The Wednesday Poetry Corner.

Today I introduce you to two extraordinary poets. I am happy to announce that Plum Tree Books will be publishing them both in the near future.The first is Dublin born Alan Patrick Traynor. Patrick sets the page alight! He is a brave, sizzling voice, writing as though possessed.  I wonder that he is an elemental. I am excited to have discovered him for the Plum Tree. He will follow in the long line of Irish poets that have made their mark on the world. Unconventional, thumbing his nose at the Irish intelligentsia, the snooty, conservative, fear-filled nay-sayers that have never known how to take risks with genius. They forced most of the great Irish artists, poets and writers to leave Erin’s shores, Those who stay in Ireland rest unpeacefully in an in-between world along with the Tuatha De Danann.  Alan is unafraid to disarrange syntax and break up the narrative. He is not afraid to shock, as he deconstructs the language and abuses the metaphor by making it stand on its head to plant an image that will stick in your mind and haunt you. Alan is a soaring talent!

The second of my poets today is Algerian born Imen Benyoub. Imen’s poetry is passionate, feeling, saturated with humanity ~  She speaks her feminine, flowing counterpoint to Alan’s blazing comet scrivenings.  They have written a duet!

Elements By Alan Patrick Traynor

Water
My mother’s womb
The fathomless thorns
The flower of my abyss

Sky
On my back
Rests the raw cut grass
On my back I ponder killing the swallow

Wind
Oh bells be still
Through the highest tree be still
The feracious face of God

Sun
Kahlo’s face
And the nest of sparrows
That twisted the glorious wool into her neck

Moon
Silent is the orange sky
So we milk the blood of cactus
Into the grapefruit of morning—that is your lips

Stars
You fall into them
Through Van Gogh

Then deaf you become

Light
The blind know it by night
I am but that
Fire

Rain
When I was young
I would sit on the dry patch
That is what I have become

Marble
I have swallowed the dust
Worn its edges
Moses was that face when God spoke

Wounds
Revealed was the dog’s hanging
The other murdered in front of me
And the rabbits that hang on the nails of my heart

Poet
The broken hands of my heart
The swollen ink of my soul
I am both

Time
The movement of flowers
Clockwise to the sun
How the unrequited daffodils stand waiting

Language
You are the gothic rain
The unwoven
That black raincoat you soak in

© May 30th 2013)

Elements By Imen Benyoub

Water

Woman by Victor – Sao Carlos, BR

I scratch its surface with my fingers
Disturb its sleeping memory
Then Sculpt mirrors from it

Sky
I build it with sheets of silk
And strings of a broken violin
Then shape it into a dome

Wind
I play it in D Minor like a Russian piano concerto
I bend it, fold it
Knead it with bread

Sun
I hide it in my treasure box
Braid its rays to make a quilt
For the seasons of ice

Moon
My mother’s face
I shatter it to make lanterns
To strangers in blackout cities

Stars
I sow them
In my womb
They grow into fields of wheat

Rain
I make rosary beads from its drops
Carry it in my bags
To quench my thirst

Light
Is where the lotus blooms
I pour it in my dark grottos
Carve statues from it

Marble
I touch it, it groans
Its gray veins shrink and bleed
Fermented smoke

Wounds
Scented peonies in a garden’s fence
Broken church icons
I heal them to create a body

Time
The distance between two heartbeats
I crucify its suffering hours
Make an incision in its tissues

Language
Cocoons on my fingertips turning into butterflies
Ink leaks from my pores
Embroidery on white paper

Poet
A suspended star between dream and reality
A stray gazelle
In the forest of the alphabet

© 2013

About Dr Niamh

When I was a little girl (a very, very long time ago), I used to love learning new, really big words like ‘discombobulate’. As I grew, my love of words grew too, until I loved them so much, I could not stop writing them down. One day, as I was scribbling a particular word, a very peculiar thing happened. The word shouted at me, “Stop! Don’t put me there!” As you can imagine, I was shocked and nearly fell off my chair. When I recovered somewhat, I said to the word, “Could you stop shouting, please? I am not used to it.” Can you guess what happened next? No! I thought not. The word said, “I might be small, but I will misbehave if you do not use me properly. I will not tell the story you would like me to tell. I will say something entirely different!” I dropped my pen. I hoped that by dropping my pen, the word would stop talking. Alas! It did not. It carried on chitterchobbling, even after the ink had dried. I was in a pickle. I could not allow my words to run away with my story, now could I? I don’t know about you, but when this sort of thing happens, there is only one thing left to do if you prefer not to spend your time arguing. “Very well,” said I. “I will do as you ask if you will just be quiet and allow me to concentrate.” Since that day, I have been paying special attention to every word I invite into my stories. After all, a story should say exactly what it means to say and not be led astray. With love from Dr. Niamh, Ph.D in Learning Through The Imagination and Founder of Dr Niamh Children's Books. www.drniamhchildrensbooks.com

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