Issue #1 of The Burning Bush 2

Open publication - Free publishing - More ireland

Zagorsk

She sits and says a prayer in the morning

that she takes another step back from the ledge
and the birds outside on the electrical wire
sing like the choirs at Zagorsk.
She stands by the window and says it’s spring.
Minus nine might turn to minus five.
She picks the right boots to wear
and ties her hair into an Imperial style.
This weather is not for everyone;
the Empire is frozen and the apartments are cold.
The birds outside on the electrical wire
pick at the air waiting for grass to grow.









from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)

Launches

Last night, in the International Bar, I launched a chapbook by Kerrie O'Brien, a young poet from Dublin. Seeing someone make a start as a poet, publishing in magazines and getting their first body of work out, got me thinking about why people do it and, I suppose, what makes them keep doing it. We know it's not for money or fame; even the most cursory involvement with the poetry scene almost anywhere extinguishes any hope a young writer may have had for well heeled celebrity. There is also the question of why should anyone out there care about, much less read or buy, any of the numerous volumes of poetry issued on an almost daily basis?

So why do we do it? The audience is minimal, the books hardly sell and the money is lousy. What is it for then? Is it enough to suggest, as poets often do, that we simply must write or that we can't live without it? I'm not sure. Those reasons seem inadequate somehow. They don't suggest anything about writing well.

Joseph Brodsky's assertion was that one of the most important distinctions between humans and other species is our use of language, words to be exact, and that poetry is the "supreme linguistic operation". He assigned to poetry an anthropological function. Is that why we do it? Are poets kind of pioneers of the human condition? Metaphysical surgeons mapping the design of the species and cloaking the organs and works in shrouds of words?

Brodsky was right of course, language and words distinguish us from every other species on the planet. Poetry survives many things and so too does our language. It passes along, even if only among dozens or hundreds, to be maintained, always finding new takers and adjusting as needed.

Through language we transmit information. The more we know about it, the more we realise it is not simply an instrument to make others believe what you believe or to buy the things you want to sell. Language is knowledge. It is our defence against the excuse: but I didn't know.

As for books, launches and the process of all that: it seems for poets that with each collection, each body of work, becomes less and less a destination in itself. They become more like stepping stones on the way to the next one, like Brecht's whiskey bars. They go without asking, always looking for the next poem just up ahead.

Is it maybe as Apollinaire, the French poet, critic, futurist and occasional art thief, wrote about what purpose poetry and art serve: that when primitive man wanted a device that would go, that would walk, he invented the wheel which, of course, in no way resembles a leg.

Maybe when we launch a book what we hope for is that it will move on from us, find its own place and leave us clear to get on with the next thing; that we will grapple with the operation of language as best we can and hope to succeed in whatever way possible in reaching our anthropological goal, as Brodsky had it, whether with old devices or new ones; and that we will maintain the capacity to see things in more than one way.

Poetry should always push you towards the new or at least towards the previously undiscovered. So, it's encouraging when you go to the basement of a bar in Dublin and it's packed with, mainly young, people who for whatever reason went along to see one more book of poems slip out the door and make its way to god knows where. Long may they not be jaded.

Dublin Event for Salmon Poetry

As some of you may know, my publisher Salmon Poetry is celebrating its 30th anniversary this year. To mark the occasion, Salmon has been holding events throughout the year, all over Ireland, Britain and the USA. As 2011 draws to a close, Salmon is putting on a couple of gala readings, showcasing many of the writers on its list, at Charlie Byrnes Bookshop, Galway on the 28th October and the Unitarian Church, (St. Stephen's Green), Dublin on the 1st November. Full details are here.

It's a great opportunity to see many different poets from Ireland, the UK and the USA in one go and, at the same time, show your support for one of the best, and hardest working, independent small presses out there.

 

London Event for Salmon Poetry 30th

As part of the Salmon Poetry 30th celebrations, several poets from Ireland and the UK will read at the Troubadour Club in London on Monday 17th October. Details are here.

Alan Jude Moore has been short-listed twice for the Hennessy Prize; his third collection is Strasbourg (2011);
Julian Stannard taught English & American Lit. at University of Genoa for many years— The Parrots of Villa Gruber Discover Lapis Lazuli (2011) completes his Genoese trilogy;
Lorna Shaughnessy has published translations of contemporary Mexican poetry—most recent poetry collection, Witness Trees ( 2011);
Todd Swift lectures in creative writing at Kingston University and is Oxfam poet-in-residence, collections include Seaway: New & Selected Poems (2008);
Nessa O’Mahony won the National Women’s Poetry Competition—her verse-novel In Sight of Home was published in 2009;
Noel Monahan’s fifth Salmon collection is Curve of the Moon (2010)—his poetry is now prescribed text for Leaving Certificate English;
Anne Le Marquand Hartigan’s seventh collection will be Unsweet Dreams: Poems of Laughter, Wit and Sex (Oct, 2011)—her prose includes Clearing the Space, the Why of Writing (1996);
Salmon Poetry co-founder/editor Jessie Lendennie has edited anthologies, and a book of essays, Poetry: Reading It, Writing It, Publishing It (2009)—latest poetry collection, Walking Here (2011);

National

flags wave on the precipice
lead down to the sound

of horns and harps

unknown songs
dictate the pace
heavy boots

thumping slabs in time

flags wave on the precipice
music plays
from deep historic drains

how little we know of these others
these patriots using our names

speaking of indivisibility
from out on the other side







from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)

за Гоголя! / For Gogol!



Spotted in the filological faculty gardens of St. Petersburg State University: a sculpture depicting a sort of homemade steampunk tank with a flag bearing the slogan "за Гоголя" (For Gogol). A very Russian joke.

So, Blok.....

Firefly

Last night

wandered completely
through the terminal
In the morning
some October
a sort of sunlight
slides down the building

These spaces surrounded

by effigies of love
burn a little less
Across the balconies
familiar bodies
fade into each other

Outside the window

heartbreaks
tripped on the street
faces fly in the face of another
shadows lost
in the brown glass hulk
of Alfa-Bank
and another woman waits
for her song to be sung

Late for something

lost voices
turn the corner again
These places
by 9:45
will be touched
by nothing more
than low blue flames
and the noise of afterburners

Out by the airport

a car door slammed
Wings rise in the sky
like a photograph
Someone took a walk
in the woods today

Born from concrete
and the noise of aeroplanes
It is not unusual
to be aimless in nature
 
Do not remember
It will leave you breathless
leaning from the window-ledge

Today they held a parade

The long dark steps
and big salutes
will not be interrupted
in their cursed trajectory
 
A new holiday
a distant celebration
Like always
the patriots have got there first
 
to straighten up their arms
in a hopeless march
Deep in different streets
millions of bones are rolling
into dust
 
and someone
took a walk in the woods today

These spaces

these creations
dragged moments of speech
across Moscow Warsaw and Kiev

Do not remember

It will leave you breathless
leaning from the window-ledge
 
At night there are fireflies
 
I am not the one
who draws you here




from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)

1st May