Olivia Byard’s ‘ The Wilding Eye’ reviewed
I confess to being unacquainted with Olivia Byard’s work before I was paired to read with her at last year’s Cheltenham Poetry Festival. We had both just had new books from the always enterprising Worple Press. I read with her again last week at Oxford’s Albion Beatnik Bookshop. I wanted to try to convey something of her methods and concerns in this blog.
In The Wilding Eye, Worple Press have gathered new poems and others selected from Byard’s previous two collections, From a Benediction (Peterloo, 1997) and Strange Horses (Flambard, 2011). Her work ranges from vivid evocations of childhood scenes, to mythic treatments of subterranean psychic hurt, sketches of domestic exchanges, more politically engaged poems and (recently) a more expansive concern with our relationship with nature. Her work is hard to pigeon-hole but acclaim from the likes of Les Murray and Bernard O’Donoghue is well deserved.
Some of those hyper-lit…
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Your Sentence of Non-Guilt by Nina Lewis
The artist was silenced when his tongue was taken
but his eyes worked the words into the earth
around his feet,
his arms signed and gestured, so they
tugged them behind his back and knotted
rough rope and iron chain, held them in place.
It wasn’t his limbs reflecting this story
still his thoughts stick out and speak.
He musters strength to stand,
they take his feet from under him,
punch his guts black and kick the ideas
from the nest in his head.
In darkness, with swollen eyes and mute lips
he stays still,
his brain keeps working,
whirling through the poetry of his heart.
He knows even after hearts are taken
words bleed out,
leak poetry into the lives of thousands
an army strong.
The BeZine, 15 Jan. 2016, Vol.2, Issue 4 (Parents and Parenting), Table of Contents with Links
Published by Second Light Network of Women Poets, Parents, an anthology of poems by women writers (Enitharmon/Second Light, 2000) was the inspiration for this month’s theme. What a wonderful idea. Parents are after all universal, even when the one who parents is a surrogate. This month The Bardo Group Beguines and friends have taken on parenting as well as parents and present an interesting blend of insights and experience.
BUDDHA AS PARENT
Young Prince Rāhula prompted by his mother to ask for his inheritance, left behind by the Buddha after His renunciation. Instead, the Buddha told Venerable Sariputta (Sariputra) to ordain Prince Rāhula, giving him a spiritual inheritance better than the one he asked for.
The lead feature, Buddha as Parent, is by Gil Fronsdal. Gil was ordained as a Soto Zen priest at the San Francisco Zen Center in 1982. In 1995 he received Dharma Transmission from Mel Weitsman, the abbot…
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Issue 6 Part 1
Source: Issue 6 Part 1
Mapping Memories, Over the Fields talk at The Museum of Futures
I am currently writing a talk about the new Over the Fields poetry map called ‘Mapping Memories’, for the Free University of Seething’s lecture series. My talk takes place next Tuesday, 19th January at the Museum of Futures,Brighton Road, Surbiton (Facebook event here). More about the delightful world of Seething in another post soon….
I’ve spoken about the map several times in the past but not since it was published. I will be talking about why I decided to write about the space my family calls ‘Over the Fields’, and why this had to be a poetry map and not a book. I will also discuss some of the history of the place, read some poems and talk about what I hope to do with it next. Hope to see you there!
Call for Submissions: Witches and Witchcraft Anthology
Competition 2016
for
Source: Competition 2016
An Interrupted Journey by Kathy Gee
Beautiful, summery of the fragility of life
Recollections lurk in side streets, pounce
at the small white bike, the wilted daisies
tied to rails at a pedestrian crossing.
Her voice, which talked about the little boy
who died, the same age as her daughter,
echoes in the rain. It haunts my wheels.
She left the run down library, her home
of books instead of betting slips and bottles,
took the bus to town. She found the groves
and terracotta quads of college, found
a world where words demanded a reply.
She only had to lose the battle once.
One day I may forget, but never this:
if someone says they want to die, talk on.
I push her smoke aside, refuse to think.
I know, as sure as words cannot be trusted,
driving through her life won’t change a thing.
..
..
An American doctor experiences an NHS emergency room
Heartwarming story that shows we”re very lucky to have the N.H.S.
You know it’s going to be one of those days when one of the first tweets on vacation inquires about the closest hospital.
Victor, one of my 11-year-olds, had something in his eye courtesy of a big gust of wind outside of Westminster Abby. He was complaining enough to let me flip his eyelid and irrigate his eye on the square in front of Big Ben. (I’m sure several people thought I was torturing him). Despite an extensive search and rinse mission no object or relief was to be found. I fretted about going to the hospital. It wasn’t the prospect of navigating a slightly foreign ER, but simply the prospect of the wait. While I am a staunch supporter of the British NHS in the back of my mind I envisioned a paralyzingly full emergency room and an agonizing 18 hour wait only to find he had nothing in his…
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Carolyn O' Connell 