After Death of Vivian Connell, & the Wake,  Bray, Ireland

The Official Eulogy

 

Lir, Manannán, father, son, blew mist in from the sea,

relished the grey skies hovering over the dying man,

 

till our father’s heart attack pierced as gorse thorns,

sent him over the sand, rocks, ready to ride a horse

 

on the waves near Bray.  But the gods said not yet,

no bodies, we’ll only take ashes.  Body, you must trek

 

first to the northern great furnace of the dead, to burn

away that carking flesh. Only then will we steer you

 

over and under waves to our Otherworld of islands

on the western sea. So, all be comforted – we know

 

he’s gone to the realm of the dead, to the ancient crags.

where the dead live or die.  And we’re sure he’s hoping

 

his soul will not die there.  And so not live again.

*

Biography

Lavinia Kumar’s books are The Celtic Fisherman’s Wife: A Druid Life (2017), & The Skin and Under (Word Tech, 2015).  Chapbooks are Let There be Color (Lives You Touch Publications, 2016) and Rivers of Saris (Main Street Rag, 2013). Her poetry has appeared in several US and UK publications such as Atlanta Review, Colere, Dark Matter, Edison Literary Review, Exit 13, Flaneur, Kelsey Review, Lablit, New Verse News, Orbis, Pedestal, Pemmican, Poetry 24, Symmetry Pebbles, Lives You Touch, & US1 Worksheets. Her website is laviniakumar.org.

A Changing Heart

Longing for heart-quiet

in the inevitable fall

into Winter’s short days of sun

forwarding to Spring’s

longer days — a circling back

in the sameness of time.

 

Heart-and-mind-numbing time

with no respite. A longing to quiet  

those thoughts playing back

battle after battle. The awful

repetition. Mind and life wasting.

And, in the darkest season,

 

the conviction that the sun

will only half-rise in this lifetime

of mine. Feeling that sting

as from a bee’s disquiet

of green slumber. Swelling to a fault,

every damned day. Slamming me back,

 

season upon season. Holding me back.

Chilling me with doubt that sun-

shine can overcome rainfall

and that, invariably, given time,

better times will come and quietly

advance into Spring. Fast forward, past Spring

to Summer, and onto Fall springing

back to Winter, and round again. Flashbacks

ever more glaring under the sun, then, quite

out of the blue — a glance, a nod. Overrun

with fluttering, my heart paces in time

with fledging love’s free-fall.

 

And, with the passing of another Fall,

Winter heralds in the sweetest of Springs:

daffodils and Easter bonnets — a lifetime

of celebration ahead, no looking back.

Past risk and reason, I bask in the sun

that is love’s shine. Rain or shine, quiet

 

in the peace of it all, Fall after Fall, back

to Winter, Spring, Summer. Quiet as a Spring sun

bursting through clouds. Love, for all time, requited.

*

A Box, Full

of photos — a glaring paper trail of a failed marriage —

the snapshots (first) locked away (intact) during

the legal separation — the wife having learned that

 

her husband, a shrink, had a love life outside their bed-

room, in an adjacent room (sound-proofed, but alas,

not fool-proofed!).  A room he had the gall to call office,

 

on a couch on which she heard tell he had many women

going nuts for him, including, it’s since come to light,

a patient or two. One such paramour, who became wife

 

#2, surely would’ve needed more patience married to him,

had she not divorced him, too, one would think. During

that legal separation, perhaps she, too,

 

had reconfigured her family photos, as wife #1 did:

With a cuticle scissor, taking great pains not to nip

the children, she’d cut out the soon-to-be ex’s heads

 

and flushed them down the toilet, leaving the children

smiling up at hole-after-hole-for-a-face.

After the divorce, she’d cut his bodies out, tossing them

 

in a trash bin (along with an envelope full of negatives) —

the children left leaning on a slew of missing

father figures.

 

And, like wife #1, it’s likely that wife #2 also suspects

there’s a poop-load of similarly doctored photos buried

deep in a score of women’s drawers — evidence

 

the psycho-shrink has been, one way or another,

fully eliminated.  

*

Biography

RUTH SABATH ROSENTHAL is a New York poet, well published in the U.S. and, also, internationally. In October 2006, her poem “on yet another birthday” was nominated for a Pushcart prize by Ibbetson Street Press. Ruth has authored five books of poetry: “Facing Home” – “Facing Home and beyond” – “little, but by no means small” – “Food: Nature vs Nurture” and “Gone, but Not Easily Forgotten.” 

