POETRY:AILBHE DARCY'S Imaginary Menagerie (Bloodaxe Books, 64pp, £8.95) is a quirky and fresh debut collection that invites the reader into the intriguing inner world of the poet. Often enigmatic and ambiguous, but never self-absorbed or pointless, these poems create a refined metaphorical nexus where imagination plays the solo part. There are self-reflective poems that consider the poetic psyche with great ironic tenderness, such as The Mornings You Turn into a Grub, which compares the self to a "scrambled egg omelette . . . with a soft and runny interior . . . pure egg, all the way through", or the brilliant Mrs Edgeway, which looks at a woman searching for her body's map of consciousness: "I trace the veins, / try to find some thing of substance".
Darcy is also a keen observer of the world around her: many of her poems comment on the widespread political violence to which we are all witnesses in the media on a daily basis and query humanity's growing indifference. The sophisticated Animal Biscuitsdescribes the infamous photograph of the abuse of Iraqi prisoners and castigates the soldiers for "behaving as animals, violently absent from / your own photograph". Darcy is a remarkable poet who combines a lithe metaphorical imagination with an enviable social sensitivity.
GERALDINE MITCHELL'S World Without Maps(Arlen House, 64pp, €12) is a cartography of psychological landscapes that makes her readers look deep within themselves. Mitchell is interested in the frozen and lost moments of time. Similarly to Darcy, she creates a poetic universe that is teeming with imaginary possibilities but also human tragedies. Mitchell is an expert at capturing moments that others sidestep: whether it is an unborn child's first unnoticed kicks or a mentally ill person's moment of internal quiet, she seems to inhabit these spaces with empathy and a powerful poetic awareness.
Death is a central axis around which the volume moves. Lulldescribes what it would be like to step outside of time's relentless devouring of life and become a painting, "no breath . . . no movement . . . no sound but the soft hiss of sand", and concludes with the powerful image of Earth turning, where "cell by cell, / gravity bent, blades are sucked / into movement". Mitchell's poetry is perceptive, astute and technically sophisticated: World Without Mapsis an exceptional debut collection that deserves critical attention and acclaim.
THE IRISH TIMES columnist Padraig O'Morain is interested in the everyday lives and tragedies of everyday people. The Blue Guitar(Salmon Poetry, 73pp, €12) is a collection of portraits written with great sensitivity and care: O'Morain's keen and tender eye for human suffering and helplessness is evident throughout the book.
Whether recalling the moment a child gets the news of his mother’s death, relatives visiting a roadside memorial or a husband mourning the loss of his loved one’s mind, these poems are written with concern and affection for their subjects.
The individual stories are told with great narrative flair, and the chosen metaphors offer solid support, such as in the title poem, in which the blue guitar becomes the memento of a lost childhood, the parent mourning the passing of time:
Soon you will skip out of this street
the blue guitar on your back
humming your own melody
looking for your new address.
Although on occasion leaning towards the sentimental, O’Morain’s poetry bears witness to the small heroes of our time.
KATE NEWMANNis also greatly intrigued by human suffering and death. Her collection I Am a Horse(Arlen House, 96pp) is a series of eulogies for lost heroes, futile lives, misunderstood and self-destructive geniuses. The ballad-like narratives create a diverse pantheon populated by tragic figures such as Jim Morrison, Beethoven, Nijinsky, Oscar Wilde and Tom Crean. The common thread is futility and misunderstanding: these – mostly male – heroes are as lonely in their death as in their lives, reaching out through Newmann's poetry for some recognition and compassion.
Newmann takes on the identity of her sad idols and conveys a deep-felt affinity with human misery. However, the strongest poems in the collection leave the heroes behind and take on a more personal tone, demonstrating that the poet’s own voice, although sadly marginalised in this volume, is worth hearing.
Borbála Faragó is a critic and the editor, with Eva Bourke, of Landing Places: Immigrant Poets in Ireland
