clouds
you walk with me.
I know it is your hand that
pulls me back, steers me towards
grass verges.
When I am blinded by the sun,
and fear I will not find my way again
you call my name.
It is your voice I recognise
over the howling winds and
screaming gales.
When I can find no rest or shade
it is you who shelters me, like an
Oak tree.
I am safe with you, my love -
for you fall on stony ground
like rain.
When St Patrick met the Druid
Seeing is believing, but really
there were no snakes to start with
It's not a miracle
to drive away the invisible.
He was a gaunt man
inflamed with the need to prove
he was no swineherd;
Patrician of Ireland
refusing to acknowledge an Ollamh
A Doctor of Knowledge, a poet.
He has no subtlety of words
but speaks quickly without reflection
eager to fill the space between us
With reflections on his God
I ask him, what three things
make a man of honour?
He does not know the answer
He is no initiate.
Yet he has fire, this slave turned master
I can see him devouring us all.
I waste no more words on him;
He cannot hear what I say.
Poetic Challenge for today is to write a love poem.
I have written several poems about the love of my life Toast and Belgian Chocolate; An Apology to Aongus Óg and This of Small Virtues for example.
Seeing as Valentine's Day is almost upon us, this is a small but heartfelt one for Himself.
Love poem
If he is tired, I only want
To smooth the lines of his day
And hold him safe.
If he hungers, there is no joy
In food or drink until
He is replete.
If he is cold, my only thought
Is to light a fire
To warm him.
I have no needs, I lack nothing
Until he hurts; and then I bruise.
And now for something completely different. This is a poetic challenge from Robert Lee Brewer - essentially to write a sestina using 6 favourite obscure or at least less common words. Now being a total dunce at this and never having attempted a sestina before I made a fundemental error - I thought the end words of the lines had to be rotated in order. I didn't realise they had to be rotated in a different order, despite rather clear instructions :) So having finished it I realised I had done it wrong however, I have grown rather fond of my Monster and Gargoyle so I've left it as it is. I will however have another go tomorrow using different words and the correct rotation order!
Chortle , Gargoyle , Hullabaloo, Portmanteau, pomegranate, countenance
Stanza 1
You know what makes me chortle?
Said the monster to the Gargoyle
when I jump out of a portmanteau
and my victims make a hullabaloo
One swallowed whole, a pomegranate
Turning puce in her fair countenance.
Stanza 2
The other would not countenance
this; cruelty did not make him chortle
- his was a noble race, The Gargoyle
lofty towers, not cheap portmanteau
Silent watching, not raucous hullabaloo
And no choking on pomegranate.
Stanza 3
She could have choked on that pomegranate
He said with a stern countenance.
While you indulged in your chortle
Why can’t you be more like a gargoyle?
As it is she packed your portmanteau
You’ve lost your place for that hullabaloo!
Stanza 4
The Monster sniggered. That Hullabaloo
Was worth a dozen strangled pomegranate
eating women, however fair her countenance.
Your problem is you never have a chortle.
You don’t know how to live, Gargoyle.
So what if all I have is my portmanteau?
Stanza 5
If you are happy living out of a portmanteau
Then by all means, enjoy the result of your hullabaloo
You’ll never find another girl to feed you pomegranates
Or who will love your ugly countenance
But you’ll have had a good old chortle.
Thus spake the wise old, cool headed Gargoyle
Stanza 6
The monster looked at his friend, the Gargoyle.
He scratched the worn leather of his portmanteau
He was a monster, his business was hullabaloos
It seemed hard that his nature lost him pomegranates
And soft words and kind hands and pretty countenance.
And yet, he could not have stifled that fateful chortle.
Stanza 7
Monster sighed -Gargoyle, I did not mean to chortle
. but jumping out of portmanteau and causing a hullabaloo
Is more to me than sweet pomegranates and fair countenance.
In the Gaps
In the gaps
between notes, he plays
a different tune,
changes the key
and makes us dance.
In the silence
he creates shapes;
a space for dreams
that hits us like waves
and makes us sing.
Deep in the night
Between last orders
And first light
Gods wander the city
Stealing dreams.
Pass them by,
If you see them
Do not stop or stare
Do not dare them
They are not at play.
They own this ground
From slick kerb
to guttered edge and
In between.
