My New Chapbook is available

Hello All,

I’m delighted that my new chapbook is now available for pre-order from the publisher. It is on sale for a few dollars less at this link.

Stories Told in a Lost Tongue by Elaine Reardon

Sharing a magazine article

“Family” Featured Artist Elaine Reardon

Lady Moon Sails

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

Magic Carpets

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

Small Kitchen Appliances

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.

Photo by luizclas on Pexels.com

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.

Fiddler From Sligo

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.

Glencolumkille Donegal

Earthquakes in Massachusetts

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.

The 1755 Earthquake Shakes Up John Adams and All of New England

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

Peace Pagoda, Leverett MA. US

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.

Photo by Joonas ku00e4u00e4riu00e4inen on Pexels.com

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

Rio Caliente in Primavera MX

Best,

Elaine

Snow Melt

Moss Brook runs wild now, filled with snow melt and rain. The first frogs are starting to show up.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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