A Taste for Hemlock

ISBN: 978-1-907056-99-4

Page Count: 88

Publication Date: Monday, October 24, 2011

Cover Artwork: Michèle Vassal

About this Book

Author Biography

Michèle Vassal is  from Barcelonnette, a small town in the French Alps.  She moved to Ireland, aged seventeen, to learn English and stayed there for  thirty years. Her collection, Sandgames (Salmon 2000), received first prize at Listowel Writers' Week and some of her poems were short-listed for the Hennessy/Sunday Tribune Awards. She has been widely published internationally, in both French and English. Michèle currently lives and writes in France.

Read a sample from this book

Anam Cara

a pink moon is rising
and I am back
and your hair is the snaking bark of elder
and your skin is as sweet as spring's first milk
as it has always been
don't talk
let me unravel you
instead
let me undo your storms
into
soft ribbons of rain
let me
lick your blooded wounds
let me be
your quickening pulse
the shiver of your hand
on the curve of my back
let me be you
again
don't talk
I am back
      I am back
           to you
like the wave to the ocean
like the sap to the earth
I am back
risen from my bed
of stones and bones
risen from the blood soaked grass
risen from the ashes of gorse fires
I am back to you
back to stretch the shadows
and shatter the night
and spin the day green
don't talk
I am back


South

and the soft wings
of our days were pinned
by mauve crocuses and violet grapes
to saffraned Thursday afternoons
when rivulets of lemon light
coursed down the sepia
slopes of le Champs du Fada.

      grated chocolate on crusty bread
      lemonade  in glass bottles and
              Djidji l’amoroso

              my moorish love

his laugh           a bursting pomegranate
his skin             spiced caramel and  apricot
his eyes             the jet pips we spat at the sun

            wanted to be a sea captain
 
small moss altars
under the pine tree, by the springs
three juniper berries, a beige mushroom
Sainte Vierge, faites qu’il m’aime
a round white stone, a jay’s feather

            pour toujours

we devoured the turquoise sky
we were sleek as blades of grass
we were golden as October’s larches
we were twelve 

               South



Because he was my only son

I told him - I gave you the blood of the heroes of Ulster
redder than the heather on the Mount of Sorrows
and I gave you the warring spirit of the gallowglass
and their flaxen hair bleached by northern tides

and at night when he slept
I whispered in his ear

- see the yarrow and the meadowsweet
they’re yours to make a fragrant bed
see the long horned cattle, white as milk
they’re yours for the finding of a wife
see the harp of willow and silver strings
it is yours for the casting of spells
see the harness and the foaming steed
see the knave see the mail 
see the spear    the skieve and the bow
see the skene   the axe and the claymor
they’re yours for all your victories
they’re yours for all my sorrows

because he was my only son I didn’t tell him
- I gave you  Suibhne’s  eyes that see
only darkness in the crystal of the Swillly’s waters 
but are blind to the quicksilver leap of the salmon
and I gave you Suibhne’s crazed mind 
more twisted than the blackthorn on the Hill of the Hag 
sadder than a mother mourning the death of her only child
and I gave you Suibhne’s mouth that speaks only foolishness
and is forever keening with hungry wolves

and at night when he sleeps
I whisper in his ear
     son of Ulster
     son of Suibhne
     son of mine
see the yarrow in your flaxen hair
see the hounds see the crow
see the furrow on my brow
they’re yours for all your victories
they’re yours for all my sorrows


Note: A skieve is a quiver and a skene/scian, a type of dagger.


Poems Copyright © Michèle Vassal, 2011