All the spaces.
i
Girl on city street, heels clicking
shiny hair, gleaming lips
eyes glinting in the smokey light
siren song in her stride
ii
Boy on corner smoking
haloed under streetlight's glow
watches the lilt of a girl's walk
breathes her in like air
forgets to exhale
iii
Cold grey sky can lie
the tell tale signs
one green shoot, rooted in dark soil
one new blade turned toward a wintry sun
Bridget comes
iv
hope - uncertain friend
promising much yet in the end
what happens next, all depends
on things Hope can't control
v
Dark rain, vanquishing spirit
overpowers the pristine cloak of snow
revealing colours, angles, edges
Snow in Dublin II
At midnight
We found ourselves
walking a borrowed dog,
in a world
of white, frosted
under a diamond sky.
We were silent;
overawed by
that still cliché of snow ,
not a sound
except the crisp
break of sparkling cold.
There is ice,
buried under
the soft clean white.
No step
is quite sure,
so you take my arm.
We are
alone, intrepid
you, me and the borrowed dog.
We are safe
in this world,
under jewelled skies.
http://www.paganpoetrypages.com
The PPP is delighted to announce that thanks to the success of the Poetry Anthology we have an excellent prize fund for our Yule Competition.
First Prize will be a beautiful Fountain Pen
PLUS a £20 Amazon Gift Voucher!!
There will also be 2nd and 3rd prizes of £10 gift Amazon vouchers!
The competition is open to everyone. The closing date for entries is December 24th and the Winners will be announced in January.
You may submit as many entries as you like. All Entries will be considered for the Competition Edition in January as well as for the Competition itself.
RULES:
View the images
November Pad Challenge
Prompt #1: Take the phrase "Everybody says (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of the poem, and write the poem.
Prompt #2: Take the phrase "Nobody says (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of the poem, and write the poem.
Everybody says Hello
I remember getting letters
scrawled on torn notepaper
delivered to a camping site
in wet, wild rural Holland
How are you, sisters wrote
dutifully filling in lines and space
Hope the tulip picking is good
Hope you are having a good time
They didn't say some things
what they were doing today
who they were seeing today
where were they going.
Just mainly hi, and of course
everybody says hello
everybody misses you
come home soon, when you can.
Nobody Says Hello
Nobody says hello,
when you are a stranger
living among people, on your own.
No one asks you,
how was your day today?
what did you do, and with whom.
Nothing says home,
like a neighbour nodding,
saying hello with their friendly eyes.
For the November Pad challenge
A poem filled with noise
I hear ya.
Hiss of fire, (gas, so no crackle
no shift of turf or coal, but still,
warm and comforting)
Hum of dryer, the kitchen
filled with moist damp air
whirl of washing in machine
(old machine, with choas
in its spin cycle.)
Nextdoor neighbours
shouting kids and loud
Rumanian curse words
and baby screams.
(Miss
the quiet of our Polish and French
couple, moved away home)
TV tells me "It's going to trial"
(Law and Order on a wet afternoon)
and I clickity clack on my keyboard.
The wind chases demons down
the chimney, rain pelts against
my window, the heating kicks in
with a boiler-busting bang.
My iphone beeps, text message
insistantly calling, read me read me.
What are you doing?
Having a quiet day off, I say.
I hear ya, you reply.
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.
And then Earth turns.
She swims in the cold ice river
Of time and space, across the eons
Look at me, she says, extending
One flawless limb
Look at me, I am so cold and tired.
It will never end, this journey.
She sighs as the stars flash by
Silver trout in a crystal stream
How cold you are, they say
As they pass, How cold it is
She catches one on her long eyelash
And it freezes like a diamond.
Look, the others whisper, look
The light has bloomed, the light;
A tiny glimmer in the distance, calling
Her back to life again.
She waits until she touches the shore,
And then Earth turns.
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.
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/
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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.
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.
My "Plant" poem for the November poetic challenge
What Is It?
"What is it?" my husband asked.
His faith in my knowledge was touching;
I can grow herbs and tomatoes
but am a mass murderer of houseplants.
"I don't know." We both stared -
it was a weed, or a baby tree or a flower.
That much at least was clear.
"Should we dig it up?" he mused.
It has reddish leaves and a long thin stem
and looks innocent, exposed
by our weeding and ruthless culling of hedges;
its secret life and gentle growth
gone forever, like childhood; I cannot cut it.
He looks at me, hopfully
"It could be a tree. I bet it's a tree."
