A co-op of online writing
adrianpfox8@gmail.com
LOST
blackwater poems
I walk, sometimes thinking for myself,
sometimes listening to the Passenger.
The grass moves stealthily away beneath my feet,
pretending to be a lizard.
It rustles surreptitiously
like the pages of those old calendars you find
wrapped in cobwebs
and nailed to cowshed walls.
Those old calendars
that have lost all interest in time.
HELEN HARRISON 2013
adrianpfox8@gmail.com
Maura Mc Keag
LOST
She couldn’t see her face
Hard though as she looked
It wasn’t there
Smells
Touch
Knowing facts
All were there
But no face
She knew her love
But had lost that too
With her face gone
So was he
Staring at a mirror
Nothing stared back
Willing it
Wanting it
Crying with frustrated hopelessness
Screams of anguish from the pit
Only known by her
Gone was her face
Gone was her love
Vanished
Unexplained
Unresolved.
BETRAYED
Love becomes, not the passionate,
interlocking of body and soul
In sublime, blissful, emotional bonding
But
The hungry clasping of love lost
In a fierce instant gratification of lust.
In the darkened room
He lies underwater –
An image negative
Dipped by unseen hands –
And holds his breath.
He emerges, steps out,
And dries himself off,
A fully developed man.
- Adrian Rice
blackwater poems
Fr maw
You beat me till i fell
On the floor but i got
Up but you beat me
Back flat on the floor.
You caned my skin
Till it was numb with
Pain. No tears shown
To your hurt and pain..
You served god with
The devil inside. Bullying,
Beating children till your
Rage subside. Your soul
Rotten to the core.
That child hid inside the
Man for years till the child
Was comforted and its
ghostly soul released.
From à man to à boy
And back again never
To bear beatings ever
again..
© Luke heffernan 2014
Sunday's 'Healing' poem.
Remembering
Throughout the dark days, days
After you had pulled life’s blinds
Tightly shut, I lit my life with
Memories of you sitting by our
Kitchen fire, the worries of the baby
You were carrying hidden
Between the lines of your stories.
Above our mantle the flaming
Torment looked down on us,
At a mother whose sacred heart
Would one day deny me and
Leave our world Dead Right.
We knew you to be the only God.
Who did you need to please so
Much that you circled the wagons,
Emptied the wells and taught your
Harvesters to reap and leave the
Sowing to the fraught-filled drones?
Now when I walk with you
I set our pace to the
Timing of your clicking needles,
And although I find your love
I still feel the stinging of the pricks.
©Gene Barry
After you had pulled life’s blinds
Tightly shut, I lit my life with
Memories of you sitting by our
Kitchen fire, the worries of the baby
You were carrying hidden
Between the lines of your stories.
Above our mantle the flaming
Torment looked down on us,
At a mother whose sacred heart
Would one day deny me and
Leave our world Dead Right.
We knew you to be the only God.
Who did you need to please so
Much that you circled the wagons,
Emptied the wells and taught your
Harvesters to reap and leave the
Sowing to the fraught-filled drones?
Now when I walk with you
I set our pace to the
Timing of your clicking needles,
And although I find your love
I still feel the stinging of the pricks.
©Gene Barry
I walk, sometimes thinking for myself,
sometimes listening to the Passenger.
The grass moves stealthily away beneath my feet,
pretending to be a lizard.
It rustles surreptitiously
like the pages of those old calendars you find
wrapped in cobwebs
and nailed to cowshed walls.
Those old calendars
that have lost all interest in time.
WHEN I FALL
Why is it that the path
Has to mist before
We see ourselves,
Cracks and roots exposed
To an empty ditch
To reveal a broken stem;
Vulnerable, collapsing
Covered in isolation
And open to pain.
Maybe it is necessary for us
To suffer occasionally -
For compassion to remain;
Like a stunted tree, a trapped
Fly, before we can see
Through another’s eye.
My path has been mostly clear
Or as far as I can see
Alone, but never lonely.
