Showing posts with label Tattoo Tatú. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tattoo Tatú. Show all posts

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

PICS FROM IMRAM EXHIBITION


A few pics from the very enjoyable launch at DIT of the Imram exhibition on Monday night. There was wine, brownies and scones. Yum! Lots of people and a great atmosphere. Big thanks to all at DIT, especially the students and also to Liam Carson of Imram. Go raibh maith agaibh! I am up to my eyes with preps for my USA trip (yes, another one) so I apologise for not posting pics of the other's pieces, only my own. My time is short and I am pulled every which way with work and other obligations.


The students were given poems by several poets, to create posters from, including my poem 'Snáth' from Tatú. The posters are on billboards around Dublin. I loved what the students did with all our poems but I have a special fondness for Maija Sardiko's ropey interpretation of 'Snáth'.







Head of Dept at DIT with poets Philip Cummings, Gabriel Rosenstock, Ceaití Ní Bhealdúin, mise, Liam Ó Muirthile
Gabriel reading haiku by Jack Kerouac, with his On the Road bag
Mise ag léamh ó mo leabhar Tatú

Saturday, 17 March 2012

POEM FOR PADDY'S DAY

Parade, Ballinasloe
 Beannachtaí na Féile oraibh - have a great Saint Patrick's Day! We will wear green, eat green and maybe even drink green. Well, maybe not the latter. I'm posting a poem as Gaeilge with its translation, from Tattoo ~ Tatú, for the day that's in it. It mentions spuds and poteen so it's properly Oirish :)

The photo is from last year's parade. This year's takes place tomorrow so as not to disrupt the Saturday market and other trade. Just as well, there is television style rain out there this morning. Tomorrow's supposed to be better. Have a good one!

Cleamhnas, 1933

Thug sé dom prátaí:
cnapáin agus póiríní,
iad mór agus beag,
iad crua agus bog.

Thug sé dom poitín
a las tine i mo ghoile,
ach a rinne an luí leis
ábhairín níos éascaí.

Thug sé leis clann:
péire leathfhásta,
iad cúthalach, béasach,
páistí a chéad ghrá.

Thug sé leis báibín,
a d’fhás faoi m’aprún,
sular fhág mé m’athair,
mé soineanta, solúbtha.

Thug sé dom prátaí,
chomh bán leis an ngealach,
chomh buí le tornapa,
iad searbh agus nimhneach.

Níor thug sé dom
ach meas madra.


Engagement, 1933

He gave me spuds:
lumpers and croppers,
big ones and small ones,
hard and soft ones.

He gave me poteen
it burnt my throat,
but made lying with him
that little bit easier

He gave me his children:
a half-reared pair,
they were shy, obedient,
the babes of his first love.

He gave me my own child,
it grew under my apron,
before I left my father’s,
I was innocent, pliable.

He gave me spuds,
as white as the moon,
as yellow as turnip,
they were bitter, poisonous.

All he gave me
was a dog’s life.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Virginia Woolf's Birthday - two poems


Virginia Woolf was born on the 25th January 1882 - 130 years ago today. So here's a (sad) poem for her birthday from my collection Tattoo ~ Tatú (Arlen House, 2007).

I'm reading Virginia's short fiction at the moment. Hmm. Finding it a bit impenetrable. But I will soldier on.

See below for a just added second poem for Virginia by Adam Wyeth.

Virginia’s Last Walk

The day collapsed on me:
there was nowhere to go
but full forward,
so my feet stepped on,
surer than I that
there was no way back.

I loaded the pockets
of my smock with
stone on grey stone,
and stood on the bank
smelling the river-stink,
watching the churn of weeds.

A wood-pigeon broke
from a high branch,
and I lifted my head
to the slap-flutter of wings,
the flash of a purple throat –
a momentary distraction.

I eased myself into the Ouse,
let its wet fingers mangle me,
and the weight of my dress
pull me down and down.
The river swallowed me,
closed in over my head.

The day had collapsed:
I had nowhere to go
but full, fast forward,
so my feet stepped on,
surer than I that
there was no way back.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Addendum:

Adam Wyeth just posted this in the comments (at least I am presuming it was Adam Wyeth!!!). It is wonderful:


Who’s Afraid

The stone knew nothing.
Any one of them could
have been selected.
But this one had a particular
shape and feel that she liked.

*

In the golden country
amid the South Downs,
she runs –
needing to unravel
barbed wire knots
that tear her mind.
Then stops – beneath
a large beech tree –
pulls paper and pen
from her flowery pocket,
swiftly scribbles.
In the middle of a tunnel
the only way out
is to walk through everything.
But the light grows dim,
she runs out of paper.
It is final then.
She makes her way down to the river,
stops to pick up a heavy stone
and forces it into her pocket.

Sunday, 3 April 2011

LÁ 'LE MAMAÍ - MOTHER'S DAY

Joan of Arc - Gaston Bussiere
Lá 'le Mamaí faoi mhaise! Happy Mother's Day! Best wishes to my own mother and especially to all my mother-writer friends - you are my inspiration.

I looked through my poems, trying to find a cheery poem about mothering. Um, I don't seem to have any particularly light-hearted ones. Anyway, I've decided to share this one, 'La Pucelle', which was in my collection Tattoo : Tatú. It's about Joan of Arc and her mother. It's sort of sad but it's about the love we have for our mothers.

Have a great day!


In the hush of my father’s house,
before dusk rustles over the horizon,
I take off the dress my mother made
– it’s as ruby-red as St. Michael’s cloak –
and with a slitch of linen, bind my breasts.

By the greasy light of a candle,
I shear my hair to the style of a boy,
in the looking-glass, I see my girlhood
swallowed up in a tunic and pants,
I lace them tightly to safeguard myself.

My soldiers call me ‘pucelle’, maiden,
they cleave a suit of armour to my body,
and know, when following my banner
over ramparts into Orléans, that
there will only ever be one like me.

When the pyre-flames fly up my legs,
I do not think of the Dauphin,
or my trial as a heretical pretender,
but see my mother, head bent low,
sewing a red dress for her daughter to wear.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

SATURDAY WOMAN POET on POETHEAD


Christine Murray has featured a couple of my poems from Tattoo : Tatú with translations on her Poethead site, in the Saturday Woman Poet slot. There's a lovely image accompanying the poems, by Paddy McElroy. One of the poems Corcracht/Purpling is about grief, specifically about the death of my sister. The poem always reminds me of this time of year as her December anniversary approaches. Thinking of her makes Christmas bitter-sweet, even after nine years. Do we ever truly get over the death of someone we love well?