It could be; some bird may have dropped seed
in the undergrowth of our garden
and from this tiny source, a trunk and branch
and deciduous colours in Autumn
and shade and root may yet grow, and tower.
Why not? Why not a tree as easily as a weed?
"It looks like a tree to me."
Another from the excellent Robert Lee Brewer poetic challenges
My effort for a Maybe poem...
Maybe Not.
I did not know
when I first saw you
that you had nothing
in your heart
but a sense of being apart,
a line in the sand,
a grudge and a complaint.
Maybe to me means
it is possible,
it might happen,
something might be,
could be, exists in potentia
but you always frown and say
Maybe not.
Twitter Fragments II
Or
how I feel on certain days....
i
The city moves, a slow grumbling yawn
shoppers drifting in lazy knots
high heels and blowdried hair
rituals of consumer glee
ii
Dublin awash with
post Arthurian hangovers;
spotted - more than one walking wounded
with Guinness pallor.
People with very shaky hands.
iii
Autumn encroaches on the last days of Summer
Fat old woman, ripe in gaudy colour
pushing aside the frail and ailing belle
iv
September sun
the cool balm of Indian summer
across the city like a gentle hand
a gift before ripe Autumn falls
v
Dublin is grey today windswept & autumnal
back to school blues & sad little doldrums
the first fallen leaves lie forlorn on the pavement
vi
Early Sat evening in Dublin;
the everday life of the city
abandoned for the tinsel glamour of its night life.
Mad, wild, woolly...
vii
hard seat, numbing both body and mind
I find myself dreaming of another future
reaching out for things no longer real
viii
Light steals darkness from my room
gentle thief, fracturing dreams
emptying memories to lay bare jewels of time
On the pitiful sight of a man whose pursuit of power leads him to renege on his own solemn promise to quit political involvement
The Returned Politico
How sad a sight, the unwanted suitor
Pleading to be taken back, swaggering
As if he was invited. What tattered rag
of dignity he once owned, to warm him
in his leaving is cast now aside to be
trampled under muddy feet, as the mob
rush to mock and be entertained. Poor
fool, in his motley, thinking his words
fall on willing ears. The object of his love
Eriu in her stately beauty, turns aside.
Her protectors sheath their swords and
Send their lackeys to chastise instead.
Hidden Jester
Grief comes,
in glancing blows
stealing up at tangents -
shards of promise, taut with loss,
might have been, should have been.
Nothing direct or clean;
but sharp cuts and sudden hurts
from shadowed corners.
Strange friend,
thief, despoiler
relying on one saving grace,
one charity of memory, doled out.
Taking more than giving;
a parasite of living;
poisonous flower, spreading
like a weed.
Hidden Jester
laying small traps
that catch you unawares -
the detritus of life, turned enemy
banal weapons that shard the heart
and once you start
you cannot stem the flow
and he has won.
JOhn Hughes, director of the Breakfast Club and Ferris Beuller died today; as did Renato of Renee and Renato. MIchael Jackson is gone and Farah Fawcett.
It's sad to see the icons you loved slip away; the era in which I grew up is now becoming history.
The 80s are slipping away
the 80s are slipping away,
my teen years are fading.
Neon colours, legwarmers,
toners and shaders.
I've missed Bueller's day out, I think
I know I'm no longer Pretty in Pink.
I don't know the words of modern songs.
I think standing in pubs is all wrong.
I am old, dear friends, I am old.
I do miss the 80s, the hair and the fashion
the dancing in Fame, my enduring passion
for Harrison Ford, as he played Dr Jones
or Mr Douglas romancing the stones
Now, Charlie's Angel has passed away
the Thriller no longer holds sway
the events of my youth are history now
I've grown up and I don't know how.
I am old, dear friends, I am old.
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.
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
A comic offering from several years ago; part of a bantering exchange on the PPP site prior to it's apocolyptic crash. I was glad to find it; it reminded me of some good mates sadly long since moved on and some good times.
It's in a similar vein to "The Committee for the Formation of a Pagan Creation Theory"
Where Dwell The Gods?
'Where o! where do the gods reside?
the opinions are many, the theories divide
The Norse have Asgard, way up high
the Mediterraneans look to the sky,
Mount Olympus is a "des res," all will agree
where good Greek gods go, to relax by the sea:
we Celts have the Otherworlds, Tir Taingiri
while Manannán rules the wide western sea.
