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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Cathy Donelan

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Cathy Donelan is a writer from the West of Ireland. Her fiction has appeared in ROPESThe Honest UlstermanDodging The RainThe Nottingham ReviewSpontaneity and Blue Smoky Literary And Arts Magazine. Her poetry has appeared in The Galway Review, A New Ulster and The Blue Nib. She has won the December 2015 Poetry Pulse Prize and been highly commended in the 2016 Fool For Poetry International Chapbook Competition.

 

 

 

Electric Indigo Sky

 

In a dream, electric indigo sky

so vivid had the dogs howling for their lives

and I mesmerised by a hundred scars of lightning

breaking the dull fast cloud

roaring in the wind, through the fields

leaving me to reach up high

and think, this deadly beauty is what poems are made of

 

just to wake grasping cloud of down-pillow

and a numb leg shooting

pins and needles through my toes.

 

 

 

 

Mothering Landscapes

 

Abandoned toys lay about like stories,

under star-light

from the painted paper globe

I find here, my lonely solace.

 

The itch of polar bear fur

resting under my toes,

it’s beetle black nose hunting low

for those monsters of the night time fear,

vying for a dream to sever

in my son’s little head.

 

 

 

Crochet

 

Cotton yarn

spools around my fingers,

whose only use, to be still

while you stitch.

 

With stories, of

a banshee and a goat,

how you would

sit with your Nana, while she stitched.

 

Perched in front of open fires

on stone floors

potato-farl baking on the hearth.

 

Burn-like heat

touching your cheek

and mine, staring into

golden flames on my

rug, on my tongue

tasting Granny’s

buttery potato-cake.

 

While small fingers spool,

curling arthritis hands stitch.

 

 

 

Edges of Winter

 

Frozen toes and finger tips walk through

large trees and marsh, bark left bare with winter’s death,

ancient trunk, deep-lined grooves, marks of time,

still hang tall over Portumna Forest path.

 

Secret trails snake through the reed,

needing exploring, you make a map counting ABC’s

until the mirror of the lough takes a corner in your eye,

it’s boggy lump island with a lonely tree hanging off the side,

cut apart by the giants

not to be stepped on by men or boys.

 

You stop at every bench and bark,

rub hands over in blessing,

a quick prayer for the stir of Spring to come quick

and bring sweet colour to their leaf

for you to steal on dewy Summer days.

 

 

 

 

 

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Cathy Donelan is a writer from the West of Ireland. Her fiction has appeared in ROPES, The Honest Ulsterman, Dodging The Rain, The Nottingham Review, Spontaneity and Blue Smoky Literary And Arts

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