Magic and myth are above us, telling us stories every night that we look to the heavens.
Lady Fate
No moon sails alone in the sky
the Weaver sits
baskets at her feet
a creel of silk at hand
Not one to need company
she adjusts and readjusts
her lengths of silk
eternally balancing
Do not come without your incantation
Do not come without an offering
Spinning life and beyond
measured hanks of silk woven
now and in-between
For many Armenians, Oriental carpets are in their genetic code. We are drawn to them. Handmade carpets are artwork that can tell a story, can teach about history and culture, all the while keeping your feet warm. This poem tells the story of one carpet I fell in love with.
Persian Carpet
The carpet seduces like
an old lover come to visit
I lift a corner and light
shivers blue and silver from the weave
sheep that jumped and spun the
mountain air near
Shiraz transformed
Life pulses deep within the weaving
alive and woven into time
heart opens to the story this Gabbeh tells
Hands wove and knotted the telling
then open up to let the story go
May your day be graced with beauty.
Best,
Elaine
I’m sharing this poem as I know several marriages that are ending. While that is not what one wishes for, it can be of benefit. I wrote this poem a while back when I had to toss out my toaster.
The Toaster
The toaster, a sleek new model in 1998
lasted longer than the marriage
gleaming new on the counter it pinged
for hot crunchy bagels
for thick slices of homemade bread
and leftover pizza
after that, it heated up leftovers for one
at times it smoked and then
small internal fires took their toll
it didn’t perform in a reliable way
I had to stay with it–hovering
so it wouldn’t burn and bellow smoke
Finally too much of a safety hazard
I let it go
Deer families come out of the forest in the morning and return at night. Their mealtime coincides with mine in late March and April. Luckily, this time of year the snow melts quickly. This poem is written in the pantoum style, with particular lines repeating.
Early Morning
From the kitchen window, I watch deer
emerging from trees along the stream.
A doe wanders up the hillside, sniffing.
She digs to reveal snow-crusted juniper.
Emerging by the trees along the stream,
a fawn follows, soundless in the snowy field.
She digs to reveal snow-crusted juniper.
I watch from the warm side of the window.
A fawn follows, soundless in the snowy field
The deer startles at the sound of my mug set down
I watch from the warm side of the window.
My guests eat dry grass and juniper; I have coffee.
They look up at the sound of my mug on the table.
The doe wanders up the hillside, sniffing.
My guests eat dry grass and juniper; I have coffee.
From the kitchen window, I watch deer.
This Fiddler and I met when we shared the same house in a small Donegal town that has a renowned Fiddle Week every August. Liam was overcome by emotion at being back in this town. No one in his family had returned since the time of the famine. During the hunger time, many churches would feed hungry Catholic families soup from huge cauldrons. Some took the soup. Other families, whole towns, starved. When you took the soup, you’d not be Catholic anymore. The cauldron in the picture below was used in this town and fed Liam’s family the soup. They lived.
Fiddler From Sligo
I put the kettle on to boil when
the stranger turned to me and said
‘Hello, I’m Liam. I used to live here”.
We were guests sharing this Donegal house
for a week. He tuned his fiddle and looked
out the window to the old soup cauldron.
My family lived here, I meant. They lived in this
village, but they took the soup. They drank the
soup, then we had to go away. We couldn’t stay.
His tears fell. We looked to the famine pot, used
during the hunger times when families made
choices, when starvation was endured.
Some families took the thin soup and lived,
other families refused it. The last things they
had dominion over were their faith and lives.
Liam said We left here after
we drank the soup. We took their soup.
Then we had to go away.
The Cape Anne Earthquake happened in 1755, and it was fuel to the many preachers of the time. Here’s a link if you’d like to know more.
Cape Anne Earthquake
Strong Puritan measures,
judgments against
frivolity and paganism,
snaked into each household
and held on tightly to what was
regarded as God’s law—
until the earth could
no longer uphold this structure.
Earth unlaced her corset strings,
untied her boots,
and began to dance,
unheeding everything aside for
the need to break restrictions.
Earth rumbled awake,
danced down chimneys
and churches to the last steeple.
Trees swayed to the percussion.
Deep in their woody bones they pulled
back their roots from searing heat
and tossed their leaves
in the scorching winds.
