Issue 36, 15th December 2018 Poetry- Andrea Potos By Dave Kavanagh | Issue 36, 15th December 2018 My Uncle and the Undertakers They try so hard, the work that none of us would do–the embalming, casketing, the cossetting; and the person dressed in his satin bed still seems to look like some far-fetched hint of his former self. Yet in the chapel today, the body of my uncle– oldest and last son to go–wears the precise shape and features of his father, my Papou, gone these forty-plus years. I stand astonished at their creation–perhaps artists, workers of the spirit after all– they have made the Circle manifest. Morning Practice Your start is sputtery and slow, as when an old faucet is turned on and you must let it run, keep it running, waiting for the dredgy brown to wash clear from the pipes, for the water to gush clear and clearer truer to its original source. Sunbathing in the 70s I lay there, still as a Greek antiquity all afternoon, anointed by Johnson’s Baby Oil, I shone, my James Taylor album cover enrobed in tin foil, arced open to concentrate the rays on my face– what did I know– apprentice to beauty, apostle of light. Visiting the Graves They chose simplicity in small bronze plaques set into the earth, raised letters for their names: my mother, her sister, her mother and father, her baby brother – oldest and most burnished: 1935-1939. My feet sink into grass sodden from last night’s storm. The air is thick with song – cicadas strumming in tall oaks, their insistence of late summer leaving. The marigold bed my grandmother wanted gleams with orange and ochre yellow, and I think of Van Gogh, his words to brother Theo: Even in pressing darkness, There is a sun. Poetry- Bernie Crawford By Dave Kavanagh | Issue 36, 15th December 2018 House Work Since January stole my tongue and tied it into knots, the house has become a blank verse. My hands repeat a cleaning rhyme in every stanza, I pack metaphors into drawers, layer them on shelves in the hot press among folded towels. Sparkling saucepans, spilling stolen poetry, hang from the freshly-painted bracket over the sink. The old carpet is hoovered pink in borrowed time and on the windowsill the amaryllis blooms its second bloom, overwatered with words. In the kitchen I serve page after page of tasty bites, baked potatoes filled with buttery half-baked similes. A lattice of deftly crafted pastry lines criss-cross an apple pie and even the dog hasn’t escaped. Long walks have compressed her into a revised version of herself. Clipped Life They all said he wouldn’t last a hurry what with Iris gone But he knocked their wind ’n all Two days after funeral He was down allotment by ten Took thermos with him That became his way, bought paper Meals-on-wheels every other day Picked up some eggs at corner shop Pension day he chanced two bob each way I went with Mum and timed those visits in cups of Lipton’s, dunked ginger nuts He said George popped in too Not regular, mind you He still went down pub early evening ’fore crowd came in Half a bitter, back home Watched telly an hour or so The only time I heard him smile was the day he told Mum and me about the colour of purple-blue flowers that came up between the cabbages from bulbs he’d dug in two days after Iris passed. Bringing Home the Cows He struts in the middle of the road in the middle of the afternoon His buttocks tight in blue denim jiggle like g’s in the middle of a giggle He saunters his strut all over the road No one can pass I shift from fifth to first feast on his arrogant rear end so cocksure He flicks an occasional switch off a cow’s backside Their full udders oscillate like giant pendulums and lull me In my car behind him in the middle of the afternoon on my way to Active Ageing Yoga I’m thrumming full of humming birds Impure Thoughts and Beethoven Confession began with an examination of conscience: telling lies, five times, fighting with her sisters, stealing gob stoppers, popping a clove rock under the tongue when Moll Foley’s back was turned. These were straightforward sins, venial things that could be wiped clean with a swipe of the clerical cloth. It was the entertainment of impure thoughts that swamped her. Her fingers played them in the pocket of her winter coat, as she dawdled to school in November rain and January cold. She tucked them up the puffed sleeves of her summer dress, and pushed them high on the swing until they hovered in the air like dandelion wisps. They