Not intentionally
Do I fail to notice
A troubled mind,
If you fail to see me
When my mist approaches.
HELEN
HARRISON 2013
WORDS
It was really aggression
When it came to it
You burnt anger as fuel
And blamed the excess
On me.
I tried to oil your mood
But it caught fire,
The road I watched,
Willing it to clear -
Was my splitting head
Afraid to block my ears,
I held a barrier that bounced
Off the steering wheel
The dash, the roof
Through windows
And gaps.
I shuddered but it didn’t
Stop, it kept rolling
And rallying, raging;
my inner world. HELEN HARRISON 2013
Deirdre Cartmill
Katey
I
think of the guerilla gardeners, straining
to
dig deep, camouflaged by night,
spreading
seed pellets that dissolve in the rain,
flowering
concrete, setting road islands alight,
never
worrying if the smog blocks the sun
or if
that slash of colour lasts,
because
that poppy
jutting through paving stones
is a
declaration that life will out.
And
so with you; what does it matter
if
you faded before you could grow,
if
they glanced your way momentarily
before
moving on, because what’s been sown
never
truly dies. There’s that latent spark,
those
roots digging in, aerating the dark.
Deirdre Cartmill
Deirdre
Cartmill is a Belfast based poet who has published two poetry collections The Return of the Buffalo (Lagan Press,
2013) which will be published on 24th September and Midnight Solo (Lagan Press, 2004).
The Return of the Buffalo deals with grief and loss, and attempts to make sense of the
seemingly meaningless, but this is always weighted with how suddenly,
unexpectedly joyous life can be. Midnight
Solo is written from the perspective of a generation who grew up through
the conflict in the north of Ireland and their struggle to envision a new
normality in a post-conflict society. Love, loss and
a restless search for identity are recurring themes in her poems but her
work is ultimately about hope and the possibility of redemption.
She
received an Artists' Career Enhancement Scheme Award from the Arts Council in
2011 and spent a year affiliated with the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry at
Queen's University. She received Literature Awards from the Arts Council
in 2012, 2008, 2003 and 2000. She’s previously been shortlisted for a Hennessy
Literary Award and been a finalist in the Scottish
International Open Poetry Competition.
Her poems
have appeared in many anthologies and have also been widely published in
magazines and journals. She has given many poetry readings at events and
festivals, such as at the Centre Culturel Irlandais in Paris, the Belfast
Festival at Queen’s and the Belfast Book Festival. She was a Writer-in-Residence
at the Belfast Book Festival 2011 and this autumn she will take up residencies
at An Creagan, Omagh and MacNeice House, Belfast.
She holds
an MA with Distinction in Creative Writing from Queen’s University.
She is also an award winning screenwriter and
has written for film, television and radio. Her short film Two Little Boys was selected for The Belfast Film Festival 2013.
Ail na Searrach;
The Leap of the Foals
(AN EXTRACT)
Seven of the Tuatha de Danaan, sought retreat in a
cave near the Cliffs of Moher in Co. Clare. When they emerged they had become
horses. They were seen to gallop off a cliff within sight of Doolin, to gather
again in the 5th province; the province of the imagination. This cliff is Ail
na Searrach; the Leap of the Foals.’
I
This is it.
Bones.
The order of
muscle, of limbs and bones. Conformation.
A pelt. Colours –
Bay, Black, Steel
Grey,
Dun, and the
roans - a Blue Roan, and a
Red-Strawberry Roan,
And finally, rare
and thrown-back, as if Lahinch –
the
liver-chestnut.
Bone, I keep
returning to a vision of bone and flanks.
We have no
expectation of wings,
That belongs to
another time, and to some other island.
II
I am trying to
recover night vision
I have done as
you advised; I have made time
We are gathered
in the holding place that is this cave,
In need of rest,
in need of the dark
In need of
concession, giving-in, permission,
To be allowed.
Half-light is bearable,
The day is
something to retreat from.