The worshippers held on
or they fell,
flabbergasted,
frightened.
Who has never sinned?
Who has never danced?
Bulging With The Moon’s Pull
Today’s blog is a treat. I love the imagery of Majella’s poetry, and there’s hopefully more of Majella’s poetry in the future for us. We begin with a short interview.
What gave you the idea for this poem? My time traveling in Australia near KataTjuta (the Olgas) – at the dead centre.
What got you into writing in this genre? I was housebound for several years and was given a book of poetry “99 poems in translation”. From that time on I started to write down a couple of lines in a notebook every so often and over time these turned into poems.
How long have you been writing? Do you do something else for work? I have been writing for about 14/15 years. I did work many years ago but had to stop due to ill health.
Tell us about your past work. I have only ever written poetry. I tend to push imagery in my work and am off-center in my take on things. I do think there is a darkness lurking in the worlds I create.
What is the writing process like for you? What is your writing day like? At the moment I have a fortnightly workshop where we present poems from a prompt. So for the first few days, I didn’t write but mulled over the prompt. Then I use an app to record and transcribe any random thoughts, or ideas that surface. I start to write from these recordings and spend at least 3 days editing whatever comes out of this process.
What have been the biggest influences on your writing? The poetry of Paul Celan and other Eastern European poets.
What is one of your favorite books, and why? At the moment I’m reading Colonies by the Polish contemporary poet Tomasz Różycki, a book dealing with history and travel using vivid imagery. Another is – A Stay in a Sanatorium by Zbyněk Hejda, which has great structure and range to it. He was one of the poets banned in Czechoslovakia during communism.
How do you think your writing has evolved? Today I still use a lot of imagery in my work but feel more confident working in both long and short formats.
What supports your writing, and how do you come to your final product? I am lucky to be sharing a house with only one other person so I have space to work. Also, the feedback I get from other poets really keeps me going without that I still would be writing poetry but may not have experimented as much.
BIO: Majella Haugh is a poet living with disability in Limerick, Ireland. Her writing has given her a sense of purpose and joy, especially during the pandemic. She has been published at home in the UK and the US and was a finalist in the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Competition.
Here in this Wasteland
This dead centre where
earthworms dream of streams
and dark stains
the smell of winter gone forever
This fierceness
day on day blueness huge
rocks creaking
under the weight of desiccation
the night unrecognisable sparkling with campfires
Without our polar light to guide us
through, too too near the guts
of the equator
Bulging with moon’s pull
Majella Haugh
Best,
Elaine
Moss Brook runs wild now, filled with snow melt and rain. The first frogs are starting to show up.
Crow
The crow calls after I’ve poured
a second cup of coffee. The forest is quiet,
aside from Moss Brook, sound
splashing through an open window.
Wood frogs left eggs in the pond last night,
then went quiet this morning.
That crow was the only bird calling today.
No one answered its’ cry.
Have corvids socially isolated, too?
Spring is quieter this year
aside from those wood frogs
who know how to have a good time.
Right before dusk, they begin to carouse.
I almost hear Billy Strayhorn at
the piano, and see trays with appetizers
and cocktails passed around the small
vernal pool, where passion runs
fast and loose down there, just past the garden.
*Corvid is a bird of the crow /raven family
March is a good month to begin anew. It’s been a long time since I’ve interviewed other poets and writers, and I’m kicking off the season with today’s interview below, with a prolific writer. There’s an American is saying that suits her well: Margaret Kiernan has her fingers in many pies.
Margaret Kiernan is an Irish author and a Best of The Net Nominee for Creative Non-Fiction Award, 2021 and, 2022, and Poetry and Essay, 2023. She writes fiction, essays, memoirs, flash, and poetry. She has had poetry and prose published in hardback, in e-books, online, and in literary journals and magazines, on four continents. She also has multiple short stories and poems in anthology collections and cultural publications. Margaret has four grown-up children and lives in Westmeath with her dog Molly. She paints in watercolors and acrylics and has the following interests: democracy, nature and wildlife, philosophy, astrology, gardening, music, spirituality, reading, archaeology, and historical heritage. In 2024, she was awarded the Ambassadors role for Westmeath Libraries at Creative Ireland.
