New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Our featured poet ! 4 poems by Attracta Fahy

Enduring Utopia


They have usurped my womb,

my sun, ravaged my mind

with privation –


now they want my body.

I am slave, at the mercy

of food, a weapon, it rapes


me with their need.

They think I am frail, bring plates

with teeth, wild animals attack me.


I cannot tell you, as you come

towards me with your large

platter of nourishment, I am


terrified it will eat me,

that blood in its contents

will soak my bones, trigger


primitive instinct. My stomach

refuses to digest your utopia,

where the witch’s light is quenched.


My gut has a voice too,

she becomes a wild animal, bloated

with feeling, fat with lies, seeks


revenge for the killing.

She eats not just your food, your

plate, your power, she swallows my smile.


I’ve built a wall of starvation.

No one enters, not even me.





Sensual Nature


What if Eros

was also a tender leaf

falling in autumn,

or a marigold of colour,

striking light,

decomposing in soil?

The wind gathers, travels

into every crevice,

as the months move.


I sit in sunset,

watch swans float

on Lough Corrib,

how they arrive

at the brink,

and observe.

Seagulls speak to me

from other worlds.


When the stars dance

as they arrive at night

in a sheet of sparkling

pleasure, into our hearts.

my heart also moves,

raw and bright.





Sometimes it is easier to be alone.

To turn your gaze inwards

from the world, the chorus of words,

rhetoric, charm, and censure.

To commit yourself to silence.


It is easier to take yourself,

to that café in Quay Street,

immersed in colour,

of blue, pink, green,

than to wait for another,

to wait, even for kindness.


Sink the sharp wind through your breath,

into your bones,

reflect on the pictures, lifelike,

hanging on walls. Ignore

the wounding whispers

that speak only from fear,

that it is odd,

you are a woman, alone.



Redeeming Miss Piggy


Apologies if I am difficult ­–

this struggle for paradoxical

truth confuses my trust.

You call pigs degenerate,

varmint, savage, wild,

lower than you;


a symbol of ignorance,

although, actually pigs

are quite clever.


You force me to eat,

what I cannot digest,

body, blood,

organs and fat

of friends you’ve rejected.

Who then is cormorant

when you offer a sausage

in a pale pink dress?



I grew up with

what you call gluttons,

sensitive snouts

mothered my pain;

I heard the squeals

at their slaughter.

Poor pig,


gobbled in bulks,

without mercy,

Who prays for her pink soul?


I spent hours in pig company,

unsure of who

I was, unable to pretend.

I starve for truth,

elegance, pigs who are kind,

when those who said they cared,





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