I wonder how I
might create a self that ‘disappears’ me –
And one that will
go on stage in my place, sweeping the back yard if necessary –
A walking talking
‘sunny’ one – one
For the light,
one who will buy me time – a worker,
So that all
along, or for a while, I can stay in the dark,
Close to the cool
earth, out of the light,
In communion, for
however long is necessary.
III
I discover what I
am become
When I see for
new the other.
I look into your
eyes and notice
After stillness
and close examination
How far my neck
will reach
What has become
of my limbs
How I have
shifted shape
In the cool, in
the dark.
How I am now
ready
Rest-less.
OLIVE BRODERICK
Deux Ex Machina
On the horns of a dilemna,
Tantalus is standing on his hindlegs
surveying the situation.
A length between his mouth and
the leaves of the lowest branches.
Not long after, taking shelter
from a rain-shower, Tantalus
keeps a look out from the barn.
Is it possible that the weight of
falling water will offer a solution?
OMAGH, NORTH IRELAND, IRELAND
Writer/poet,avid photographer
with a great interest in Celtic Myths, the beauty in the Irish landscape and a
proud mother of three grown up children. I live in Omagh North of Ireland where
the Sperrin Mountains are my inspiration in any season. I have two poetry books
published titled 'Where the Three Rivers Meet' and 'Guth An Anam ~Voice of The
Soul~ You can find my links at top of my blog.
I wrote this in
2007 inspired by Seamus Heaney's poem 'The Tollund Man. I was glad to have met
the poet a few years ago and hear him read his work with great back story to
them, I was in awe. he will be missed.
Old Croghan Man *
This island is a
living carpet,
worn by clans of
cousins who
weaved into the
land
a pattern not for
the
the untrained eye.
Old Croghan man,
baked in this oven
of peat,
symbolizes our
spent lineage
of boundaries and
fields.
Beheaded and
tortured,
he stood tall as a
pine tree.
Who was this
nameless lad?
A high king, killed
in ritual,
or killed in a
jealous rage?
Was it a warning to
other youths
who may yearn for
the new,
denouncing the old?
I wear a leather
twang like his,
woven with love on
May Day.
The hands of
Croghan man
hold no labourers
welts,
but groomed nails;
ideally
cleaned.
He joins others
that came before:
Meeybradden Woman
and
Gallagh man.
They come to remind
us to read
the bog
chapter by chapter;
learn from
ghosts of the past.
Seekers
of truth
Truths like crystals lie buried under earth
beneath ancient oaks and long forgotten pathways
leading to the ocean.
In the songs of yesterday adrift on the spring mist
as I gaze out over the hills.
In layers of prayers petitioned
to the universal spirit.
In cosmic shifts of a soul’s migration
from way before birth
to beyond the end of life.
We seek it in books
in passing thoughts that nudge us
towards a face in the crowd.
In the faces of the old.
With others on the journey
truth emerges out of the dark
returning as the light
within.
It makes no difference, your title, your name,
In the sacred circle, we are all the same,
Healing voices, a healing beat,
To take the anger off the street.
Centres of energy, North and South,
Remove fear and remove doubt,
Centres of energy, East and West,
Unite us all in living zest.
It makes no difference, your money, your fame,
In the sacred circle, we are all the same,
Bang your drum to a healing beat,
Put life and love, back on the street.
©Maggie McD 2013.
GEORGE WEIR
Selected Poems
Published by Liberties Press
influences of Yeats, Hewitt, Hughes, Longley
and Heaney, together with
Plath and Liz Lochhead, to present a
hard-won distinctive self…’
- Medbh McGuckian
http://annaliviareview.blogspot.co.uk
writing of the moment workshop.
PHOETRY
GEORGE WEIR
RHYMED TIME
'loving them all the way back to the source
loving everything that increases me'
Raymond Carver
The current of literature flows
And I stream the stream.
