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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

5 Poems – Attracta Fahy

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Attracta Fahy has a background in Nursing and Social Care. She works in private practice as an Integrative and Humanistic Psychotherapist/Supervisor. She is lives in Co.Galway, and is currently doing her MA in Writing in the National University of Ireland. She is a mother and supports her three children who are also presently in college.

 

 

 

Kintsugi Life

 

When hot water hit the bowl,

prisms of sunlight danced

on sharp edges. We delivered

it to a Zen expert restorer,

 

who works his mastery

in broken things. Intricately

weaving, a kintsugi life,

wabi sabi, subtle fingers

 

trace gold dust into flaws.

Imperfect beauty, no longer pure,

becomes aesthetic,

an incomplete splendour.

 

In a world that worships

the new and perfect,

an unpretentious ideal,

he cares, healing damaged scars.

 

Mindfully, this craftsman

focuses on beauty,

where it lies. This man

with his wise eye,

 

sees restitution

in fragmented pottery,

believes completion

lies with him, not the piece.

 

An archipelago of gold,

resin, acrylic, lacquer –

he invites wholeness

out of broken pieces.

 

Tentatively he paints,

with love, a golden seam

into shattered shards.

Kintsugi life, wabi sabi

 

 

 

 

Moon World

 

 

“It’s lonely here,” I said,

when my son called, my ears

holding his voice, travelled

thousands of miles through ether.

My eyes gaze

from the window, moon floats

on night sky, stars dance

this moment. “I miss

you, maybe I could visit.”

 

Mum, you can’t follow your children

around the world. Go by yourself,

or stay at home and write a poem.”

Through the lump

in my throat I muttered, “true.”

 

Swallows are making a nest

under the eves-shoot, they have broken

it apart, I hear their pecking.

 

 

Over the house, gilded whooper swans

make their way

from turlough to lake

over our house, westerly gales

carry dense bodies,

their long necks navigating.

Why don’t you go to Cambodia?

Or Bordeaux. Or Milan,

you’d love Milan.”

 

He goes on, explicating beautiful cities

he’s seen. My body threatens

to perforate with grief

 

“For God’s sake,” my friend

retorts when I explain,

“You are not able for Cambodia,

you have your own. Try to make

yourself at home.”

 

The garden is growing wild,

the landscaper says there was

no way I can manage

at my age.

“I have to,” neighbors might talk,

when hoes grow onto the road.

 

It is easier at dusk, too late in the day

to make plans. With weeds hidden

I sit on the grass, while stars flicker

just enough light.

It’s not a time for travelling.

I dream of beauty, fireflies that never

arrive; speak to the moon, tell her

what ails me. She pulls my gravity

onto her shore, knows what I need.

 

I am moving, carried, in her moments,

crawling at night, into,

and out of her craters.

 

 

Eve Speaks Of Eden

 

It was not I who started this,

no idea, who ‘I’ was,

sleeping subservient in

his rib, armour like stone,

no placenta. I knew nothing

of mother, womb, life,

when pulled from bone,

he named me Eve.

 

Eden was a forest,

How could I have known truth?

Alone as a woman, lived by powers

I did not understand.

Sneaking serpents and a god

unseen. Seduced, his need I deduced.

Can I be forgiven for imagining

creator and serpent were

brothers? Lovers? Adam their pawn.

 

They offered up an apple, called it sin.

I had no idea a bite

could cause chaos, my innocent body

 

the scapegoat impugned for desire.

With creation and destruction, my intuition

became the abyss.

Adam powerless.

Helpless, my womb gave birth

to their sons, incest, killing.

Daughters, banished,

to the valley of crying.

 

Paradise not lost, it never existed

for me, tricked and betrayed.

Women blamed

began blaming women.

For thousands of years I’ve

waited for rebirth, the eve of wisdom

counts stars, sheds millions of raindrops,

tears for my children, entranced by

serpents and gods.

 

 

 

 

Clinging to Humanity

 

I am the girl who writes poems

ringed with battles, bursting bubbles,

Stupid is what I call myself

when I don’t understand.

I cling to lyrics, pain’s voice.

Afraid, that without kindness

I’m defined by words

that roar like thunder, stroke

my face with dogma.

 

We are all myths, seeking

our symbols in cement,

our anxious souls invested in gold.

 

This new world, where man is god,

empathy poison, imagination

rips wild bolts of lightning through love,

wisdom cut by the knife of power

Unable to scream, call me hysteric,

stupid I call myself

 

all I possess is intuition.

I sit at my desk, trying to write

orderly verse, explain life in metaphor,

make meaning for a ravenous world,

We are all fighting inner gods,

afraid

blind to our self.

 

There are no saviours here, they left

in fear of our madness.

Stupid is what I call myself when I live

placating, fall into secrets.

A hermit retreating. The moon watching

the hungry sea, dark birds across

 

a stormy sky, the lamp of the night moves closer.

 

Easier to hide in my caves, hold my
threads,

a heart that still beats for humanity.

 

 

 

Waiting

 

 

I listen, wait,

barren, like winter

moves across

bogs,

quiet as sky.

Your voice

asks

– why?

 

The sun,

climbs

up behind

mountains,

movement

grows in your body,

skin tones,

dapple flushes.

 

You look

to the world,

a willow growing

towards light.

Knowledge

buried in your bones,

tears

hint of rain, fall

 

as they must –

in different moods.

Tears, a Saturn

moment. There

are rivers of tears

behind every eye,

waiting to heal.

Strength,

 

the salt of a thousand

drops, waiting to fall.

 

 

 

 

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