So what do they put on their RSVP?
what postal code, or locality?
are they in heaven or are they in hell
where do the gods of our nations dwell?
I've read all the theories, short daft and long
and I'm here to tell you they're all bloody wrong!
I know the secret, the homes of the gods -
they live next to me the noisy auld sods!
There's Thor with his hammer, banging away
the noise of his thunderstick booming all day.
Tthere's Aengus Óg in his "bachelor pad"
a man of his age, it's really quite sad.
Next Door but one, is the frog-god Hekat
and Diana the Huntress, she shot next door's cat.
I'm kept up each Friday by the parties next door
where a certain Adonis relives days of yore.
The poker game held just across the road:
guests wearing togas, helmets or woad!
where Zhu Rong, and Shongo and Yatikka Taccu
came to blows with Umvelinqangi, Belanus and Wu!
the Gardai when they came, were slightly perplexed
(there's not many cells can hold gods who are vexed)
...so they gave them a caution, and tried to look tough
while Hora-galles kept shouting "C’mon ya big puffs!"
The neighbours are moving, the prices are down
the gods of all nations have invaded our town;
the residents committee is in complete disarray
since the incident with the flying horse at the last open day.
An Morrigiu is sitting in my garden right now
talking with what appears to be half woman - half cow
The three fates sit spinning and I don't like the way
they looked at me and went ""Snip, snip, whayhay!"
O where do the gods of the world dwell?
on my road, gods help me! I'm moving to HELL!'
For details on how to submit
read here
Non Members - submit to editors@paganpoetrypages.com
Themes: Well it's the summer solstice so that's one :) Summer, heat, the Sidhe, observing religious events, what astrological events mean to us....
Poems, articles, journals, prose all welcome!!
The city lying in a daze
quieter than at midnight
rocked gently in a haze
of shimmering on black tarmac -
pavement hot to barefoot touch.
Sun glinting on shining glass
in spiralling reflection,
casting prisms on the grass
of gardens lulled by bee and mower
the infinity of suburban summer.
pottering in the garden shed
Tiny stirrings of family life
children still have to be fed -
the alluring sound of icecream van
the counterpoint to kitchen smells
Days too perfect in memory
and endless enigma of nostalgia
painful in unattainability;
yet there have been skies this blue
and hours of dreaming peace.
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.
Religious orders responsible for abusing children in institutions want to deal directly with victims rather than reopen the controversial 2002 indemnity deal.
This morning director general of the Conference of Religious of Ireland (Cori) Marie Ann O’Connor said the 18 congregations’ would prefer to “deal directly and to use all in their powers to channel whatever resources directly to the former residents” rather than reopen the terms of the deal.
http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/breaking/2009/0526/breaking18.htm
--------
Enclosed Orders
We would like
she said,
to be sure the money
deosn't swell the coffers
of the government
but we can see how it best serves
-them.
Them being the victims
details too horrific to repeat
civilised minds don't want to know
for goodness sake, how distasteful
We want it clear
when we say no
we're not saying no
(wonderful new phrase)
it's not a blocking mechanism
the redress fund will not best serve
- us.
Us being the ones who stood by
put our clothe above the child
beat and starved and touched
it wasn't only us, you know
Lets keep a lid on all this
keep some perspective
retain some dignity (not like them)
hold onto our assets; if you take
the away we'll pull the plug
it'll be catastrophic.
Indeed, imagine it - an Ireland
bereft of holy orders.
What a thought.
Yeah, best let
us decide what's right for them.
Out of the corner of my eye
something moves.
It's nothing he says, nothing -
everyone's eyes play tricks.
he pours a glass, dark red
rustling behing me
it's a good year, full bodied
and licks his lips.
I shift in my chair, listening -
shadows crawl.
Taste this, just a sip
Cloying, too sweet
Breath on my neck, stirring
(hackles rising)
touch like cold meat on skin
(teeth baring)
Out of sight, Out of mind
he never learnt
He shouldn't have tried it on
not with me.
My very own Poetry Challenge - feel free to join in :)
Pick a news story; as current as possible (same day as reading this notice if possible) and write a poem about it.
Include the link to the news story too.
please feel free to leave a comment on this blog linking to your own poem!
--------------------------------------------------------------
OSCE argues against blasphemy law
Tuesday, 19 May 2009 17:08
Europe's top security and human rights watchdog has urged Ireland not to preserve blasphemous libel as a crime.
