Between the lost and found a
mislaid marcasite earring. Reward.
Suitcase with child’s clothing,
lost in Dublin or on the 2:30 train
to Cork. Reward.
Lost brooch. Sentimental value. Reward.
Strayed Irish terrier. Reward.
Blackberries wanted.
Top prices paid.
5/- to pickers or 5/6 to sellers.
We collect or pay carriage
for unblemished fruit.
Between the Lost and Found.
Notices.
Who will adopt a beautiful
six weeks old boy of very
good parentage?
Will Catholic mother adopt Therese,
an attractive little girl, aged three,
curly hair, healthy? Full surrender.
Healthy boy, fair,
very intelligent with happy
disposition for adoption. Priest’s
references essential. Full surrender
given.
The column inches glare.
Black bold type to lure
discerning eyes.
Babies to snatch.
Empty arms to fill.
Bulging pockets to siphon.
Profits to be made.
A donation to the Parish Priest,
or one to the nuns.
They called the Ma’s
sinners.
Chopped their hair,
changed their names, their
births.
Nightime lock ups.
Enslaved.
Servitude.
Beatings kept them in line,
Emotions smacked out.
Anything to make
those Magdalene women
conform.
And the men?
The men who spread the seeds?
Unblemished stock.
© Mari Maxwell
Tusla knew of illegal adoptions in 2016
Mari Maxwell received The Story House Ireland's inaugural residency and participated in the Irish Writers Centre's XBorders program in 2017. She Tweets @MariMaxwell17 and blogs at https://lineatatime.wordpress.com
Showing posts with label Mari Maxwell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mari Maxwell. Show all posts
Friday, 8 June 2018
Friday, 6 December 2013
A Lost Generation
They burned the horse.
Petrol across her fine ebony flanks.
Swirls and curlicues of peacock, blue and green,
shimmering, undulating in the setting sun.
Her proud eyes, magnificent beneath whisper of soft lash.
Unused to the whoops, the flaying belts, the gurriers kicking
at her belly.
Her heartbeat pushing the mackerel mane in and out. Out and in.
Nickering with the cloying oils.
She whinnied, shook herself, showering the boys
with petrol drops.
Her mane and tail like candle wick as she shrieked
and bucked burnt hair on November wind.
They no longer whooped.
She watched them through the smoke,
smouldering beside her.
Skin sizzling and popping - unable to flick
the equine fireballs from cloth and hair.
And as she died, horsemeat to the gang,
she found she had no pity.
No sorry in her thud-thud, thud, quietened heart.
Horse doused in petrol and set alight
©Mari Maxwell
Petrol across her fine ebony flanks.
Swirls and curlicues of peacock, blue and green,
shimmering, undulating in the setting sun.
Her proud eyes, magnificent beneath whisper of soft lash.
Unused to the whoops, the flaying belts, the gurriers kicking
at her belly.
Her heartbeat pushing the mackerel mane in and out. Out and in.
Nickering with the cloying oils.
She whinnied, shook herself, showering the boys
with petrol drops.
Her mane and tail like candle wick as she shrieked
and bucked burnt hair on November wind.
They no longer whooped.
She watched them through the smoke,
smouldering beside her.
Skin sizzling and popping - unable to flick
the equine fireballs from cloth and hair.
And as she died, horsemeat to the gang,
she found she had no pity.
No sorry in her thud-thud, thud, quietened heart.
Horse doused in petrol and set alight
©Mari Maxwell
Thursday, 12 September 2013
We Don't Forget
The planes hit.
Obliterating child.
Mother. Father.
Sister. Brother.
Uncle. Aunt.
Vanished.
Evaporated.
Floating on the morning breeze,
down the skyscrapers like human helicopters
making a landing.
And the grief rose like tsunami,
volcano, tremors of shattering earthquake.
All of it muffled in the dust of lovers, friends.
Soulmates.
And then the rains they came. -
God’s tears.
Cooling the fires of hell and death.
Cleansing. Washing, cadaver, bone fragments,
lives and loves.
To where they collected in the
avenues, subways and underground.
Swirling masses.
Swimming.
Conjoined,
black, white, Jew, Italian.
One in that moment.
8:45 a.m.
9:03 a.m.
Fused.
And the tough talking native New Yorkers
took their tired, their broken, their rich, their poor.
And the world looked on and wept.
And wept.
Then the sun arose.
And the wind it lifted.
Particles. Essence. Soul.
Scattering, sifting, seeding.
From north, to south, east to west.
Across the plains, the fields, the mountains.
City-wide. Nationwide. Worldwide.
We carry them on wings of hopes
and dreams.
And, we will remember.
© Mari Maxwell
US marks 9/11 attacks anniversary
Mari's was longlisted in the 2013 Over The Edge Writing contest as well as previously featured in Poetry 24, Crannog, Revival and numerous other online and print publications in the USA and Ireland.
Obliterating child.
Mother. Father.
Sister. Brother.
Uncle. Aunt.
Vanished.
Evaporated.
Floating on the morning breeze,
down the skyscrapers like human helicopters
making a landing.
