Three children lie here
the eldest 17 months
stories written
on old gravestones
have the power
to stop you
hold your breath
with thoughts
of the sadness
of those poor parents.
With thanks Sheila!
Two poems by Gill McEvoy — And Other Poems
Derek Jarman’s Film “Blue” His silence now is blue. As if an artist drew a laden brush of paint from alder buds to reeds his mind and mouth and tongue are flushed by blue: the low-slung sky, the feathered seeds, the brook like navy slate beneath a moon, the tassels of phalaris plumes fused with […]
The Valley
I was born in a valley that was hollowing itself out
Under our feet men were digging
With mandrills and charge
Stripped naked in the heat
Of the dark seams of the earth
I was born in a valley that was dying on its feet
People didn’t seem to notice
One by one the pits closed
Men were moved to other mines
But the valley was thinning.
I was born in a village at a time when deaths shadow
Still haunted the ribboned streets
I grew accustomed to the disappearance
Of men, of the disasters, the mass funerals
For those who died in the depths
Those sombre marching line of men.
I was born in a village where words such as roof-fall,
Explosions, afterdamp a build-up of gas
In the heat of that darkness
Became markers of another time another age
I was born in a place that was dying
Its soul waving I’m leaving, you staying?
Simon Williams
Making Fun When we told Irish jokes, it’s said the Irish told of the Kerry man and in Kerry they told of the men of a small village near the sea. In that village, one bar in particular took the but…
Source: Simon Williams
Taking Hold
Take the chance
Take hold
Sometimes life
Makes the most
Of the situation.
The Book Day
Three boxes suddenly appeared
on the living room floor
Books cleared from a child’s room
Boxes filled with old friends
Books bought so long ago
So now my writing desk is surrounded
As I renew our acquaintance
Lorca’s Poet in New York.
Cesare Paves’s The Political Prisoner.
Opening the yellow pages
of Among Women Only
I catch the scent of the days
I worked in the steel works
And read it over and over again
on the way home on the train.
Rescuing is a goodness of its own
The dog had woken and was restless
And you said in the dark it’s an owl
Of course the dog knew differently
And persisted licking the fingers
Of my hand to waken me
Out of that place of deep darkness.
I followed her down over the stairs
And saw the cat play with the bird
And then dart away from the fluttering
In the curtain and the distressed sound
Of a small bird alone and confused
I took it in a quick actioned grasp
And felt its heart beating fast
In the darkness I felt its wings
And stretched each leg to ascertain
That none of those small bones
Were bitten through or broken
Then I let it loose and heard it flutter
And it flew away into the darkness.
Rescuing is a goodness of its own.
Adrift — spanishwoods
the cigarette smoke fades softly into the dark and humid night along this ridge in Penn’s woods– making my memories of flat Ohio landscapes and golden rolls of hay disappear, dissolve and drift upon the strong and swift Allegheny
Voices in Time by Pamela Ireland Duffy
For years, we sat in silence tearing out our eyes for fear of darkness, biting off our tongues for fear of lies for years fearful and lost whilst gaolers jangled keys and swaggered and echoe…
Celfypridd 