This for me, to find the current
Flow and to know that it’s
A big bastard. You have to know
Where the current flows
And when to let it go. The scales
Are black and silver and it swim’s
Every colour in between. It me-
Anders through the water as if
It knows it can’t be caught.
It’s big and bold and beautiful
It’s been hooked a thousand
Times but this isn’t about
The hooking its about its
About the killing time. Time
Is a big fish landed in this
ADRIAN FOX
'IF YOU CANNOT BE A POET
BE THE POEM'
Spring Wildflowers in a
Woodland Garden
(TINA'S TITLES)
TINA ROCK
JAX LECK
Nightdreams
Dreams are my bolthole
I close out the world
become my alter ego
The writer of wrongs
The chaos of reality dim
As solutions are found
To the insurmountable hurdles
Of my daily life
Empowerment surges
the burnt kittens
the butchered dolphins
never happened
Religion reads its scriptures
And understands the words
Politically masked self interest
is not de rigeur
becomes non sequiteur
I can feel the contentment
well-being and joy
I breathe deep and long
For morning when...
the dreaming stops
reality kicks in
the cloak of invincibility drops
I am left, vulnerable
POARTRY
Anybody from any genre can send me writing, even before my stroke I had the vision of creating an anthology I still have that vision and that passion for writing. I’m lucky ina sense that my stroke wasn’t a severe head injury that didn’t reach my brain ha ha I think. Writers I think need a little madness, any age group can send me writing and any form of writing as this is not a poetry or prose workshop it’s a
writing of the moment workshop.
THE WAY HOME
for ASM
I chose to walk rather than hitch a ride,
and no sooner had we parted on the street outside
the Moon, not more than a minute from your
gentle parting jibe – ack sure,
you’ll probably find a wee poem
on your dander home –
I strode into a firefly guard of honour.
Those matchless passers of the flame
lit my Oakwood stroll with their
royal relay the whole way back,
and stayed outside the door
until I got myself slippered-up
and seated on the dusky porch.
Then, one by one, as if on cue,
they each turned off their golden torch.
Adrian Rice .....................................BIOGRAPHY BELOW
PHOETRY
GEORGE WEIR
RHYMED TIME
'loving them all the way back to the source
loving everything that increases me'
Raymond Carver
The current of literature flows
And I stream the stream.
I don’t know what kind of fish
This is until I land it, I’m writingThis for me, to find the current
Flow and to know that it’s
A big bastard. You have to know
Where the current flows
And when to let it go. The scales
Are black and silver and it swim’s
Every colour in between. It me-
Anders through the water as if
It knows it can’t be caught.
It’s been hooked a thousand
Times but this isn’t about
The hooking its about its
About the killing time. Time
Is a big fish landed in this
ADRIAN FOX
'IF YOU CANNOT BE A POET
BE THE POEM'
Spring Wildflowers in a
Woodland Garden
(TINA'S TITLES)
A melting pot of Glory-Bluebells bobbing-Fern unfurling-Sorrel smiling-Horse Chestnut fingers waving-Lavender Blooming-Viola hiding-Daisy dancing-Ladies Mantle beauty dew-Montbrethia stretching-Lady's smock the Cuckoo calls-
Marsh Marigold bathing-A Frog hopping-
Trowel resting-Plantain nesting in a wall -
Moss in pretty pink-Rhododendron rising-
I hear the gossip of their Bloom.
These were only Tina's titles
so maybe that should be in the title.
These were only Tina's titles
so maybe that should be in the title.
TINA ROCK
JAX LECK
Nightdreams
Dreams are my bolthole
I close out the world
become my alter ego
The writer of wrongs
As solutions are found
To the insurmountable hurdles
Of my daily life
Empowerment surges
the burnt kittens
the butchered dolphins
never happened
Religion reads its scriptures
And understands the words
Politically masked self interest
is not de rigeur
becomes non sequiteur
I can feel the contentment
well-being and joy
I breathe deep and long
For morning when...
the dreaming stops
reality kicks in
the cloak of invincibility drops
I am left, vulnerable
POARTRY