entertained her. But she must have entertained them too because when she mastered Für Elise on the piano they trembled to her tune. Semi-quavers quivered her belly, notes staccatoed down below, and even more so when she glided forward on the stool to reach the pedals. Impure thoughts became interwoven forever after with Beethoven. Quiet Please I don’t have one kind thought in my head This is not the poem I intended to write The gnawing teeth of a bushman saw are cutting into my frontal lobe I swallow down screams The steady drip of commentary to her companion pockmark my eardrum I want to remove my silk sock and stuff it in her mouth I believed in freedom of speech I scan the bus for another seat Calculate travel time to Dublin Plug my ears with a scratchy serviette The words of her mosquito buzz penetrate I clutch the rolled-up Irish Times in my hand Brief moments of reprieve Sweetness like Greek honey trickling onto a parched palette Eyes at rest in a dark room after the dazzle of fireworks And then it starts again I look up misophonia on my iPhone Strong, negative feelings to trigger sounds Not to be confused with Hyperacusis An increased negativity to certain frequencies For me she strikes the wrong note again and again. Two hours into the journey the motion of the bus lulls her to a sporadic silence I am newly disappointed when she pauses so thoroughly am I wallowing in her lack of modulation. Bloodline By Dave Kavanagh | Issue 36, 15th December 2018 Buy it now “Bloodline” Michael A Griffith Michael A Griffith’s poems often start with a simple observation and then take that idea or image for an exploratory walk. His focus often falls on family relationships. Making a packed lunch in “Tetris” prompts musings on parental roles, ” You’re off to work as I prepare to shape thoughts that shape words that shape minds. Mental Tetris this gray January morning. Time nobody’s friend, Time everybody’s parent.” The fragmentary shape of the poem represents the early morning mosaic of thoughts, one displacing or tessellating with another. In “Textbook”, an old, handwritten note in a poetry anthology represents its author, “I don’t know her now, of course, though we’d be the same age. I read ‘Her Kind’ knowing that while other things feel more important, for one semester at least, the thoughts of others were almost as interesting as her own.” ‘Her Kind’ is Anne Sexton’s poem where the poet appears to take on the stereotypical roles of women and find they all require her to disguise or suppress her true self to take on a role. The implication here is that the note-scrawling teen, briefly found interest beyond herself which may have influenced her self-discovery. It’s left to the reader to imagine how she is now, grown and in middle-age. “Bloodline” concerns memories of a daughter’s birth by c-section (gory details are spared) and the poem contrasts the new parents sense of wonder at the newborn with the busy recording of statistics that the medical staff are focused on. Another poem looks at a line of old trees weakened by storms as the landowner tries to sketch them before they are felled. Wryly, “Listening to Johnny Cash” observes, “I can only understand about every third word that Arthur says, but it’s alright, Johnny says enough for three men” Occasionally the tone becomes elegiac, but never sentimental. “Bloodline” is a series of wry musings on domestic life and relationships that ask readers to look again at the familiar and question it. Emma Lee Available now from Blue Nib Publishing Buy The Book Weightless in the Nets By Dave Kavanagh | Issue 36, 15th December 2018 Buy it “Weightless in the Nets” Roy Liran (Blue Nib) The poems in “Weightless in the Nets” are probing observations that explore and ask questions about perceptions and preconceived views of readers. They rely on giving the reader sufficient detail to focus attention and be guided by the poet. A similar approach is taken in the accompanying ink drawings. “Jan and Neftalí” comes with the note that Pablo Neruda (Neftalí) used Czech poet’s Jan Neruda’s surname as part of his pseudonym in exile. The poem is set in street named after the Czech poet and observes a couple. He tells her he’s written a poem on his phone, “Walking the cobblestone streets he talks of Baroque architecture and Art Nouveau, often examining his prudently folded map for the metro stations. She watches the river for white swans and listens. Or so she tells him.