For more about Ruth visit her websites:   http://newyorkcitypoet.com  and  http://bigapplepoet.com  and her blog site:  http://poetrybyruthsabathrosenthal.com  

Sweet Potato Harvest

For the sweet potato on the counter

sprouting roots like a medusa,

dig a hole and bury it

with the rest of your dead —

one root for each enumerated grief:

father

mother

ex-girlfriend

 

The leaves begin to blush.

Vines twist and entwine

the fence you built to fend off critters.

 

Irrigate all summer with a timer,

so you don’t have to attend

on days lean of rain,

and so that ants, too, might enjoy

a bath, while you free yourself

to date, and make an effort this time to draw lines

from the clouds, contrails to your new life,

like the ones your ex sketched so exquisitely on paper,

and wasn’t that potato hers to start with?

 

When you dig, don’t be surprised if you hit stone.

Plunge your hands into soil, and draw up

your sweet bounty.

*

String Theory

I heard that a string theorist

named Joe died today,

and I thought of you,

as I do from time to time.

 

He was apparently

a bit of a nobody,

unless you are an expert

in string theory, like you.

 

I wondered if you had met Joe,

or collaborated with him

or not.

 

I’ve heard the term string theory

since grad school,

but never understood it,

never took the time.

 

We might both have understood at one time,

but you chose the geometric maze traveling, not me.

 

My string theory might have read something like this:

When you want to remember,

what you try to remember,

when you stare at the bow

tied around your finger.

 

Some time ago,

back when we hadn’t heard of global warming,

you told me your memory was going.

Your father forgot too,

until he forgot to be angry.

 

Once a year,

a card from you

lands in my mailbox.

That hasn’t changed.

 

I still have the dress you made for me

in grad school.

Colors to brighten a gray day —

the Crayola gold of sun,

forest green,

navy blue,

and soil brown.

 

You hemmed with piping

like an expert,

your first try.

 

I look like a festival

when I wear those threads.

 

I won’t say,

I miss you like hell,

but I miss you.

 

I wonder what story, if any,

I will hear about you,

when you die.

*

Biography

Carla Schwartz is a poet, filmmaker, photographer, and blogger. Her poems have appeared in Aurorean, ArLiJo, Fourth River, Fulcrum, Bluefifth, Common Ground, Cactus Heart, Long Island Review, Mom Egg, Switched-on Gutenberg, Gyroscope, Naugatuck River, Paddock, Solstice, SHARKPACK, Triggerfish, Sweet Tree, Varnish, and Ibbetson Street, among others. Her poem Gum Surgery was anthologized in City of Notions, A Boston Poetry Anthology. Her second collection of poetry, Intimacy with the Wind, is available from Finishing Line Press or Amazon.com. Find her debut collection, Mother, One More Thing (Turning Point, 2014) on Amazon.com.  Her CB99videos youtube channel has 1,700,000+ views. Learn more at carlapoet.com, or wakewiththesun.blogspot.com or find her @cb99videos. 

An Plúirín Dubh

Tú féin,
is do gháire daite,
id’ bhaclóg,
id’ phlúirín,
faoi scáth na gréine,
maidin samhraidh úd,
in aimsir réamhdhorchadais an fhómhair.
Chuir tú lámh id’ lonradh fhéin,
is chaith ar chách id’ chóngaireacht.
Scaip tú síolta sonais,
sa ghaoth go héadrom.
Bhraith mé teocht do mheanma,
chomh te le tine cnámh ar Oíche Shinn Sheáin,
is armóin ár gceol ag séideadh sa leoithne.
Ach leis an ngrianstad,
mheath tú ar aon leis an an solais,
is bhriog mé méar ar do dhealga.
Thit do chuid duilleoga,
is rugadh ort ag fuacht an gheimhridh.

*

Biography

Ellen Nic Thomás is a bilingual Dublin poet. She studied English Literature and Modern Irish at Trinity college. She writes in both English and Irish, and much of her subject matter comes from ideas about culture, language and folklore. She is an avid reader, a language enthusiast, and dabbles in performance. Her work has been published by headstuff.org and The Attic (Dublin University Literary Society annual publication). Her poem, “Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise” is currently being used in a collaborative contemporary musical composition as part of a series put together by the Irish Composers’ Collective.