The OSCE said this would flout international free speech covenants.
Justice Minister Dermot Ahern said earlier this month that he would seek to amend the law that provides prison sentences for blasphemous libel, but could not abolish it altogether without a referendum to change the constitution.
www.rte.ie/news/2009/0...ation.html
I choose this newstory because imo the mere idea of blasphemy laws in a civilised democracy is absolutely unacceptable.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Is this Not Blasphemy?
The words in my mouth
are as sacred to me
as communion wafers.
They are the body and
the blood and the spirit
of me. You would rip them
out and trample them.
Is this not Blasphemy?
My freedom is the holy
incarnation of my being;
my mind in consiousness,
formed in the image of
the sacred and divine.
Take away my rights
and you will defile me;
Is this not Blasphemy?
Your right, to your opinion
is my article of faith; you
would deprive me of mine
and see no irony. That
we should all speak
as we see fit, is my dogma.
When you deny this
is that not Blasphemy?
Maybe your gods can be
threatened; so weak they
need protection, coddled
in the cradle of law. Mine
reside in my heart, safe
in the strength of my own
conviction, immutable.
They know not Blasphemy.
RTE.ie News reports:
An Bord Pleanála is to hold a public hearing into a revised onshore pipeline route for the Corrib gas project in north Mayo.
The application is being made by Shell E&P Ireland, which is also seeking a compulsory acquisition order to gain access to private lands.
The hearing into the revised onshore pipeline route will get under way in Belmullet this morning and is expected to last for several weeks
Shell is seeking planning permission to lay 9.2km of pipeline to connect to an offshore line which will transport gas to the Corrib refinery in Bellanaboy.
The original route was exempted from planning permission nine years ago but when work began in 2005 locals objected on health and safety grounds.
The new route is a minimum of 140m from occupied housing. Up to 80 submissions are expected to be heard by An Bord Pleanála in the coming weeks.
Objections have been lodged by local residents' groups and environmentalists.
This is a much deserved ray of hope for the Corrib protesters; while the story has faded slightly from public view on May 9th 2009 80 protesters occupied the site of the Shell Glengad beach site, near Belmullet Co Mayo in order to remove perimeter fencing (Irish Times Saturday, May 9, 2009). One protester, Willie Corduff lodged himself under a truck in order to passively protest; he was later removed by force and injured by Shell security personel, according to eyewitness reports posted on various online support groups.
The fencing was erected by Shell at Glengad beach without planning permission; what muddies the water slightly is that entire Shell proposed route for the gas pipeline was originally exempted from planning permission (without reference to the public). However this exemption applied only to the route, according to protesters and not to individual erections and works.
On May 14th what has been described as a "daring protest" protesters mounted tripod structures to halt the works at Glengad, proving that the fight was far from over. The protest group Shell to Sea have repeatedly asked for the Corrib Gas to be processed at sea; this is standard practice and generally considered to have less environmental impact and fewer health and safety implications.
For their part Shell claim that "the safety and security of our employees, our contractors and the communities in which we operate is the number one priority for the Corrib gas partners." On the subject of environmental impact the company states "As a result of the screening studies, it was concluded that the preferred development scenario for the Corrib field was a subsea system tied back to a processing terminal onshore" (shell.com)
Whatever the right of it, the fact remains that a handful of community activists have suceeded in sending the matter back to An Bord Pleanala (the board in Ireland that deals with development and planning.) This is no mean feat in itself.
Tags: Environment | protest | Ireland | SHELL | Planning | Republic of Ireland | Royal Dutch Shell Oil | corrib gas | shell to sea | royal dutch | an bord pleanala
1.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!
Tags: Culture | Ireland | poetry | books | Writing | Publishing | dublin | Pagan | poem | paganism | pagan paeans | self publi | pagan poetry pages
1.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
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
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
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.
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.
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?
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
"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
Tags: Culture | Australia | Ireland | poetry | Literature | America | Creative | spirituality | United Kingdom | satire | paganism | anthology | pagan paeans
1."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
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
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
Simple
It was simple:
-once upon a time,
-it'll all be okay,
-what doesn't kill you.
Mundanities.
Clichés.
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
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
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
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.
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.
...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!!
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!
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
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.
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
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
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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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.
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.......
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.
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?
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 Pádraig 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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