And the grief rose like tsunami,
volcano, tremors of shattering earthquake.
All of it muffled in the dust of lovers, friends.
Soulmates.
And then the rains they came. -
God’s tears.
Cooling the fires of hell and death.
Cleansing. Washing, cadaver, bone fragments,
lives and loves.
To where they collected in the
avenues, subways and underground.
Swirling masses.
Swimming.
Conjoined,
black, white, Jew, Italian.
One in that moment.
8:45 a.m.
9:03 a.m.
Fused.
And the tough talking native New Yorkers
took their tired, their broken, their rich, their poor.
And the world looked on and wept.
And wept.
Then the sun arose.
And the wind it lifted.
Particles. Essence. Soul.
Scattering, sifting, seeding.
From north, to south, east to west.
Across the plains, the fields, the mountains.
City-wide. Nationwide. Worldwide.
We carry them on wings of hopes
and dreams.
And, we will remember.
© Mari Maxwell
US marks 9/11 attacks anniversary
Mari's was longlisted in the 2013 Over The Edge Writing contest as well as previously featured in Poetry 24, Crannog, Revival and numerous other online and print publications in the USA and Ireland.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Sunday Review
Noel Loftus' poem 'Wedding, funeral and incidental song from an old man I met in a pub mirror last Sunday' was Monday's poem. A poem about the the passing of time and the flood of revelations on past abuse that we are undergoing.
'A Star in the Sky' by Vala Hafstad on Tuesday gave a refreshingly biting look at some the details involved with a trip to Mars.
Mari Maxwell's 'Daddy's Legacy' is a searing look at incest. Told with compassion it treats a very hard to talk about subject with honesty and is a very hard hitting poem.
Luigi Pagano's 'NHS 111' gave an insight into the current state of UK health services which can only leave one with grave concerns. Perhaps best some up by the lines
" though more is promised/
we get less and less."
Which have a familiarity to us in New Zealand.
Philip Johnson's "2am (Universal Credit Begins)" looked at the welfare reform programme in the UK and found it somewhat wanting as it seemed to be very hard on the most vulnerable. There is a nice bit of black humour in the lines
"with that Ian Duncan Smith stealing all the string
from my straight jacket …there may not be a cord with which to hang"
'Missing' by Carolyn Cornthwaite finished the week with a very nicely done poem that showed the irony of ordinary forgetfulness if applied to nuclear materials.
'A Star in the Sky' by Vala Hafstad on Tuesday gave a refreshingly biting look at some the details involved with a trip to Mars.
Mari Maxwell's 'Daddy's Legacy' is a searing look at incest. Told with compassion it treats a very hard to talk about subject with honesty and is a very hard hitting poem.
Luigi Pagano's 'NHS 111' gave an insight into the current state of UK health services which can only leave one with grave concerns. Perhaps best some up by the lines
" though more is promised/
we get less and less."
Which have a familiarity to us in New Zealand.
Philip Johnson's "2am (Universal Credit Begins)" looked at the welfare reform programme in the UK and found it somewhat wanting as it seemed to be very hard on the most vulnerable. There is a nice bit of black humour in the lines
"with that Ian Duncan Smith stealing all the string
from my straight jacket …there may not be a cord with which to hang"
'Missing' by Carolyn Cornthwaite finished the week with a very nicely done poem that showed the irony of ordinary forgetfulness if applied to nuclear materials.
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
Daddy's Legacy
Daddy made me do it.
Said the baby wasn't right.
It hurted.
It hurted when he told me he'd loved me.
Real bad.
I wasn't supposed to tell Mamma.
I didn't.
Then Daddy didn't care for me no more.
Preferred to stay out late.
I saw the lipstick collars.
Smelt the flowers, the cigarettes and the alcohol.
And his strong soft hands didn't rub my special places.
He never, ever cried in my arms again.
Or told me how sorry he was for loving me too much.
Not even as my belly swelled and the bleeding stopped.
Even after he found the baby a home.
Sometimes when the milk flows I wonder.
Would the baby have loved me?
Thought me special like Daddy did?
Or would it have discarded me, like he,
with looks of disdain.
Shame.
Somehow I think she'd have needed me.
Kneaded me, and kneaded me.
Until I too was able to cry that pitiful cry
that comes from the gut.
The emptiness.
Begging to be soothed and nurtured.
Instead, it is hollowness left after love's gone bad.
Real bad.
Like with my dad.
Couldn't he have just - Left her.
Left me.
Alone.
© Mari Maxwell
Gardai revisit 'house of horrors' paedophile case
Mari'swork has appeared in several online and print publications and anthologies in the USA and Ireland. Among them: Crannog, Haiku J, Daily Bites of Flesh 2011: 365 Days of Horrifying Flash Fiction, Beyond the Diaper Bag, Coping, and Barbie Bazaar magazines and others.
Said the baby wasn't right.
It hurted.
It hurted when he told me he'd loved me.
Real bad.
I wasn't supposed to tell Mamma.
I didn't.
Then Daddy didn't care for me no more.
Preferred to stay out late.
I saw the lipstick collars.
Smelt the flowers, the cigarettes and the alcohol.