Red-Orange Gauge
Today I spooned jam from a jar,
amber liquid crab-apple
autumn crossed my eye,
touched my arm in grassy dust
I felt the heat
drop down
light painted in golden brown
eking into corners
slipping onto a road
going out.
What gave you the idea for this poem?
“Red-hot Gauge”, published by Mary Jane Grandinetti, editor at Muse-Pie Press and the Shot Glass Journal. USA. http://www.musepiepress.com
I was driving back from a poetry workshop in Carrick on Shannon on a gorgeous autumn afternoon, in October 2023. It was unseasonably sunny and warm. I pulled off the road onto a layby, and got out of the car to walk amongst heather and wild grasses. There were crabapple trees in the landscape. It reminded me of a time when I regularly cooked with those apples, and stored jam and jelly in mason jars.
What got you into writing in this genre?
Initially, I wrote short stories. I arrived at poetry when I reached for something between emotions and thoughts. It was a surprise to me when I wrote poetry but not to others who knew me. They stated that I spoke in poetry.
How long have you been writing? Do you do something else for work?
I can remember writing at age eleven in the attic of my home. I wrote a book of sorts which got lost after I moved away to the city. I went up to the attic for space to be with myself, I was one of a large family. The attic had only gable windows to see from. I took the family transistor radio up there too; it was a blue color and was a Bush brand. I listened to Eartha Kitt; I remember hearing her speak about growing up in mud-filled places, and how she played in mud, stuck straws into her bellybutton. I listened to Daniel Barenboim, pianist, and conductor, who was then at the start of his career as a conductor with the orchestra of St Martin in The Fields, England. Later, he was based in Berlin, at The State Opera. He was a peace activist and had been born in Israel.
I was deeply affected by the world economic downturn in 2009 when my job was made redundant. I was a professional advocate for social inclusion and diversity. It was then that I made up my mind to allow myself the time to write creatively, to stop resisting the pull. I have the role of being an ambassador for literature and reading with two organizations. I continue to be involved in public policy and social justice at county level and in a pro bono capacity.
What is the writing process like for you? What is your writing day like?
I am disciplined with my writing life. I start at seven am, and it ends when I stop for lunch at one o’clock, Monday to Friday. Unless I’ve meetings I rarely adjust this schedule. I read a lot at weekends. In the afternoon, I take my dog Molly out to walk in the countryside.
What have been the biggest influences on your writing?
I find that hard to answer. I have been a keen reader since early childhood. My mother enrolled me in the adult sector in the library at eight years old, I had read the entire children’s section. I wish I had recorded all the titles of books read; it would be an amazing tally. Ireland has a strong standing in literature, and, I would have benefited from that. I also love American literature. Hemmingway, Williams, Bishop, et al.
What is one of your favorite books (other than your own book, and why?
There are many to mention but I will settle for “A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khaled Hosseini, published by http://www.bloomsbury.com. It is a book about many things but in the end, it is about endurance, in a country, in family and friendships, in women’s strength to endure, and in love and heroism to survive. A great storytelling by the author.
How do you think your writing has evolved?
I believe that if you keep doing something, stick at it, you get better at it. I hope I do.
It is always a fine line to believe in one’s own writing. Objectivity can be lost. The pull to keep doing it is what matters
What supports your writing, and how do you come to your final product?
Having work accepted and published by editors in literary magazines and journals is helpful. Being in a poetry group or collective is helpful too for feedback and support. I miss that with my prose. The final product arrives at an end after much reviewing and editing. Sometimes, I am pleased that it is done enough and, other pieces I think are never in that place.
How do you market your work?
Not at all. I am trying to find help to make a book of my poems. I have approximately two hundred and fifty of which one hundred and forty have been published.
My short stories are piling up, I write flash too, and I seem to have moved into a futuristic/ space with eco vibes, perhaps it is the times I live in.
What piece of your own work are you most pleased with”?
I couldn’t say at all. Every word, perhaps. That it exists at all is my blessing.
Thanks to Galway Review for publishing several new poems this morning. It was a good piece of email to wake up to.
Also, thanks to https://synkroniciti.com for publishing one of my poems in the new issue with the theme of Family. https://synkroniciti.com/the-magazine/purchase-individual-issues/. Its layout is beautiful, clean, and easy to read, and the writing is worth reading. It’s a steal at $7.00
Elaine Reardon 