And his strong soft hands didn't rub my special places.
He never, ever cried in my arms again.
Or told me how sorry he was for loving me too much.
Not even as my belly swelled and the bleeding stopped.
Even after he found the baby a home.
Sometimes when the milk flows I wonder.
Would the baby have loved me?
Thought me special like Daddy did?
Or would it have discarded me, like he,
with looks of disdain.
Shame.
Somehow I think she'd have needed me.
Kneaded me, and kneaded me.
Until I too was able to cry that pitiful cry
that comes from the gut.
The emptiness.
Begging to be soothed and nurtured.
Instead, it is hollowness left after love's gone bad.
Real bad.
Like with my dad.
Couldn't he have just - Left her.
Left me.
Alone.
© Mari Maxwell
Gardai revisit 'house of horrors' paedophile case
Mari'swork has appeared in several online and print publications and anthologies in the USA and Ireland. Among them: Crannog, Haiku J, Daily Bites of Flesh 2011: 365 Days of Horrifying Flash Fiction, Beyond the Diaper Bag, Coping, and Barbie Bazaar magazines and others.
Sunday, 5 May 2013
Sunday Review
There was a lot of strong poetry published this week that covered a number of topics, all quite serious in tone yet keeping the intelligent perceptive the poet often keeps. Two weeks after the bombings in Boston, the new was stilled filled with sad stories about the three fatalities and the questioning behind the attack. Emily Rebecca Adams wrote the poem Boson Reminder as a kind of photographic reminiscence of the terrible incident. ‘Nothing beautiful can ever stay,’ she writes. A poignant look at the event, made real with the graphic descriptions. I suppose, even after two weeks, we shouldn’t really forget.
Malala by Graham Robinson was about Malala, the 15 year old Pakistani schoolgirl activist who was shot in the head by the Taliban for advocating education for girls. Angelina Jolie honoured the ‘Malala Fund’ which will fund education for 40 girls in Pakistan. The poem shows, in rhymes, the determination and bravery of this girl.
By mid-week we had an obituary poem for Woodstock icon, Richie Haven. Legend, written by Luigi Pagano, is a poignant look at a small part of the man’s life which is greatly lauded as the ‘Opening artiste at Woodstock.’
On Thursday we published Blood Red Dress by Angela Finn. This was about the news story of Primark giving aid to the families of the victims of the the warehouse collapse, one of Primark’s suppliers in Bangladesh. The poem is filled with a sense of guilt symbolised in a ‘scarlet dress.’ The blood image of the dress is seen to be made in Bangladesh while ‘You hear the next day’ about the disaster.
Empty Vessel by Mari Maxwell was about the murder of April Jones and the trial against the accused that may last up to seven weeks. The angelic imagery the poem begins with rots into a dark description of earwigs and maggots. It’s a sad poem filled with powerful wording and reaches a state of anger. There something haunting even in the beginning: ‘I saw the golden halo of your / long, curled tresses. / And I gazed into your sprightly soul.’
Saturday we published Carolyn Cornthwaite’s Bachcha. This was about the arrest of a man over the rape of a 5 year old girl in India. Again, a powerful poem, which seeks to show the anger and sadness all at once. The powerful line ‘Childhood / torn from tiny fingers’ is especially evocative.
Thank you for reading and being part of Poetry24. We always ask for new submission every day so email them to us at poetry24@hotmail.com
Michael.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Empty Vessel
I saw the golden halo of your
long, curled tresses.
And I gazed into your
sprightly soul.
Joy and exuberance,
bursting forth.
And I had to taste.
And see.
What I could no longer feel.
You think it makes me feel complete?
Accomplished?
Instead, look upon my haunted eyes.
Your joie de vivre will never be mine.
And I may bury those
yellow curls among earwig,
nit and maggot.
But n’er will I see, nor will I feel,
childlike innocence again.
I have murdered it out.
For you. For me. For humanity.
© Mari Maxwell
Trial of former lifeguard accused of murdering April Jones may last for seven weeks
Mari's work has appeared in several online and print publications and anthologies in the USA and Ireland. Among them: Crannog, Haiku J, Daily Bites of Flesh 2011: 365 Days of Horrifying Flash Fiction, Beyond the Diaper Bag, Coping, and Barbie Bazaar magazines and others.
long, curled tresses.
And I gazed into your
sprightly soul.
Joy and exuberance,
bursting forth.
And I had to taste.
And see.
What I could no longer feel.
You think it makes me feel complete?
Accomplished?
Instead, look upon my haunted eyes.
Your joie de vivre will never be mine.
And I may bury those
yellow curls among earwig,
nit and maggot.
But n’er will I see, nor will I feel,
childlike innocence again.
I have murdered it out.
For you. For me. For humanity.
© Mari Maxwell
Trial of former lifeguard accused of murdering April Jones may last for seven weeks
Mari's work has appeared in several online and print publications and anthologies in the USA and Ireland. Among them: Crannog, Haiku J, Daily Bites of Flesh 2011: 365 Days of Horrifying Flash Fiction, Beyond the Diaper Bag, Coping, and Barbie Bazaar magazines and others.
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